Lipstick and Lies (3 page)

‘
Hello Cassandra,
’
my mother-in-law
said
.
‘
I won’t kiss you dear as I can see you need to have a clean up.
’

‘
Hi Edna,
’
I
cranked up a
smile.
‘
Thank you.
I won’t be long.
’

‘
You take your time dear.
Go and have a nice bubble bath and get ready for
Matt and Morag’s
party.
Jamie’s seeing to
Eddie
.
I’ve fed the children
.
E
verything is under control.
’

And that was
probably
the rub.
Because
Edna
always
made
me feel
so very
not
in control.
Right now
I
should be
bounding up the stairs
,
enthusiastically
greet
ing
the children,
exclaim
ing
with interest
at
their latest
musical
download,
effortlessly recall
ing
the mathematical formula for
trigonometry, and offer
ing
an
informed
opinion on whether
b
lack nail polish looked better than green
.

Instead
I drooped up the stairs
to the master bedroom
, peeled off my stinking clothes and wandered listlessly into the en-suite bathroom.
Standing over the tub
I contemplated the plug hole.
A couple of grey pubic hairs lay forlornly
to one
side, not having been washed away by the
previous
occupant.
They were probably mine.
How depressing.
Even my pubes were going grey.

I flatte
ned
the pop-up plug
.
Blasting
hot water into the bath
,
I
add
ed
a
dollop of foaming Radox
.
Leaving the water to run, I
turn
ed
to
study
my reflection in the full length mirror.
Dull hair
.
P
asty skin.
T
he boobs looked surprisingly good
,
but that
was
due to them being full of milk.
I turned sideways and sucked in my stomach.
Now
that
looked good.
I exhaled
.
M
y midriff
promptly
dropp
ed
like
exhausted
knicker
elastic
.
The hips were
generous
.
A
nd the bottom
– I
jiggled
around
– well
the less said about that the better.
When I’d been pregnant with the twins I’d been lucky
to escape
stretchmarks
.
No such luck second time around.
Silvery
l
ines
snaked
across
my abdomen
as
if a child had gone berserk with a gel pen.

I’d just lowered myself into the
tub when
there was a knock at the door.

‘
Who is it?
’
I squeaked.
I didn’t want the girls catching me out again
or
mocking
my figure.

‘
Room service
.
’

I
sank und
er the bubbles.
It was debatable wh
ich
was worse – the girls seeing my
n
akedness
or my husband
.
I couldn’t remember the last time
I’d undressed
with the light on.
Or
the last time we’d made love.
A hundred years ago?
Oh we’d attempted
it
of course.
Many
a
time
we’d
nipped upstairs on the pretext of an early night
,
only to have
plans
scuppered by
Eddie
bawling
lustily
.
Once we’d even got as far as stripping completely naked –
in
total
darkness
of course – and
enjoyed a
passionate
thirty sec
ond
grapple
.
But
Eddie
’s colic had
ended the shenanigans
.
We
’d
fared no
better in the mornings either
.
I
n
variably
one of the children would barge in demanding clean
jodhpurs
or wanting to know if I’d laundered their precious ponies’ numnahs.

‘
Can I come in Cassie?
’

‘
I’m not decent.
’

‘
G
ood
.
’
Jamie elbowed
the door
open
.
He was
holding
a tray.
On it were
two
flutes
of champagne and a single red rose.
‘
Happy birthday my darling
.
Also
,
happy
first wedding
anniversary
.’
He
dropped a kiss on my head
.
‘And finally,
here’s to a very
Happy New Year
!
’

My eyes
welled
.
I loved this man so much.

‘
What a lot of happiness!
’
I blinked back the tears
.
G
ave a watery smile.

‘
Why so glum?
’
Jamie knelt down by the side of the bath and passed me a champagne flute.

‘
Probably my
hormones
.
They’re
still all over the place.
Damn things.
But I’m determined to phase out the breast-feeding
and get my body back to normal.’

I
glugged some
champagne.
Once Eddie was weaned
,
I’d be able to indulge without guilt.
My good friend Morag had frequently lamented
– during
our respective pregnancies
– about
the enforced alcohol deprivation.
Especially when she’d been ambushed by
PMS.
Or P
regnancy
M
ood
S
wings
to the uninitiated
.
Upon visiting one day
I’d
found
her prostrate over the kitchen table,
sobbing her heart out but
at a loss
to understand why
.

‘
What’s the matter with me Cass?
’
she’d
sobbed into a fistful of
Kleenex.
‘
All I
ever wanted was
a baby
.
Now
look at me!
Finally p
regnant
,
but
b
lubbing like
a
wimp.
’

It was true that Morag
wasn’t usually ambushed by
tears
.
A
formidable solicitor, she was also
feisty, outgoing and gregarious.
Uncontrollable w
eeping just wasn’t
her
style.

‘
Talk about manic mood swings.
I’m hanging off the chandeliers half the time.
Matt doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.
One minute I’m all over him, the next I’m threatening to pack my stuff.
’

I’d
giggled.
‘
You’ve just given
the
definition of PMS – Pack My Stuff.
Not to mention Pardon My Sobbing!
’

‘
T
hat’s quite good Cass.
What about,
’
she’d puckered her brow
,
‘
I know!
Pass My Shotgun!
’

‘
Y-e-s
.
N
ot bad.
How about Psychotic Mood Shift?
E
ven better
,
Perpetual Munching Spree?
’

‘
Provide Me with Sweets!
’

‘
Ah
,
but
Pimples May Surface.
’

‘
A
nd we’ll get a Puffy Middle Section
.
A
lthough
we
already
have
th
at
,
’
she
’d
point
ed
at
our respective
baby
bumps.

‘
No problem
.
S
imply Pass My Sweatpants.
’

At that point
,
her husband
Matt had stuck his head around the kitchen door
.
Returning
from
the
busy
equestrian centre
he
ran
so lucratively
,
he
’d taken
in the scene of hilarity
.
A
look of relief had passed
over
his face.

‘
Feeling better my darling?
’

Whereupon
Morag
’s head
had rotated one hundred and eighty
d
egrees
and
she’d
snarled,
‘
Plainly Men Suck.
’

But all that was many months ago
.
Morag and I were now the proud mothers of
our
baby boys,
although
sometimes
the pair of us were
still
laid low with Pissy Mood Syndrome.
Would it ever go away?

‘
Cassie?
’

‘
Hm
m
?
Sorry darling
.
I was miles away.
’
I stared vacantly at my gorgeous husband, a
dead ringer for Brad Pitt
in his
heyday
.

‘
I was asking if I could wash your back
,
’
my husband said huskily
.

Suddenly the
champagne was hitting all the right places.

‘
Indeed.’
I
looked up at him under my eyelashes
.
‘A
nd if you do a good job
,
you can
wash my front too.
’

‘
Is that so?
’

M
y
empty champagne
flute was whisked away.
Seconds later a huge soapy sponge was whizzing over my back.
As
Jamie’s
breath whistled around my neck
,
I realised it
wasn’t just the sponge that was
getting
in
a lather
.