Fur Coat No Knickers (6 page)

‘Noooo
, not Danny
#2
, I’m still riding that one! I mean Danny
#1
, the gobshite that was looking to drag me arse up the aisle. You know who I mean, the eejit who got sacked and had to downgrade from a top-end BMW to a clapped-out Skoda.’

‘Ah
yes, I remember him. The poor guy who lost everything,’ I said, sympathetically, as it all came flooding back.

‘Poor guy
me arse! He knows I’m with the Danny #2 and the stupid fecker’s only gone and text me out of the blue. And Danny #2 only went an’ feckin’ read it! Really, the gobshite should never have been going through me phone, but he did. So, I grabbed it and feckin’
ran
I tell you. So then I locked meself in the bathroom. Danny’s on the other side of the door, trying to kick down the door. He hurt his foot, which served him right. But then he starts tryin’a jimmy the lock with a fookin’ two pence piece, trying to get me phone back off me! I was like; fook that for a laugh! He would’ve seen the texts from all the others as well! So I took me phone apart and got out the SIM. The second he comes through the door, he sees me swallowing it to get rid of the evidence.’

‘
Shit!
Why didn’t you just flush it down the toilet, you nutter?’ I asked, baffled.

‘He would’ve feckin
’ dived in an’ got it. He had his feckin’ fingers down me throat trying to get it back he’s such a feckin’ loon. So anyways… I bit the bastard. It’s the only way I was gonna get him to stop!’

I burst out laughing
, as did Siobhan.

‘
I was
shittin'
myself, I tell you, Tara.’

After a min
ute of rolling around, I had to ask, ‘Why do you keep dating these destructive men?’ shaking my head, still laughing.

‘
Well… I can’t help it really… I seem to just
love
a bastard. He’s wild. It really turns me on; even if it does scare the shite out of me. Should probably go and see someone about that really...’ she cackled. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go… I’m meeting Danny #1 for a drink.’

‘
Err… okay,’ I said, now even more baffled. ‘I’ll call you when I get home from Ireland. Merry Christmas, and see you soon!’

I’m sure she was supposed to say Danny #2…

Heading
back into the lounge, I immediately began to regale Siobhan’s story. I just had to gossip to
someone
about it, so I broke the ice with Katie as if we’d never had the heated confrontation at all.

‘Sounds like she could do with a bit of help if you ask me
,’ said Laura in her everyone's-dysfunctional-apart-from-me voice.

‘I’d love to go and stay with her for a weekend
,’ added Katie, wide-eyed.

‘You’re not going
anywhere
, you brazen hussy!’ I barked.

‘Ri
ght… who fancies a game of Trivial Pursuit?’ asked Laura, clearly changing the subject to prevent another row.

‘Not me
,’ I protested. ‘You’re a boffin. You only want to play because you know you would win!’

‘Well, you might learn something
,’ said Laura, all teacher-like and patronising.

‘Why don’t
we all have a nice game of snap?’ suggested mum.

Now
that
was a game I could play.

It had been a typical Christmas day (minus the turkey and alcohol, of course). We had eaten, we had bickered and we had laughed. Mum then went to bed whilst Laura, Katie and I stayed up chatting and squabbling until the early hours of the morning.

My final night in Ireland had arrived. After a few alcohol-free days and nights of staying holed up at mum’s to show solidarity for Katie, cabin fever begun to set in. The rehab doctor had given mum strict instructions that Katie was not to go anywhere she may be tempted to look for drugs, and was to be kept in a controlled environment. Long story short: Katie couldn’t step a foot outside the house.

Laura and I had more than done our fair share of going without; it was
our
time now. So, Laura and I felt obliged to go out and get rat-arsed.

I couldn’t help but feel
slightly anxious about Laura’s temperament for the evening. Usually she was a wise, intellectual type with patience akin to a Buddhist monk. However, get one-too-many drinks in her and she would revert into a party animal that never wanted to go home. In my opinion, she showed traits of our father’s genes in more ways than one. However, needs must, I wasn’t going to let anything stop me from going out and having a very good time indeed.

Laura and I made our way to our favourite cocktail bar in Dublin city centre
with a
lock up your husbands, we’re on a mission
attitude. Upon arriving, Laura approached the doorman confidently, legs first. I stood back awkwardly and wondered what the frig she was doing. I watched her provocatively allowing the side splits of her pencil skirt to flap open as she began wrapping her tanned, toned leg around his waist; using his body like a pole and shimmying up and down him in a very sultry, risqué manner. She was such a show off!
God, I wish I had a quarter of her carefree attitude.

I looked down at myself, feeling suddenly butt-ugly.
I knew I shouldn't have worn this outfit!
I had agonised what to wear all day. Planning it all thoughtfully, I wanted to look sexy, yet stylish with a carefree edge. But now I felt none of these things. I had stupidly opted for my metallic, silver, skinny jeans and silver, sparkly, off-the-shoulder jumper, with huge, matching silver bangles. Even mum - who never noticed anything important - said I looked like an inflated roll of tin foil (although I think she was trying to be encouraging).

Laura, on the other hand, had just thrown on a tight black pencil skirt, crisp
white shirt and pulled it together with a wide, black-buckled leather belt, which gave her the sexiest hourglass figure. Me? Well, there was no strategy whatsoever. I mean for God’s sake, I hadn't even put my best assets on show. Jesus, I had paid enough for them. What was I thinking?

I jumped from one foot to the other on the gravel to keep warm
- I should definitely have brought my fur coat - it was bloody freezing. I thought Laura was never going to stop flirting with the doorman - I just wanted to get inside - I could hear the band doing a fantastic rendition of ‘Valerie’ by Amy Winehouse. Becoming impatient, I put my best foot forward and attempted to shimmy sexily to the beat when suddenly a stone flicked back, ricocheting off my ankle. ‘Owww…’ I was huffing, puffing and hopping around in sheer agony. I thought I was going to pass out.

I reached out for Laura, holding up my ankle, desperate for sympathy, but instead she used my poor
, throbbing leg as her handbag holder so she was freed up to finish her seduction of the doorman.

There she was, Ms. Lickarse Laura, perfect at everything, caressing the Incredible Bulk. She was running her hands seductively down his dribbling chops, snapping into some kind of Argentinean tango, with her short
, black bob flicking from right to left, left to right. The show finally ended (thank God) with the doorman powerfully cupping the base of Laura’s spine and throwing her down into a dramatic, exotic dip.

‘Tara!’ shouted Laura, her eye’s lit up wildly.

‘Yep?’ I winced, wondering if I needed to get to A&E.

‘Bar!’ she announced
, with an authoritative point.

I couldn't have felt less cool if I had tried
, as the doorman made a great show of leading us through the door.

I hopped in, rubbing my swollen ankle, while Laura tangoed through the crowd like she owned the place
, oblivious to my practically broken ankle. To our joint pleasure, we found the place was heaving. We noticed straight away the ‘pickings’ were far from slim. The local rugby team was out on a Christmas jaunt and both Laura and I were very partial to a bit of muscle. We stood at the bar, scanning the crowd. There was plenty of choice.

‘We can afford to be picky tonight
,’ I whispered, nudging Laura.

‘That’ll make a change for you
!’ she jibed back, with a mock prim expression. Ignoring her comment, I raked my fingers up through my hair, trying to give it extra height. Pulling the curled length around my shoulders, I applied some more sticky lip-gloss.

Laura confidently ordered our drinks. She was immediately approached by the shortest player of the whole rugby team. He was what she would later dismissively call a ‘typical Irish Leprechaun.’ However, despite his lack of height, Laura seized the opportunity and flirted unashamedly with him in order to get an introduction to the rest of the team.

He must be the one who ends up on the bottom of the scrum pile,
I mused to myself as I watched Laura fluttering her eyelashes and handing me a vodka and coke. This guy definitely had a face only a mother could love.

Laura’
s flirting did the trick though; before I knew it, we were whisked over and introduced to the rest of the team.
Thank you, God!
Miraculously the pain in my ankle subsided as my focus was instantly turned to the bulking frames of pure muscle in my midst.

I was going to play it super-cool, noticing that one of the rugby players kept staring and smiling at me. He was absolutely
the
best-looking ride I had seen for, like,
ever
. Oh yes, I fantasised about doing some rip-roaring sexual healing with him. I took a deep breath and pretended I hadn’t noticed him. No way was I going to make eye contact - which made him stare even more to get my attention. I did my ‘I haven’t even noticed you’ routine and simply exaggerated my body language, oozing femininity to stir him up, while very obviously scanning the rest of the team.

Trying to find confidence from somewhere, I conjured up a little plan. With my heart pounding, I swaggered in front of him towards the toilets. The prime objective of this killer strategy was to give him an opening to
whiff my new ‘take-me-now’ perfume, which perfectly complimented my ‘take-me-now-eyes’. As I got within a few feet of him, I opened my mouth as if about to blow a bubble, rounding my lips into the perfect ‘O’ shape in the hope of the perfect pout. As I drew up beside him, I paused for a few seconds while standing far closer than absolutely necessary and seductively placed my hand on his torso.

‘Ex-cu-s
e me,’ I whispered, in the slowest, sexiest voice I could conjure up. Unable to contain myself, I kept moving while sensually trailing my fingertips across his muscular torso. God knows what this was doing to the man, but I could feel adrenaline coursing through my veins. My breathing was short and sharp, as I battled to keep my sexy composure. That’s no walk in the park either while wearing four-inch heels, holding in your stomach, sticking out your chest, keeping your shoulders back, pouting your lips and wiggling your backside at the same time. I’d like to see blokes try to pull off that move.

As I slithered across the floor, I could feel his eyes burning into me. A sixth sense told me he was watching my every move. Knowing how visual a man is, I thought I would go one step further and emphasise my womanly sensuality a little more by slightly exaggerating the bum wiggle while sticking my chest out a few inches further for ultimate sex bomb effect. I was nearly at the toilet door, when I felt my
(severely battered) ankle give way.

The next few seconds were like a scene from Bambi. My knees banged together while my flailing arms grabbed some poor
, unsuspecting woman. God love her, she seemed genuinely concerned as she steadied me. I hardly even managed to thank her because, in trying to re-gain my prowess, I quickly turned around red-faced and saw Laura chatting to my prey.

‘Feck
… arse… shite!’ I scolded myself, as I hobbled through to the toilets.
What if he saw me?
Waving furiously at Laura from behind the door, I beckoned her over.

‘Laura. Laura!
Come here quick! Oh my God… I’m
so
embarrassed. It could
only
happen to me,’ I groaned as I yanked her in.

‘What’s up?’
she asked, ignorant to my nearly fatal mishap.

‘Please
, tell me you didn’t see that?’ I begged, as I cupped my hands over my face in shame.

‘See what?’

‘Did
he
see? Did you see? Did anyone see?’ I gabbled uncontrollably.

‘What
are
you talking about?’ Laura answered, shaking her head, looking genuinely confused.

‘Me
, falling off my shaggin’ heels on the way to the toilets!’ I barked.

‘No,’ laughed Laura
. ‘I was way too busy checking out the wall-to-wall cock-a-locka.’

‘It’s
karma; I always get punished when I think naughty thoughts,’ I sulked.

‘C’mon
- c’mon,’ encouraged Laura as she swung open the door back to the bar. ‘We’re wasting time in here. I didn’t come all this way to spend the night in the bogs - let’s go have us some fun!’

‘I’ll be out in a bit
,’ I replied, still feeling mortified and not quite ready to show my face.

I really needed to undo my skintight jeans so I would at least make some use of my embarrassing ‘trip’ to the toilets. Back at
mum’s, I had eaten the remains of an old box of rejected chocolate liqueurs found at the back of a cupboard (well, all the rum flavour ones anyway). It was a comfort food thing, although perhaps it was through lack of festive alcohol too. Either way, the chocolate liqueurs were now terrorising my insides and giving me windy-pops. Added to this was the small issue with Siobhan’s Christmas present (
small
being the key word here). She had bought me a thong which was at least two sizes too small. To be honest, after my chocolate gobbling session, it was maybe three sizes too small. It had felt okay just as I was leaving mums. However, the minute I got into the taxi it felt like my arse was sitting on a cheese wire. The offending garment had developed an unhealthy, intimate appetite for my nether regions. I squeezed my hand down the back of my jeans and tried to release the torment of the string, but within seconds it was back, slicing me in half again.

Realising there was little I could do about the thong issue
(perhaps another vodka would act as a pain killer), I fixed my lip-gloss and gently ruffled my hair, making sure my extensions were all in place. I swallowed my pride and nervously came out of the toilets.

I had been single for way too long
. It’s not like I couldn’t find a man or anything. I just had a graveyard full of failed relationships that all suffered the same fate:
him
getting too close and
me
running for dear life. I couldn’t help myself. When I found someone I liked, I would even sit down with a notepad and analyse and dissect the relationship to no end. By the time I’d finished over-analsying, I would be so anxious I simply hit the panic button on my emotional ejector seat.

Not this time though. I was only too aware I had wasted
so much time in the past, which is why I’m in my bloody thirties with no husband, no babies and a bleak future. Besides which, I didn’t need a notebook to know for certain that Mr. gorgeous rugby man outside was absolutely, without a doubt, prime husband and father material.

Taking a little more care this time, I strutted
my stuff back into the bar. While trying to see where the object of my attention was, I was stopped by a ‘yokel’. A yokel is Laura’s code word for local yolk of a farmer who needs a wife, only knows how to speak to the animals and has no female contact in his life except that of his female heifer variety.

‘Sure you're a fine looking woman
,’ said the yokel.

I smiled sweetly, thanked him and tried to get back to the gang of hotties. I was just pulling my arm back when he came right out with it and asked me if I was looking for a husband.

‘No!’ I replied, trying not to sound rude.
Well, yes actually
, I thought,
but it’s not gonna be you in a million years, chum!

‘Can ya milek cows?’
he inquired in the strongest Irish accent I had ever heard. It was then I noticed he had a tooth missing - as if there weren’t enough nails in his coffin.

By
now, I was beginning to really lose patience.

‘No
!’ I said petulantly, putting on a cut-glass English accent. ‘Why on earth would I want to fondle a cow’s udder, when I could pick up a carton of semi-skimmed from Marks & Spencers?’

Is he mad
?
Clearly he was. Whilst trying to get away from the eejit, I spotted the ride from earlier staring straight at me… so quickly switched tactics and pretended to enjoy the painstaking conversation with the yokel. I turned back to him and smiled sweetly.