Stilettos & Stubble

Stilettos & Stubble

AMANDA EGAN

Copyright
©
2012 Amanda Egan

Apart from any use permitted
under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of
the author or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the
terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

First published as an eBook in November
2012

First published in paperback by Lulu November
2012

All characters in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.

Also by Amanda Egan

Diary of a Mummy Misfit

The Darker Side of Mummy Misfit

Completing the Puzzle

Christmas Deliverance (a Novella)

PRAISE
FOR THE AUTHOR

‘MUMMY
MISFIT’ BOOKS

‘Private school or not, the author hits
playground politics on the head.  The characters are loveable and I honestly
couldn’t put the book down.’

‘One of the best books I have ever
read.  Fantastically written and incredibly funny!  Amanda's style of writing
is pure brilliance.  You are guaranteed giggles throughout the book and there
are lots of laugh out loud lines too.  I absolutely adored this book and I
recommend it totally!!’

‘I'm in awe of Amanda Egan's writing,
and I have the utmost admiration for her work.  For me she is one of, if not
the funniest writers I've come across and, as long as Amanda keeps writing,
I'll be there to buy her books.’

‘COMPLETING
THE PUZZLE’

‘Amanda is an incredible author who
manages to capture you straight away.  You find yourself relating to her
characters and the story pulls you in from the beginning.  You laugh with them
and cry with them.  I had trouble putting the book down, just wanting to know
what was going to happen next.’

‘The book is so well written,
description-perfect, that I felt I was watching a film.  Amanda has a superb
knack of putting vivid images in your head with her fabulous writing style. 
Roll on the next book because this lady is quickly becoming my favourite
author.’

‘Anyone who has elderly parents or
teenage children will find this book is very close to home.  I believe if you
are between twenty and ninety, there will be a bit of you in this book.’

a way that
would make Marian Keyes quake in her tiny pixie boots.’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I had such fun writing this book and just as much

fun researching it.  Drag queens and gay guys love to

talk so I had no problem gaining the info I needed!

I really hope I haven’t forgotten anyone here

as I know they’d have my guts for garters!

So huge thanks go to:

My dear friends Geoffers and Eddie

Barbara Bush

Titti La Camp

Wilma Ballsdrop

David Somerset Barnes

Steve Phillips (Stella)

Ian Tink

And for giving me leads to drag queens:

Mireille Eustace

Alison Stockley

Thank you ladies.

With love to a new friend Jackie Martin

who has been a huge supporter of my

books and wants to be my P.A.!

As always for my lovely Mum, Robes and Ben.

STILETTOS & STUBBLE

Chapter
One

My mother would have said it served me right - which in some ways, it
did.

‘Go nosing around and you’ll be sure to find stuff you don’t
like, Persephone.’
  I could
almost hear her shrill voice ringing in my ears and see her standing in her
usual elegant pose, as I stared at the photo on the mobile.

And, as it wasn’t
my
mobile, I was indeed nosing and being
shocked by my findings. 
‘Your
punishment, darling.’
Again I
could hear my mother almost goading as I lost myself in the smiling face on the
screen.

That
punishment
came in the form of the
most stunning girl I’d ever set eyes on.  Blonde, petite, dainty and everything
I wasn’t.  I would have laid my last tenner - which was probably the sum total
of my bank account at the time - that she was a size zero, 32B bust and a neat
3 in her elegant leather ballet pumps.  I just knew that when she walked in to
a room, silence fell and heads turned - and not because she’d got loo roll
sticking out of her trousers or her hairbrush forgotten in a tangle at the back
of her head.  Yes,
I’d
been known to hush entire crowds on many
occasions too - none of them good.

I felt the familiar
prickle of tears start to gather - how cruel it was that the one feminine
quality I’d been blessed with was daft, girlie emotions.  And then I heard Adam
cough behind me.

‘What you doing,
Perce?’  He sounded tense as he subtly strained his neck to see over my
shoulder.

I snapped the
mobile shut and blinked the tears away.  He’d made it more than clear that he
didn’t deserve me, so he didn’t warrant puffy eyes.  They were the one part of
me I actually
liked
,
so I’d make damn sure I came out of this
awkward encounter puff-free.

Back in control,
I turned and pulled myself up to my full height - all 6’ 2” of it - and fixed
him with a stare.  ‘Who’s the girl on your mobile, Adam?  And please, no
bullshit.’

He had the good
grace to look ashamed which, in itself, told me everything I needed to know. 
She
wasn’t
his sister, his aunt
or
a friend.  He’d been playing
away with a creature who looked like she could live in a doll’s house - but
unfortunately for him, his Amazonian girlfriend had caught him out.

‘She’s called
Cindy and I’ve … well I’ve been seeing her for a couple of weeks.  I meant to
tell you, Perce, but the time just never seemed right.’

My brain began to
process his words, slowly sorting out the sentences and turning them into
logical thought.  I shook my head and blinked, trying
really
hard to
construct an answer that would leave me with my dignity intact.

‘The time never
seemed
right
? What, not when we were out having a meal or in my bed
making love?  Not when we were at that bar last week or when I was ironing your
shirts last night? 
None
of those times seemed right?’  The tears were
threatening again and I fought to keep them at bay.

Adam shuffled
uncomfortably, looking from his mobile to the front door, clearly wanting to be
anywhere but in my flat.  ‘I’m sorry, Perce.  What can I say?  Cindy’s just
everything you’re …’  He trailed off, not wanting to finish the cruel sentence
he’d started.

‘She’s everything
I’m
not
.  That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?’  It wasn’t
difficult for me to fill in the gaps.  I’d heard the words so many times in my
life before and they never failed to hurt.  But I’d been really keen on Adam
and this time it hurt quite a bit more.

I took one last look
at the man I’d shared the past six months with - taking in his floppy hair and those
chocolate brown eyes that turned me to mush - and then, with a heavy heart, I
gave him his ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card.  ‘Probably best if you go now, eh?’

I’ve seen blokes shift
quickly in my time but this particular parting was a record.  He flew from
jacket to mobile to car keys and door in under thirty seconds.

And once again, I
was alone.

*****

What can I say?

I’m a big girl.  And I don’t mean in a Jerry Hall, statuesque kind of
way.  I mean BIG in every sense of the word.  Oh, I’m not fat but I’m taller
than your average man, have large, heavy bones, gargantuan feet and hands a
scaffolder would be proud of.

‘
Don’t exaggerate’
, I hear you say.  I’m not.  I can’t be.  I’ve
heard my mother tell me so often it’s now ingrained in me.

I once heard her on the phone trying to set me up on a blind date with a
friend’s son and she actually said, ‘Think Miranda Hart combined with that
woman in ‘The Life and Loves of a She-Devil’ but slightly more attractive.’

She
actually
said that.  My own mother.

But then this was from the woman whose favourite dinner party story was
how she was ripped asunder by a ten pounder.  It usually ended with, ‘Can you
imagine?  With a frame as delicate as mine to give birth to one so
alien
! 
Of course,
I
blame Gordon!’

And it was always poor Daddy who bore the brunt of all of mum’s anger. 
If the post was late - it was his fault.  If her new shoes blistered her feet -
she’d bought them to look attractive for him.  The unnaturally large taboo of a
daughter she’d been saddled with?  All down to Daddy’s genes!

He once told me, on one of our many secret drinking sessions in his
beloved shed, that my mum turned from ‘goddess’ to ‘cranky old bat’ on the day
I was born.  It was probably the single malt talking but it made a lot of sense
at the time.

You see I was, and continue to be, a disappointment to her.

My mother had spent nine months in floaty gowns with a beatific smile plastered
to her exquisitely made up face, imagining the joy of dressing a tiny,
perfectly formed dolly - a
Sindy
!  (How ironic that Adam should leave me
for someone with a similar sounding name).  A boy had
never
been on her
agenda.  And as for a
large girl
?  The idea never entered her pretty
little auburn head.

But she got
me
!

And as much as I infuriated my mother, I swelled Dad’s heart with
pride.  He couldn’t have asked for a better daughter - he told me often enough
- and I couldn’t have wished for a more loving dad.  Which was just as well really
because for most of my life my mother had made me feel like a worthless excuse for
the female gender, purely because of my size. 
You can’t be a lady if you’re
big!

Had it not been for my dad, her constant jibes could have bordered on mental
child abuse but I’d always felt loved and secure because of him.  While she
cocooned herself in her vanity and overt femininity, we’d be laughing in the
garage as we sanded down furniture or chopped up firewood.  Big hands were good
tools and my dad taught me how to use them well.

But those same hands weren’t so great for the many talents my mother would
have liked me to perfect - embroidery, baking, make up and manicures - I did
them all badly and accompanied by the sound of her tutting.  The first time I
attempted a hint of blusher and mascara for a school disco, I could still hear
her laughter ringing in my ears as I set off down the road to meet best friend,
Mia.

Of course by the time I got to Mia’s house the mascara had been smeared
by tears and was making streaky trails into the blusher.  They sorted me out
though, Mia and her lovely Mum, and by the time I hit the disco I actually felt
like a normal teenage girl and not the monster my mother believed me to be. 

In some ways Mia was my saving grace, always there to pick me up and
sort me out - the sister I never had.  But the downside was … she was
tiny
. 
We’d spent most of our school lives saddled with the nickname ‘Little and
Large’ - even the teachers used it.  ‘Little off sick today is she, Large?’ our
form tutor would ask me and I’d nod my head and smile, concealing the pain that
the name caused me.  I didn’t
want
to be called ‘Large’ and I didn’t
want to be called ‘Persephone’ - another bloody stupid idea of my mother’s
which my dad gave in to.

I wanted to be called Percy.  The name suited me and those that loved me
respected my wishes.

My mother refused.  She’d chosen Persephone so that’s what she’d
continue to call me.  Because
my
feelings didn’t come into the equation.

They never did.

*****

I’d had plenty of practice at tending a broken heart.   Nigh on twenty
failed relationships had provided great training - the problem wasn’t
getting
a man, it was
keeping
him.  Of course, my mother said it was because of
the novelty factor and men only dated me out of curiosity - a bit like a circus
freak.

So after Adam left, I went through the familiar routine.  I made hot
chocolate, grabbed the emergency biscuit tin, called Bogey and flipped open my
laptop.

Bogey appeared from the bedroom, blinking and checking the coast was
clear.  He was the cat with the attitude of Humphrey Bogart - a gangster cat - and
the feline equivalent of me.  Huge, lumbering and clumsy.  Most cats could jump
on shelves effortlessly, dodging ornaments with skilful grace - Bogey would
land with a thud, skidding to a halt and shattering everything around him.

We were two of a kind - kindred spirits.

But he hated any man I’d ever brought into our world.  Oh, he wasn’t
vicious.  He wouldn’t attack or scratch.  He’d just give them ‘his look’ and that
said it all.  Roughly translated from cat-speak it would say, ‘WTF!  Another
loser.  Excuse me while I go and take care of my bottom’.  And if he was
really
peed off, he’d simply flop on the floor, open his back legs and start a
thorough clean-up interspersed with noisy slurps and a defiant stare that said,
‘What
you
gonna do about it, big guy?’

So Bogey was delighted to find that he had me and the flat all to
himself again and he settled on my lap, purring noisily as I checked the dire
state of my financial affairs through my online banking account.

My suspicions were confirmed.  £8.53 to my name and no pay cheque due
that month.  I sighed and petted Bogey’s ears.  He looked up at me with questioning
eyes.  I often thought he was tuned into my feelings but he was probably just
thinking that eight quid was enough to cover the cost of his cat food, so what
was the problem?

The problem was I could match my disastrous love life with an equally depressing
employment history.  I’d left school at eighteen with absolutely no idea of what
I wanted to do with my life.  Mia was determined to marry young and breed for Britain but I was totally clueless.  And so I’d drifted from one unsuitable job to another. 
I’d had a go at most things but rarely found joy in any of them.

Daddy said my true talents lay with people and that I had a knack of
making them feel comfortable and at ease.  People liked to tell me their
troubles and I’d sat for many hours at bus stops or on trains listening to a
life story or the tale of a messy divorce.  But I wasn’t clever enough to be a
psychiatrist or a counsellor so the door to those professions was firmly closed. 
Dad would regularly email adverts to me for receptionist positions with cheery
little notes -
‘Saw this and
thought of you.  Bet you’d be great.  Just
smile and chat to people while they’re waiting for their appointments.’

But what he didn’t realise was that I’d been turned down for more
receptionist’s jobs than my mother had shoes.  Companies didn’t want gawky -
they wanted model looks with Tipp-Ex white teeth and glossy blonde extensions. 
These stunners were the first port of call for a customer, the shop window, and
nobody wanted to put
me
on display.