top half sported a pair of Pamela Anderson specials. They were twelve-year-olds with double-D silicone chests and, to cap it all, legs as long as skyscrapers. Frankie stared up at them. Despite being five foot eight, she suddenly felt like the little guy in Fantasy Island who used to keep shouting, ‘The planes are coming, the planes are coming.’
Trying not to look intimidated – and it was difficult – she followed Rita, who appeared to have no such worries and was marching confidently across the floor to a vacant pair of cushions.
Flopping down on one, Rita readjusted her boob tube and began stretching her Lycra miniskirt over her thighs, like clingfilm over a pair of chicken drumsticks. ‘Blimey, I’m thirsty, aren’t you?’ Without waiting for an answer from Frankie, she beckoned one of the überbabe waitresses floating around in Buddhist-orange sarongs and bare feet, holding trays of champagne. Rita grabbed four glasses with her fingers and thumbs. ‘Well, you hardly get anything in these fiddly, little things,’ she tutted, sucking the Moët from her gold nail varnish and passing two to Frankie. ‘Bottoms up.’ She chinked glasses. ‘I bet you could do with a drink.’
Frankie sighed gloomily. ‘Since Hugh dumped me, I’ve done nothing but drink.’ She looked sadly into her glass.
Rita misunderstood. ‘That’s my girl.’ She grinned encouragingly, finishing off one glass and making an immediate start on the second. For a pint-sized person, she could outdrink almost anyone. She drained the dregs. ‘Won’t be a mo – just off to the loo.’ She hoisted herself off the cushion, displaying rather more flesh than she’d intended, and tottered off in search of the Ladies.
Alone on her giant cushion, Frankie felt like Thumbelina on her lily pad. Lost and insignificant. She toyed with the idea of going to find Dorian, but changed her mind when she caught sight of him in a far corner. Despite his flamboyance, which was often verging on camp, he was a raving heterosexual. Reclining on a cushion, he was surrounded by gorgeous, glossy women feeding him sushi and champagne, like a Roman emperor with his slaves. Frankie checked her watch. God, Rita had been gone for ages. For the second time that day she wished she’d hurry up.
Frankie finished off yet another glass of champagne. She felt self-conscious. She wasn’t used to being by herself at a party. Normally she had Hugh to talk to, or at least Hugh to watch, as he discussed house prices and interest rates in a corner with some random bloke. She was used to being part of a couple, and even if she wasn’t actually with him, it gave her a feeling of safety. Like having an airbag – you know it’s there if you need it. But she was single now, and that meant small talk, flirting and making an effort, despite having completely forgotten how to. And even if she hadn’t, she didn’t have the balls to launch herself into this terrifying scene. When Hugh told her it was over, he’d robbed her of her confidence, leaving plenty of room for a whole load of neuroses. Now, all she could think about was what was wrong with her. The size of her bum? Her boobs? The dreaded cellulite? Or was it because she was too boring? Or crap in bed? Or the fact she got pissed and sang Frank Sinatra songs? The list could go on and on. One minute she’d been part of a couple: happy, settled, confident. The next minute – wham, bam – she’d entered the Bridget Jones zone: a neurotic, nicotine-addicted singleton.
Plunged even further into gloom at this depressing thought, she caught sight of a crumpled sky-blue packet of American Spirit peeking out of the gold sequined handbag that Rita had left behind. She didn’t blame her, she wouldn’t be seen dead with the bloody thing either. She pulled out the packet and, trying to convince herself that no, she didn’t need the nicotine crutch, and she was really a non-smoker, she surreptitiously looked inside. There was one
Dawne Prochilo, Dingbat Publishing, Kate Tate