In Fashion Page 3

  “Haven’t you sent him for a hearing test?” she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand. Mikey had hearing aids. Amazingly, they helped him hear. Who knew?

  “I tried. He said he has perfect hearing.” Frank handed the papers to Rog, who strained to hold them. “All yours.”

  Rog squinted down at the sheets. “Ah, my report.” He turned and shuffled off.

  “What do you do with that?” she asked, then frowned. Why was Frank blushing? Why couldn’t he look at her? What was on the ceiling that was so fascinating? Oh, right. She’d popped a button in the printer. “It’s a bra, Frank. It won’t hurt you.”

  “Didn’t want you to think I was staring,” he mumbled, staring at the printer like he wanted to hide in it. “Guess you don’t like all that lacy rubbish, huh?”

  “Do you want me to put your head in the printer?” She did up her button. Her ex had always complained that she wore sports bras. That there wasn’t anything sexy about them. But then, Laura had never been near a gym. They didn’t let you smoke in a gym.

  “Hey, Darcy said that a bra gives you the key to a woman. She says that we need to break the divide between us and be able to talk about each other with respect,” he said like it had been a training seminar. “She says, women should be celebrated, and if you get her in lace she will feel like the lady you love.” He nodded with utter seriousness. “Not sure she said that at the same time…” He pulled his mouth to the side. “I got lost at ‘bra.’”

  “Darcy is an idiot.” What was he doing watching her—apart from the blonde hair and full lips? She just pranced about, talking clothes. “Are you going to wear a bra to test it out?”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Would it show I respected you? I could do that.” His eyes flickered with some cheeky thought. Best not pry into that one.

  “Well…anyway, I’d better go make sure the drinks’ machine is secure.” She scurried off and ducked through the doorway into the cupboard with a TV monitor she called an office. But at least no one ever entered without knocking. Keeping pencils safe was a serious business. She slumped into her chair and flicked her boots up on her desk. Car park was full. Gates were open. Canteen staff were having a sneaky cigarette outside the back door. Lacy bras? Darcy the Style Surgeon? How could anyone take her seriously? She smiled and closed her eyes. Hmm… Darcy in a lacy bra wasn’t a bad picture at all.

  Chapter 5

  Darcy covered her mouth and stifled her yawn. It had been a long day. They’d—she and Susannah—been discussing new prospects for some style surgery with Marge. Susannah was going to shadow Marge, doing whatever producers did all day. Darcy had three interviews with top magazines, one radio interview with a delightful ex-pop star, a meeting with her agent about hosting an after-dinner talk about successful women in media, and they’d even fitted in lunch with the latest date prospect.

  Oh, and Marshall had called to beg for her forgiveness, because he’d been turned down for three roles since she’d punched him. Oddly, she’d not returned his call. Funny that.

  “Darcy,” Marge said in a low tone. Why did she think bass was a good sound for a woman? Scruffy jeans, wild-grey hair, so much better off behind the cameras. “We need to pin down the next guest. The channel wants something with more…spark.”

  “They don’t think that changing a fifty-five-year-old mother of five into a style icon is spark?” How could they? Whoever had told Marge that needed to be fired or, better yet, made to wear skinny jeans. Hmm. They probably did already.

  “Not enough. Yes, we own that evening slot. We have the whole country watching, but they want to make it more…reality TV. So we’ll do some live segments this time.” Marge tapped her phone to her chapped lips. “They loved the interactive tweet sessions. We’ll keep those.” She leaned onto her paper-piled chaos of a desk. “I’ve narrowed down a list. Guests you don’t go for. A challenge.” She said it like Darcy would balk at such a thing. Didn’t she know she’d hosted fashion shows? She knew a challenge when she saw one.

  “Fine, get Susannah to pick. It’ll give her something fun to do.” She waved it off and tweeted about challenges: Undressing a woman and uncovering her inner beauty—No, no…that sounded a bit…diverse. She deleted it—Undress the woman, uncover her beauty, then dress to make her shine for all to see.

  Yes, that was poetry. Why hadn’t she won literary prizes? She tweeted about that too. Yes, someone needed to add that award to her collection. She had a good feeling her upcoming book, and she tweeted to hint at that fact—would secure those awards with ease. Yes.

  “Maybe Susannah could read the tweets out. Get her involved a bit more?” She said but Marge was studying her with a sly smile. “She has wonderful enunciation.” Private education was useful for some things, even if the house was empty, too empty, without her. She looked up. “What?”

  She didn’t like that look. Marge hadn’t looked at her like that since she’d conned her into doing two extra shows using celebrity guests. Seriously, if celebrities with dressers couldn’t get it right, why bother?

  “Nothing. You almost looked proud when you said that…” Marge eyed her with caution. “Like you actually have a heart.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” She put her phone in her stunning clutch-bag—the bag pulled out the colour on her heels to perfection. She sighed. It was so hard being so fantastic all the time. “She’s my daughter. I expect her to do my genes justice. She’s merely doing as nature granted.”

  Marge shook her head, hair like twisted pipe cleaners. “That was almost nice…almost.” She tucked her hands in the back pocket of her jeans and shifted on her feet. No bra was not acceptable. Not on any woman whose breasts had dropped to waist level.

  “You need more support…or any support.” Had Marge not watched the show? She needed to be a lacy lady—sexy and showy—not sporting sagging potato sacks.

  “And you think a seventeen-year-old does that?” Marge’s unshapely wire-caterpillar eyebrows flicked about. Looked like they’d crawl off and make an escape.

  What was she on about? Why would Susannah know what to do with women’s breasts? Hers had been lazy and decided not to grow, but then her growing had needed improvement too, because five foot three needed some tall heels to get that elegance, and Susannah was not blessed with balance.

  “I’ll take that as a vote of confidence, then?” Marge waved her hand about. “Darcy, are you in there, or did the batteries run out?”

  “How amusing.” She stared at her nails. Manicurist was almost as good as her. Not quite, but acceptable. “Well, is there anything else? I have a facial to go to.”

  Marge’s sly grin returned. “No, nothing else. You go to your facial. How about I drop Susannah home when we’ve picked you a sparky challenge?”

  Darcy looked her up and down. “Only if you speak to her nicely. She doesn’t like it when people are less than glowing. It’s jealousy, if you ask me.”

  Marge laughed. “That was almost sweet in a condescending way.” She shook her head and turned. “How is that kid yours?”

  She glared after her. Must have meant the lack of dress sense. Yes, that’s what it was. She strode out of the poky office and to the waiting driver. “If you miss another pickup, I’ll find a new chauffeur. I had to take a cab to the awards.”

  “But, Ms Darcy, my wife was in labour.” He scurried to open the door for her and tipped his hat to her.

  “Are you an obstetrician?” She peered at him when he got in and started the car. She’d gone through it alone, like her mother. Only reason she’d informed the father at all was because she wanted it clear he was below her and it was not happening again. Champers was to blame.

  “No, Ms Darcy, but I love her. I’d take getting fired for her.” He met her gaze in the mirror. “And our baby girl.”

  She smiled. She couldn’t help it. He was clearly insane. But it was a charming sort of
insane. She dug in her clutch and pulled out an envelope. “If you tell a soul what I have done, I’ll flatten your tyres.”

  He reached out and took the envelope with a smile. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Yes, I did. The cab cost more than you, and he was slow.” She turned to the window. London was grey with rain. “I don’t like slow.”

  The chauffeur chuckled and eased his foot down. At least someone knew what she wanted.

  Susannah folded her arms as she read her mum’s latest tweet. Like she could ever write a book. The nearest to the classics she’d ever read was Hello! magazine.

  “So, we need someone special for this show,” Marge said, her smile lines wrinkling up with her chuckle. “We need to get the public seeing the real Darcy McGregor.”

  Susannah rolled her eyes and threw her phone onto the desk. “Not sure there is one.” She scowled. Her mum confused her. It was like she cared, but she didn’t. She punched Marshall, then flipped when Susannah had mentioned that she wanted to volunteer at a project raising awareness of the battle for intersex people to have their inaccurate birth certificates changed. She’d been as touchy when Zoë got married. Susannah leaned onto her fist. She missed Zoë. Her mum never bothered with many people, but Zoë…

  She sighed. Zoë had always managed to get her mum being more…human.

  “Anyone that will get under her skin?” Marge asked in a conspiratorial tone.

  Zoë did. Weirdly in a good way, though. How was arguing good? “Gay women.”

  Marge stared at her.

  “Seriously,” Susannah mumbled. What was with the shocked look? “Should have seen her when Zoë got married. Not impressed.” At least when no one was looking. To the guests, to Zoë, she’d been perfectly poised. Then she’d been in über PMT mode for months like she was ashamed of Zoë.

  Marge’s brows dipped, and she flicked her finger across her tablet. Some dark-haired woman, tall, sunglasses on, dark wavy hair, denim shirt, jeans with holes in the knees, trainers, and a super cool scuffed-up denim jacket with patches on. “How ‘bout her? She’s just broken up with another woman?”

  Susannah picked up her phone. Her mum was tweeting about how important supporting the inner woman was. Hah. How genuine was that load of rubbish? “Yeah, yeah… She’s perfect.”

  Chapter 6

  Kate trudged up the congested Cardiff high street. Cars were parked half on the pavements; buses coughed black soot into the air. The school run was in progress, and she was running late. It didn’t matter that Mikey was always straggling behind. He liked her to be there, and Mum was cooking dinner. Hopefully, Mum didn’t ask her to stay again. She’d like to get in an hour at the gym, take a long shower, and curl up on the sofa. Mum called her boring, and Kate always laughed. Anyone who watched Darcy the flipping fake surgeon needed their heads checked. Didn’t help that someone had decided Darcy needed to be on huge billboards. One of which was outside the school gates, proclaiming that beauty came in stylish packages. Great message for junior-school kids: they were only worth their clothes?

  “Kate,” Bennie, ex-friend and complete bitch, called from behind her.

  Oh no, keep walking. Selective deafness. Her stepdad had it off to a T, which was why he was probably still married to Mum instead of living in a rented flat in Splott. Although, maybe Dad had the right idea. Saved him from eating Mum’s “Darcy delights.” Why did dressing people make her a cook too? Mum wasn’t a cook. Mum murdered toast for fun. Even Mikey could manage toast.

  “Kate, come on.” Bennie huffed loud enough that she had to be close.

  Shit. Just walk faster. She picked up her pace, only for a thick hand to grip her arm.

  “Kate. Stop being a baby.” Bennie yanked her around. Her enticing dark-brown eyes twinkled, and those long eyelashes fluttered.

  Wow, she’d decided a grade two shave—a buzz cut—was her. Made those eyes look huge. Had to be Laura’s influence. Bennie had always had long, flowing brown hair to her shoulders. “Stare all you like. You need to talk to me.”

  “I don’t need to do anything.” Kate pulled her arm free. Yup, the shaved head definitely removed all attraction. What a relief. “Later.”

  She turned back around and smiled to herself.

  “We’re getting married,” Bennie said. Her tone was as if she wasn’t too pleased about it either. “Soon.”

  That familiar pain prickled through her stomach, and she stopped. A bus puffed out a cloud of thick, black smoke, and she spluttered. She hurried on, tears stinging her eyes. Married. Nice. Bennie wouldn’t even commit to a relationship with her. She’d never done relationships.

  “Kate-oh!” Mikey yelled it through the February crisp, damp air. Yelled it in a way that filled her with some kind of strength. Just keep walking. Don’t give Bennie the satisfaction.

  “I want you to be there,” Bennie called out, but Kate fixed her eyes on Mikey breaking into a run. Focus on Mikey. “I want you to be part of it.”

  “Hey, babe,” she said, throwing her arms out to catch him, one eye on Bennie. “How was your day?”

  “I sent the invitation to your mother’s.” Bennie leaned against the wall, close enough to watch her. She’d always been able to read her.

  “I fell.” He held up his hands, grazes on them. “Mrs Jones said I got my feet in a twist.”

  She studied his scratched-up palms.

  Why would Bennie do that? Why would she send it to Mum’s house? Why inflict more pain? “Did she bathe them?” she asked Mikey.

  He nodded, then grinned. When he turned and spotted Bennie, his smile faded. He’d get stressed. It made all his problems worse when he was stressed, his speech especially. He scowled and blew a raspberry, a big one that made three kids strolling by snigger.

  Bennie waved like she didn’t care. Kids were not her strong point. “Hey, Mikey.”

  “No hi.” He scowled at her. “You…naughty.” He flopped forward into Kate’s arms and clung on. “You hurt.”

  She pulled him back. He sounded really upset about it. How had he noticed? He’d noticed?

  Bennie sucked in her chin. “Nah, Kate’s tough.”

  Mikey turned and stomped over. “You make cry.” He booted her in the shin and narrowed his eyes, wagging his finger at her. “You… Mum say…” He blew another raspberry. “Mum say…you…slapper.”

  Kate clamped her lips shut and hurried to him, scooping him into her arms.

  Bennie just stared at him, wincing.

  “You think I should be at her wedding, babe?”

  Mikey narrowed his little eyes. “No.”

  Kate nodded and glared at Bennie. “Me neither.”

  She turned, and he wriggled around to piggyback as she hurried across the racetrack of a road. “Did Mum really say that about Bennie?”

  “No.” Mikey blew another raspberry into her ear, and she chuckled. “She says…she says…ladies… box…” He took deep breaths and sighed. It would take him hours to get the flow of his speech back now. “Lady box slapper.”

  “You mean the TV?” She skipped past the kids congregated around the local corner shop. Mum needed to watch her language. She knew Mikey picked stuff up; when had she let that slip?

  “Yup. Dad-step watch…” He took more breaths as they headed up the steps through the large park. His speech must drive him nuts, but he never grumbled. “Mum say lady box slapper.” He giggled, then blew another raspberry.

  Hmm. Maybe best not to think too much on what her stepdad was watching, but Mum was rich when she drooled over the men on her programmes. “You can’t really call people slappers.”

  “Dad-step say.” Mikey squeezed as she puffed her way up a steep hill. Two joggers ran towards them in Lycra-patterned trousers. They were too busy chatting to each other, so she had to deviate onto the squelching grass. Mikey cheered. “But Ben slapper. She not…true.
She mess… She hurt you. Slapper.”

  She was. How come it took hearing Mikey to say it for her to get it? The joggers carried on, ignorant to everything aside their gossip session. Yeah, she’d been ignorant too. How had she missed so much? “I need a change.”

  “Why, you pee?” Mikey let out a sigh. “You too old to pee.”

  She chuckled, and they headed out onto the grassy tree-lined street occupied by tall Georgian houses and luxury cars. “No, I meant…” How did she explain?

  Mikey cuddled in. “You need find smile.”

  Mikey-speak always seemed to capture a wisdom.

  “Yeah. I do. Any ideas?” She jogged up the road to her stepdad’s house, passing the homes of doctors, lawyers, and financial gurus. Her stepdad was none of those things. He owned a building firm. He was as rough and ready as Mum. Dad was a tradesman like him, but her stepdad had a business head and less of a love for beer.

  “Darcy says style new.” Mikey giggled. He knew how much Darcy bugged her. “She say no to black and yes to colour.” He flopped into her shoulder. “Weird.”

  “She is, yeah.” Darcy wouldn’t like her in her work uniform, then—black men’s trousers, a navy jumper, and a white shirt, complete with boots and a keychain. “You think some posh clothes will make me happy?”

  “No?” Mikey shrugged, and she placed him on the front step. “Think love. But…” He sighed and took long, slow breaths, then set his jaw. “New clothes make love follow?”

  “Doubt it.” She kissed him on the cheek and rang the doorbell. It hurt watching him struggle. “If you see a letter from Bennie, you ditch it before Mum sees, right?”

  He nodded. “Ben slapper.”

  “Yes. She is.” She could hear movement behind the door and gave Mikey another squeeze. She ducked behind her stepdad’s van as the front door opened.

  “Where’s Kate?” Mum muttered. “I have some things to say to her.”

  “No yell. Kate sad. Ben slapper.” He muttered it back like he was the adult. “You make her leave. No.”