you!
We can see the
spectacular strobe lasers circling the roof of Savannah ’ s from our front lawn, searing
the sky with an array of dancing lights like the breathtaking Aurora Borealis. Bianca and I
are standing side by side, coatless in our tiny costumes, braving the Arctic
chill. We watch in awe before our transportation - a luxurious stretch limousine
- rolls up, ensuring we’ll set tongues-a-wagging with our grand entrance
(cheers, Howard)!
Clambering in, I tug at my
bum-brushing costume, wishing I’d put on some thick, respectable PE knickers
instead of a thong. After all, it’s not as if anyone’s going to see it,
is it? Or pass comment. I’m husbandless, so why subject myself to a draught?
As we drive across the Square,
giggling and sipping champagne from quaint crystal goblets, Bianca winds down
the window, waving gaily at the passers-by on the high street, who smile and
wave back.
They probably think it’s Halle
Berry. Until she opens her smutty mouth that is, then they’ll think it’s Jo
Brand.
Squealing with delight, Bi
claps her hands as the throb of distant music fills the car.
“Do you hear that, Sal? It’s
coming from Savannah’s, oh, we’re in for one hell of a night - roll out the
cock!”
As she stretches out like a
contented feline on the white leather seat, I notice a wry smile flickering on
Cat Woman’s glossy, scarlet lips and wail, “Oh God, no - what ?”
“What do you mean, what?” she
purrs, winding up the window to preserve her flawless hair.
“I know that look, Bi,” I
insist, “it normally means you’re up to no good or thinking something filthy.
Or both!”
Laughing, she tops up my glass,
which I make a mental note not to touch because I’m already dangerously close to my two-drink limit. One word: lightweight.
“I was just thinking, Sal,” she
sighs. “I could really get used to this, riding around in limousines all
day, drinking champagne, eating Belgian chocolates. D’you know, I’m seriously
thinking of becoming a high-class call girl!”
Well, yes. I must admit, I see
her point. We’d all like to get paid top dollar for doing what we enjoy most
nine-to-five, wouldn’t we?
I shake my head and, forgetting
my plan to pour my champers out the window, take a gulp, tiny bubbles tingling
my nose.
“I don’t think there’s much
call for that in Goldwell, hon. Sorry and all that. You could commute? To
London, perhaps. Or even New York. Say, do you realise this is real, actual
crystal? Wow.”
Tinging the decanter with my
nail, I add coyly, “Bi?”
“Yeeeesss?”
“Do you think Will might show,
or have I blown it?”
As I gaze enviously at her
inch-long lashes, trying to make mine curl too by poking them upwards with my
thumb, she laughs wickedly, adjusting a peeping boob.
“From what I hear, princess,
your marriage is on its knees because you haven’t blown it!”
“Bianca!”
Hearing our suit-clad chauffer
stifle a laugh, I tut, pressing the ‘privacy’ button.
“Bi, really! Don’t be crude .
I think high class hooker, your filthy mind’s permanently in the gutter.
Seriously, do you think he’ll turn up?”
Clearly wishing I’d change the
record and chill, Bianca blends snugly into the leather, drumming her jet black
talons on the frosted window as we roll past Asda, reminding me I need to buy
school uniforms.
“Honey, if he does, he’ll be
blown away,” she assures me confidently. “If he doesn’t, it’s his loss. Either
way, dressed like that, you won’t be going home on your lonesome . . . you’ll
be humpin’ up a cricket score.”
Oh, fantastic. Just bloody
great. On the say so of a high-class hooker, I’m guaranteed to see the New Year
in with a shag! Awesome, talk about sitting duck.
With more flesh on show than
the Morrison’s meat counter, I’m locked in a limo with the Queen of Casual Sex
. . . and I’m her lady-in-waiting. Either that, or the court jester.
Squinting at Bi, regarding me
with what can
We can see the
spectacular strobe lasers circling the roof of Savannah ’ s from our front lawn, searing
the sky with an array of dancing lights like the breathtaking Aurora Borealis. Bianca and I
are standing side by side, coatless in our tiny costumes, braving the Arctic
chill. We watch in awe before our transportation - a luxurious stretch limousine
- rolls up, ensuring we’ll set tongues-a-wagging with our grand entrance
(cheers, Howard)!
Clambering in, I tug at my
bum-brushing costume, wishing I’d put on some thick, respectable PE knickers
instead of a thong. After all, it’s not as if anyone’s going to see it,
is it? Or pass comment. I’m husbandless, so why subject myself to a draught?
As we drive across the Square,
giggling and sipping champagne from quaint crystal goblets, Bianca winds down
the window, waving gaily at the passers-by on the high street, who smile and
wave back.
They probably think it’s Halle
Berry. Until she opens her smutty mouth that is, then they’ll think it’s Jo
Brand.
Squealing with delight, Bi
claps her hands as the throb of distant music fills the car.
“Do you hear that, Sal? It’s
coming from Savannah’s, oh, we’re in for one hell of a night - roll out the
cock!”
As she stretches out like a
contented feline on the white leather seat, I notice a wry smile flickering on
Cat Woman’s glossy, scarlet lips and wail, “Oh God, no - what ?”
“What do you mean, what?” she
purrs, winding up the window to preserve her flawless hair.
“I know that look, Bi,” I
insist, “it normally means you’re up to no good or thinking something filthy.
Or both!”
Laughing, she tops up my glass,
which I make a mental note not to touch because I’m already dangerously close to my two-drink limit. One word: lightweight.
“I was just thinking, Sal,” she
sighs. “I could really get used to this, riding around in limousines all
day, drinking champagne, eating Belgian chocolates. D’you know, I’m seriously
thinking of becoming a high-class call girl!”
Well, yes. I must admit, I see
her point. We’d all like to get paid top dollar for doing what we enjoy most
nine-to-five, wouldn’t we?
I shake my head and, forgetting
my plan to pour my champers out the window, take a gulp, tiny bubbles tingling
my nose.
“I don’t think there’s much
call for that in Goldwell, hon. Sorry and all that. You could commute? To
London, perhaps. Or even New York. Say, do you realise this is real, actual
crystal? Wow.”
Tinging the decanter with my
nail, I add coyly, “Bi?”
“Yeeeesss?”
“Do you think Will might show,
or have I blown it?”
As I gaze enviously at her
inch-long lashes, trying to make mine curl too by poking them upwards with my
thumb, she laughs wickedly, adjusting a peeping boob.
“From what I hear, princess,
your marriage is on its knees because you haven’t blown it!”
“Bianca!”
Hearing our suit-clad chauffer
stifle a laugh, I tut, pressing the ‘privacy’ button.
“Bi, really! Don’t be crude .
I think high class hooker, your filthy mind’s permanently in the gutter.
Seriously, do you think he’ll turn up?”
Clearly wishing I’d change the
record and chill, Bianca blends snugly into the leather, drumming her jet black
talons on the frosted window as we roll past Asda, reminding me I need to buy
school uniforms.
“Honey, if he does, he’ll be
blown away,” she assures me confidently. “If he doesn’t, it’s his loss. Either
way, dressed like that, you won’t be going home on your lonesome . . . you’ll
be humpin’ up a cricket score.”
Oh, fantastic. Just bloody
great. On the say so of a high-class hooker, I’m guaranteed to see the New Year
in with a shag! Awesome, talk about sitting duck.
With more flesh on show than
the Morrison’s meat counter, I’m locked in a limo with the Queen of Casual Sex
. . . and I’m her lady-in-waiting. Either that, or the court jester.
Squinting at Bi, regarding me
with what can
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