Sugarcoated by Catherine Forde Page A

the Woolworth’s hankies I give Dad every Christmas.
    POINT. SHOOT. Shoddy red stitching on each bra cup instructed. £425 dangled the price.
    ‘Made of tat,’ I spluttered aloud.
    When I plucked the hankie bra off the rail and held its tiny triangles of fabric against my substantial boobs I knew I’d have to describe this ridiculous outfit to Georgina in my next email. To make sure I didn’t miss out any details I checked around for the nearest mirror and walked towards it. But as soon as I was a few inches from the rail, the stupid bra in my hands started to shrill:
    Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep
    Muggins hadn’t noticed that – unlike Primark – everything in Strut was attached to a wire. I’d remember next time I popped in, all right! That way I might avoid the attentions of this complete tank of a security guard who appeared from nowhere. Slammed me to the floor. Bloody hell! I’m no pushover but before I could say ‘I was only looking,’ he’d my arm racked up my back and his sturdy beam of a knee rammed into my coccyx.
    ‘Please don’t move a muscle,’ this bloke requested, squeezing my throat till my eyes bulged. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to hurt you.’
    The white-hot fury in my own squashed voice probably surprised me more than it did the guy spread-eagled across me.
    ‘Comedian. I’ll hurt you if you don’t get off me. I said GET OFF!’
    Adrenalin surged through me, pumping up my volume, filling me with fight. Every last stone of me heaved against the security guard as I put into practice the dying-fish-on-a-deck wriggle-move good old ex-wrestler Uncle Super Mike had taught with the guarantee that it would always see me out of trouble if I was jumped. Unfortunately, and despite a snapping back-thrust with my head catching the guard a cracker to his nose – blood everywhere – my grunted efforts were essentially as sorry as a dying fish. I’d met my match. Just couldn’t throw this big guy off. Still, my panted unladylike war-cry of, ‘Bloody let me up, ya dope. I wouldn’t thieve this crap if you paid me,’ was loud enough to bring a topless Stefan to the rescue.
    ‘Babes? Problem?’
    Stefan’s response wasn’t exactly a textbook damsel rescue. He didn’t even lay a finger on the bloke who’d laid into me: How dare you assault my lady-friend, you bounder! However, he didn’t seem to need to get physical.
    ‘Oi! Have you a deathwish, pal?’ Stefan enquired of the security guard. Not even loudly. And by the time I was free and exhaling and scrabbling to my feet, the tank who’d flattened me was up against the nearest wall looking like he wanted to be molecularly absorbed into it. There was blood pumping out his nose, down his chin.
    Give the guy a tissue, I felt like saying to Stefan. He was standing in front of the guard now, just watching him bleed. And as I watched Stefan eyeballing this guy, this snake tattooed across Stefan’s bare back watched me. The thickest part of it lay in the space between his jutting shoulder-blades, tail tapering to rest along Stefan’s flank, its tip curling up and over his left bicep. The snake’s head twisted round on itself so it appeared to be striking outwards. Mouth open, fangs bared, like a toxic warning:
    Keep back.
    Nice, I winced, wondering why the heck Stefan would want to wear something so vicious underneath his classy designer threads. It wasn’t like bodywise he needed to embellish anything. His upper torso was preeeeetty buff, all hard, corded muscle, not a spare inch of fat. And his untattooed skin was flawless.
    Apart from this ugly great blemish. I wrinkled my nose, watching the snake slither along the skin on Stefan’s back, rippling the hump of Stefan’s vertebrae when he folded his arms. If the snake hadn’t had the same tongue of flame as the little one I’d noticed on Stefan’s wrist the day we met, I’d have sworn it was real.
    ‘You blind there, pal?’ Stefan tutted at the security guard. ‘Not paying attention,