Sweet by Julie Burchill Page B

I’d tried not to get too carried away with the whole idea – I knew I wasn’t about to be strutting my stuff down the catwalks of London, Paris or Milan any time soon – but I did at least think there was a chance I’d maybe see some chick strutting through the North Laines next summer looking well sweet in one of the designs I’d inspired. Kizza once told me she thought I was terrified of being as ordinary and boring as everyone else; at the time I’d had to shut the daft dyke up by sticking my tongue down her throat, but of course she was right – I’m terrified of being ordinary.
    I’m not scared of spiders and I’m not scared of snakes – hardly, with my track record! – but when I’m walking home at night and I peer in the lighted windows at the happy little families living their happy little lives, I feel a sense of absolute panic, like you’re meant to feel if you’re standing on the ledge of a skyscraper with no safety net – vertigo, that’s it. I know that some people look into other people’s rooms and wish it was them – but being a wife, having a family, I just don’t get it. It’s like being dead – only you have to do housework!
    Would be different if I got Ren back, though . . . my little Ren. Just me and her.
    And Asif. And possibly Kimmy. And Dr Fox too, if I could swing it with Asif and Kimmy.
    I shook myself. What a perve I was! And come to think of it, what right did I have to sneer at other people! They were ordinary inside their little boxes, all tucked up tight – I was ordinary outside of the respectable loop. And for me, ordinary meant cleaning bogs and watching other people fly off to places I was only ever likely to see on Holiday Reps . Talking of which, on Holiday Showdown a while back there was this family from Bristol who’d only ever been to one place for their holidays – Bristol. Just like my mum and Brighton! Roots, who’d have ’em! – roots are OK for trees but crap for people; just another way of holding you back and keeping you down and spoiling your fun. Roots are like an umbilical cord round your neck all your life. Roots suck!
    For a few weeks I’d caught a glimpse of a different life – a life where, following the runaway runway success of the Sugar-coated collection, my proud and grateful new friends had tucked me neatly and firmly under their privileged wing and carried me into a shiny new future. But however much the motherfrockers might have claimed that the merest glimpse of a naked chick made them want to vom, like most men they just couldn’t resist screwing one. Then – again just like most men – they’d dropped me right back where they found me. Which was standing in the cold, looking forward to another night picking chewing gum off tables and emptying ashtrays. Seemed such a waste of brains and body, if you ask me – which of course no one ever did. So I was, quite justifiably, in a raging mood when I stepped off the bus, but the sight of Asif waiting for me with a look of concern and a big flowery umbrella made me feel a little better. And giving him a quick feel made me feel better still.
    He squirmed and sniggered as I groped him. ‘I didn’t want you to get wet,’ he said as he shoved the umbrella into my hand. His voice was all soft and concerned as he put his arm round me and we headed towards the airport.
    ‘That makes a change!’ I nudged him.
    He laughed. ‘There’s – what you’re saying? – method in my mania!’
    ‘Madness, you mean!’ You couldn’t but laugh at his pretty ways. AND he smelt of curry. I’m not saying that in a bad way – I totally heart curry. So that cheered me up too.
    ‘Because if you get wet,’ he went on, ‘you might get a cold. And if you get a cold –’ and now a deliciously lustful light danced in his eyes – ‘I won’t be able to do this . . .’ He pulled me up against him so I could feel just how pleased he was to see me; put it this way, it reminded me of when I was little