My old friend Joanne’s really getting up my nose. All this poncing about with new clothes and new shoes, not to mention the new fast car. New house, too, in a posh road where all the houses have these bloody electric gates so you can’t even see over the hedge let alone get in.
Some people get in. The cleaner and the pool man and the gardener and all the deliveries for all that glitzy tat she buys online. Her friends get in too. Her new friends, that is. All long blonde hair and tight little tushes in skirts up to here and boots. ‘Course, none of it’s real. They’ve all had tucks and tweaks and injections and Christ knows what. New boobs and new noses to match the bicycle-pump lips and pared-down thighs. Amazing how much bloody work’s involved in looking good these days. Amazing too what ten grand a week will buy.
I barely make that a year. Struggle on twelve grand with two kids to feed and a partner who scarpered for the hills the minute I was pregnant with the second one. Scarpered for Lindsey Bains, more like. Little cow he met at work, wears skinny-rib jumpers too tight over her boobs. He told me she understood him, as though I didn’t. Fact is I understand him better than he likes to think. I understood he wanted a younger, more attractive model. Wasn’t hard to work that one out when he told me I’d ‘let myself go’.
Don’t forget – you can find the rest of the story in Issue 1 of the new Betty Fedora magazine which is available in Kindle or print right now!