So. Underwear. Oh dear. Not good. Not sexy. I’d gone for comfortable and functional in the last years/decade. Who cared when it was only me that ever saw it? Another thing to change, I realized. Not just for Gary, but for my own self-esteem and part of my new attitude to life. I shall spend the kids’ inheritance on silk knickers and sod them, I thought.
Off to the department store, found the lingerie area.
‘Your bra size, madam?’ asked the matronly assistant.
‘Oh, not sure, thirty-eight something.’
‘When were you last measured?’
‘Er … never.’
She had a cursory glance at my chest, did a quick measurement with a tape, tutted. Then she led me into a changing room and told me to strip off my top layer. In the meantime, she disappeared, reappearing soon after with armfuls of lace bras.
‘Let’s start with this one,’ she said as she separated a jade green one from the pile. ‘Now bend over.’
‘Oo-er,’ I said. She didn’t laugh so I did as I was told and she stood behind me, fastened the bra round my rib area then cupped and scooped my boobs one by one into the bra cups. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘We haven’t even had dinner and a date. I don’t even know your name.’
Again she didn’t laugh. ‘It’s Stacey,’ she said with one last shove into the cup. ‘Now stand.’
I stood, looked in the mirror. ‘Wow. Perfect,’ I said. ‘Size is spot on. It feels supportive too.’
‘Thirty-four double D,’ she said.
‘Never.’
Stacey softened, proud of her work. ‘Most women are going round wearing the wrong bras. Now, would madam like briefs to match?’
‘I would. High leg.’
This time, to my relief, when she returned, she passed them through the curtain. Beautiful gossamer-thin bits of loveliness. I put a pair on. They fitted fine but the lace trimming around the edges of the legs was trimmed with black furry stuff that didn’t look so good. My pubes had a life of their own. God, when had I last had a bikini wax? Back in the Stone Age.
I bought two sets, one ivory silk, the other pale duck egg, and hastened to the beauty salon on the fifth floor.
‘A leg and bikini wax,’ I requested at reception.
‘Hollywood, Brazilian or standard?’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Hollywood’s all off.’
‘All off? That’s a bit creepy, and I fear I’d look like a plucked chicken …’
‘Brazilian is where you leave a landing strip …’
I started to laugh. ‘Landing strip? Like at the airport? Can they coat it in luminous gel or something so you can see it in the dark? Be like guiding a plane in.’
Cheryl didn’t react. ‘Nah, we don’t do luminous, but we do sell glow-in-the-dark condoms.’
‘You do? Excellent. I’ll take three,’ I said. ‘Sounds like hours of fun.’
‘We do flavoured ones too – strawberry, apple or tropical fruit.’
‘How about menthol for when you’re not in the mood but don’t want to use the headache excuse?’
‘Nah. We don’t do menthol.’ She handed me a card with all the treatments listed. I glanced down.
‘What’s a vajazzle?’
‘It’s when you decorate the area where the hair’s been taken off with glitter, crystals, rhinestone and sequins.’
Ah, so she did have a sense of humour. I laughed but she handed me a brochure showing lady parts where they’d had the Hollywood (the lot off), and had patterns of stars or flowers made of tiny crystals put in its place.
She wasn’t joking. Where had I been the last few decades? When I was still in the game, a trim with a pair of scissors, a slap of hair conditioner and I was ready to party.
‘And do you do specials for Christmas?’ I asked, thinking I was making another of my hilarious jokes.
‘Oh yeah. You can have your pubes shaped into a Christmas tree and the little silver sequins dotted about like baubles. S’very popular for a bit of a festive feel.’
Clearly I’m out of touch when it comes to lady-garden styling, I thought as I pursued the options. What would Gary like? There were many: pubes shaped into hearts, flowers, bats – the flying kind, ice-cream cones, butterflies.
‘And a vagacial? What’s that?’
‘Like a facial but for your vagina.’
What!!? ‘Of course. And how do you do that?’
‘We have a throne you sit on and it steams warm air and herbs up your – you know what.’
‘Up your Watford tunnel. Fascinating.’ I settled for a standard bikini wax, refused the additional butt wax, but bought a pot of glitter on the way out of the store to have ready as well in case the mood called for it. With all that and the luminous condoms, I was ready for anything.
*
Tuesday night: Ally and Sara had gone to see a movie and agreed to stay out of the way if I wanted to invite Gary over. I did. I cooked a moussaka dish with baked aubergines. Halfway through the meal, Gary did a bolt, and moments later I could hear him throwing up in the cloakroom. Oh my god, is my cooking really that bad? I thought as I waited for him to return. He came out looking green. ‘So sorry, I’m allergic to aubergine,’ he said, and opted to go home for an early night and some Milk of Magnesia. Who said romance is dead?
*
Wednesday. Gary invited me over to his. I met Dudley the dog, we got a takeaway, watched a movie, then kissed, lovely slow-building kisses with a promise of things to come. After a short while Gary got up, took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom.
‘I just need to use the loo,’ I said. Once in there, I realized I wasn’t ready. I might have my pot of glitter in my bag to bedeck my lady parts, but now it was happening, I was seized by panic.
