Fur Coat No Knickers (16 page)

‘I am
a
God
-
and now you are
a
Goddess
,
’ he gloated with absolutely no trace of irony. Then, he flipped open his Prada wallet and flicked a business card at me.
Candice, stony faced, handed me the mirror.

‘HOLY-MARY-MOTHER-OF-GOD
… what have you done?’ I shrieked, as I surveyed this stranger’s face in the small hand mirror. I moved it to arms length and then close to my face to check it was really me.

‘I look
… like a corpse bride!’ I wailed, flinging the mirror down. By now I was having difficulty breathing. ‘Oh my God… you said… oh my God… you would… oh my God. I’ve got a date… AND I LOOK LIKE I’VE HEADBUTTED A MAKEUP COUNTER!’

Franc, the froggy fecker, had given me a white, ghost-like face, with dark
, black, sunken, scary eyes; nearly black lipstick and a charcoal blusher.

I covered my mouth to stop the screams and tried to look up to tackle him eyeball-to-eyeball. But thanks to the super-heavy, peacock, feathered, false lashes welded to my eyes, I could hardly open them at all.

Franc raised his pencilled brows, dropped his jaw and glared at me with wide mascara eyes. He was clearly flabbergasted by my reaction and the few traces of niceness had well and truly vanished. He probably knew there was no way he was getting a sale, let alone a tip.

‘Well
, my dear,’ he scowled with a razor sharp tongue, ‘you cannot polish a
turd
.’ Giving me one last death stare with his devil-like eyes, he pursed his lips and snatched his card out of my hand. He then swiftly turned on his Gucci loafers and minced off muttering what I imagined to be French obscenities under his breath.

I
started sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I’m being taught a lesson!’ I wailed as I dramatically flung myself into Candice’s enormous silicone valley.

Poor Candice looked alarmed as it all flooded out of me
; ‘I’m being punished for being a floozy. You see… I’m on my way to have sex with a man and I’m… I’m not wearing a… braaaaaaaaa, or kniccccccckeeeeeeeeers,’ I sobbed.

By now I was howling and Candice was desperately trying to prise my fingers off her shoulders. I carried on, oblivious to her discomfort, or the shocked faces of the other Duty Free shoppers. ‘It is, isn’t it
…? - ISN’T IT? The Big-Man upstairs always knows, you know. Do you wear a bra, Candice?’ I sniffled.

As I picked up the mirror and took another look at Franc’s so called ‘artwork’ I
didn't take any notice of Candice’s’ response. I did, however, hear the call to board my flight to Dublin.

‘This is the final call for flight number WWFR12Z to Dublin. Would all remaining passengers please make their way to gate number 12
.’
Boomed the tannoy.

‘Oh shit!’ I screamed, as I shot up out of the chair. ‘That’s my flight!’

Almost hysterical, I scooped up my handbag and ran out of the shop. Once outside, I span around six times looking for a sign for the toilets.

‘Where’s the feckin’ toilets? Huh?’
Not directing the question at anyone in particular. I was directing it at the whole feckin’ airport.

Finally
, spotting the ‘stick lady’ toilet sign, I put the door firmly in my sights and, covering my face as best I could, I went on a one-woman stampede for the entrance. Sweating profusely, I flung the door open, wide-eyed. I must have looked like an unhinged mental patient. I scrambled over to the mirror and winced as I saw my reflection.
Arghhhh!

Even though my flight was boarding, there was no way I was getting on that plane looking like this. I whimpered as I ripped off the peacock lashes. I then held my hair back with one hand, squirted soap into the other and flicked the tap on. Yet, the more I tried to wash the nightmare away, the more the dark colours and lashings of eyeliner just smudged around my eyes.

I began grieving at the thought of my glorious array of makeup tucked away inside my bag, which was in turn buried deep somewhere in the airport baggage system, completely unreachable.

‘Would
a Miss. Tara Ryan make her way to gate number 12 immediately,’
announced the tannoy.
‘This is your final call for flight WWFR12Z to Dublin.’

‘Oh God
… feck… arse… shit… bastard… bollocks!’ I spat, my heart racing.
I can do this, I can do this.

Using both hands and much more soap, I started to scrub again. After a frantic minute, with my face feeling raw and my eyes stinging from the soap, I took one final look in the mirror. My face was bare once again and my
once sparkly blue eyes were now red and squinty. I looked like a heroin addict, but feck it, I really want to see Travis - even looking like this.

I grabbed my bag, a wad of toilet roll to dry my face and began my sprint to the gate. I gasped for air as I reached
it and, with the shakes, handed over my passport and boarding pass. I was fully aware of the pieces of toilet roll stuck to my face and the small trail attached to my heel, but was almost beyond caring now.

‘Sorry
… sorry… sorry… ’ I apologised to the stewardess who looked less than amused.
Yes, yes,
I thought.
You don’t need to rub it in. I already know how much everyone hates the last person to board.  

She waved me through the gate and I ran down the ramp to board
just
as they were closing the doors. As I made my way towards the back of the plane, I became aware that I was getting some strange looks. I really couldn’t understand why. I had removed most of the makeup and most of the toilet paper and anyway, I was here now. I hadn’t made us late. Well, maybe a little bit late. So what on earth were they staring at? They could all feck off with themselves. I pulled out my little mirror and checked my face, yes, it was red and blotchy, but it didn’t warrant the gawping stares. I closed my stinging eyes to shut them all out, took some deep breaths and continued to tell myself that I would be able to sort myself out at the other side.

As the plane descended into Dublin, I readied myself to run. I know I was the last person to get on the plane, but I was going to make sure I was the first one off it. I legged it through passport control and shimmied between the crowds at the baggage reclaim, managing to get myself a prime position in front of the carousel. I was like a woman possessed. Right now, I needed my makeup like I needed air.

[Text from Travis]

Hi babe, have landed. Just in baggage reclaim xxx

‘FOR FECK’S SAKE!’

What the hell is he doing
in baggage reclaim? I didn't know he was flying into Dublin! I thought he was already here! I immediately dropped to the floor, left my bag on the carousel and made a dash for the toilets on all-fours. My bum was sticking up in the air as if on an assault course. My eyes darted around.
Any one of those pairs of legs could be his
, I thought to myself.

Relieved to be in the safety of the ladies toilets, I took a few moments to compose myself. Exhausted, I walked warily over to the mirror to survey the damage. My trendy symmetrical fringe was now in kiss-curls after it got wet, whilst I was trying to remove Franc’s so called
magnifique
artwork.
Deciding not to linger too long on the face, I let my eyes travel down my body. It was then I spotted some strange markings across my chest.

No
… No!!
Sweet Mother of God. So that’s why everyone was staring at me on the plane.
There, for all to see, were two
perfect
circles, one on each breast. I stepped closer and closer to the mirror for a better look. All the sweating and perspiring had made my fake tan seep through the wool of my dress, leaving me with two perfect sweaty brown circles on my enhanced boobs, complete with sweaty brown dots in the middle.

Shit
-shit-shit!
I had no jacket to cover up my sins, no makeup to fix my face and no straighteners for my fringe. Meanwhile, the man of my dreams was somewhere just the other side of the toilet wall.

I couldn’t have looked more like a poxy pig if I had tried. I had little piggy eyes, all red and swollen and great big piggy teats ready for a feeding. It couldn’t get any worse. I turned on my heels and slid down the wall by the washbasins. As I slumped down, I lifted my knees and bowed my head. I felt sick. I just wanted to go home.

Startled, I felt something hard hit my arm and then clank to the floor… Looking over, I could see it was a euro. The well-dressed woman who was rapidly leaving the loos had mistaken me for a down-and-out.

This had to be one of the lowest points of my life.

Then, my phone rang. It was Travis. Typical. He never phones me and the one and only time I don’t want to speak to him, he calls. I let it ring off. If I was having a nervous breakdown, I wanted to do it in private.

‘Why does everything have to be so difficult?’ I shouted to the heavens above, as I threw my hands up into the air. ‘Why me?’

[Text from Travis]

Hi babe, got my bag. Will head over to the bar in airport. I hope u r okay? xx

I let out a huge sigh of relief. Now it was possible to run out, get my bag, fix my face, fix my hair and get my jacket to cover my boobs.
Or, I should just get the next flight home?

I peeked my head
around the toilet door and out into the terminal, just to check Travis wasn’t there. I could see my bag going round and round the carousel all on its own and decided I would just make a run for it.

I charged over, grabbed my bag and ran back.
Okay,
I thought, in front of the mirror.
If I can fix this mess that was staring at me, I’ll go ahead. If not… I’m going home.

As I opened my ba
g, I discovered even more horror to follow, as I pulled out my one and only other outfit. My crisp-white shirt and bright-red skinny jeans were now in the colour of “Warm Beige” after my foundation had exploded inside my bag.

After
ten minutes of wailing like a banshee and kicking over three sanitary bins, I calmed down. But only slightly.

This isn't how a WAG acts,
I scolded myself, clouting myself around the head a couple of times.

I grabbed a toilet roll and began rinsing and wiping each item that could be salvaged.

I smeared my face with my white shirt collecting as much foundation as possible from it and blended in some concealer, then some more concealer, then, more concealer on top of that.

In the end, I decided it wouldn’t take as much of an overhaul as I feared to sort myself out. Pretty soon, my face started to resemble that of
 a human being once more. My breathing thankfully returning normal…

[Text to Travis]

Just waiting for my bag. Be with you in 10 mins xxx

I expertly applied soft, smoky browns and golds again while simultaneously rehearsing a pout and a sexy smile to help me get back into the moment. I knew deep down I was kidding no one, especially myself, but… well… I did look a little better, even if a little piggy-like all the same.

With no power socket for my straighteners, I had no choice but to pin my fringe back with a diamante clip. As much as I didn’t like to have my hair off my face, needs must. After agonising for a few moments, I sadly tossed my now
unsalvageable “Warm Beige” shirt and jeans into the bin.

I elected to put my dress on back
-to-front. There was one disadvantage to this strategy. The dress was woollen, so the fabric was not what you’d call ‘forgiving’. In fact, there was an arse-shaped bulge stretched in the material, now flapping in front of my lady-garden. Still, it was better than before. I put on my jacket, gathered my things and headed out of the toilets.

U
tterly exhausted, I dragged myself towards Customs.
Please… please God,
I prayed,
please don’t let them pull me over.
A female security guard suddenly darted towards me and asked me to stay where I was.
For the love of God… Not again
, I thought as I prepared myself to break down in tears. I was so on the edge, so close to touching Travis now, I thought I might actually kill
anyone
who stood in my way. Luckily, the security guard walked straight past me and began questioning a shifty-looking man that seemed to be hiding behind me.

Feeling dishevelled and disoriented
, I hurried through security and headed straight for the bar.

‘Pull yourself together
,’ I whispered to myself under my breath. ‘Think about your entrance.’

Trying to emulate Franc’s perfect catwalk strut, I held my head high
and began a hip-swirling, lip-pouting walk to the Arrivals bar.

‘Oi you, gorgeous!’
shouted a strange voice from across the terminal. ‘The party’s this way!’