Foetal Attraction by Kathy Lette Page A

geezer, then bump him orf. It’s one of the civilized things about living in England. PMS is justification for homicide.’
    ‘Oh yeah. And what if they prove it wasn’t around the time of your period?’
    ‘Then I’ll get off for PPMS – Premature Premenstrual Syndrome.’ Gillian unscrolled her arms. ‘Or PMSHOFLM – Post-Menstrual Syndrome Hanging Over From Last Month. Or …’
    ‘I didn’t know you were a gerontophile.’ Since living with Alex, Maddy’s vocabulary had contracted elephantiasis.
    ‘Absolutely.’ Gillian drained the dregs of her teacup then placed a generous tip for the tea lady on the saucer. ‘I stop just this side of the grave.’
    Maddy knotted the towel around her waist and slipped her feet into mouldy flip-flops. ‘With Upper-Class Englishmen, how do you tell?’
    Part two of their beautification treatment involved being coated in what looked like guacamole, wrapped in tin foil and left in the tropical climate of the steam room. The Cosmetic Commandant informed them that this was a ‘Seaweed-wrap-anti-cellulite-therapy’ which would sweat out the toxins.
    ‘Speaking of which …’ Gillian said, turning her Martian complexion towards Maddy and peering over the top of her Raybans, ‘how
is
Alex?’
    Maddy had been dreading this. ‘So,’ she sidestepped, ‘how do you?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Get out of giving fellatio?’
    ‘Oh, there’s so much our mothers didn’t tell us …’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Like the fact that suddenly at thirty-five a black hair will grow out of your chin. Can you see it?’ She craned forwards. ‘And that sperm tastes different, depending on the gentleman’s diet … Or that it stings when you get it in the eye …’
    Maddy swivelled her head as best she could. ‘Gill, what were you doing with sperm in your eye?’
    ‘The swallowing. That’s the part I don’t like. At the strategic moment, I simply pretend to have leg cramp. But occasionally one doesn’t execute this crafty manoeuvre quite quickly enough …’
    A titter of amusement rippled round the dark room. ‘The first time I gave a blow job,’ chipped in the woman next to them, ‘I threw up. Me fella went from heaven to hell in two seconds flat. What’s worse … I’d just eaten a curry.’
    ‘One should give it up altogether,’ Gillian suggested. ‘It does cause terrible stretch marks around the lips. I can never quite fit it all in.’
    All the other guacamole- and tin-foil-wrapped women in the room turned to gawk at Gillian.
    ‘I want his name and his number and I want it
now
,’ Maddy demanded.
    ‘Oh good,’ Gillian said once the laughter had subsided, ‘so you are going to cut your losses with That Man.’ Maddy’s distraction technique had failed miserably. ‘Face it. He’s never here. He’s married. He’s—’
    ‘Witty, clever and gives the best cunnilingus this side of a detachable shower nozzle.’ Gillian’s towel turban toppled forward, knocking her sun-glasses off her well-bred nose and leaving a pale skidmark through the guacamole. ‘Plus he loves me.’
    Gillian snorted derisively.
    ‘He
does
,’ Maddy insisted.
    ‘I’d believe you, darling, if I could see some clear indication.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know … An incredibly indecent amount of money deposited into your bank account might suffice.’
    ‘Is leaving his wife proof enough? He’s telling her today. Now. As we speak! I don’t feel remotely guilty. I mean, he’s never loved her. Alex says that she has two expressions. Menopausal Hot Flushes and Deeply Pissed off.’
    ‘Then why did he marry her in the first place?’
    ‘Because it was the last thing they should have done. Because it was the only alternative to splitting up. Because being forced to stay together by a bit of paper seemed preferable to deciding who got the Abba albums and who got Wagner’s Ring Cycle. He also said it was because, statistically, married men live longer.’
    ‘If he cheated on
her
,’