Chapter One #2
My mother has always been a bit dozy, and there has been absolutely no change to this as she enters old age, other than the fact that she constantly talks about The Inevitable, which I presume means dementia.
It’s as though she has been waiting her whole life forgetting words, names, places, keys, artichokes (a long story) to finally be able to shout ‘HA! I told you. It’s The Inevitable. ’
The postman reappears at the window and squints in, waving a large envelope.
My new-build home (well, new-ish) is in a ‘cottage’ style, but not the picture postcard cottages with paths lined with rose bushes and such like.
It’s more of a worker’s cottage, with its front door right on the pavement, so every time somebody walks past, they look in, and apparently this is okay, because the house is on the street, so why shouldn’t they?
I have toyed with the idea of net curtains and wondered if they are so out they are back in, like mullets. I tell Mother Pells I need to go.
‘It’s a special delivery,’ the postman announces when I open the front door again. ‘That’s why it didn’t come with the other stuff. It’s separate.’ He seems somehow proud of this. I take the envelope and shut the door, even though the postman seems to want me to open it in front of him.
Back down on the floor, I’m surrounded by pots, tubes and packaging, but I can’t be bothered going upstairs to my ‘office’.
My office is in inverted commas because it’s really a small bedroom with a desk in it, as well as several large boxes overflowing with beauty products, and a Peloton (still being paid off), which currently has a duvet cover draped over it.
It’s probably dry by now, seeing as I put it there a good three weeks ago.
The envelope contains not the usual PR missive, but an invitation, on thick, grainy paper that smells quite strongly of pumpkin spice. Oh My Gourd! it proclaims, in curly, Gothic writing. You’re Invited to a Halloween Party at Luscious Magazine!
I stare at the invitation. On the plus side, I haven’t been invited to a fancy dress party at Luscious since ‘The Good Old Days’ when I wrote for them regularly, before my editor Merlyn moved to a non-executive editor role.
And we all know what that means. Except we don’t really, but we guess it means you don’t do that much anymore but want to continue going to parties.
If I’m getting an invitation, I might be in line for a feature, or even a column.
Merlyn has always looked after me – defending my more niche pun headlines to the sub-editors, putting me on the guest list for PR events that were clearly just for the big-league editors, and sometimes even paying me upfront when I was short of money.
On the minus side, it means a trip to London, which I steer clear of these days.
The magazine offices are full of twenty-five-year-olds into that Clean Girl look, which I don’t fully understand, whose biggest issue is how to shape their brows to look ‘this season’.
I mean, COME ON. I’d shave off my brows completely for a problem like that.
They probably look at me and think, ‘Oh, well done that middle-aged woman for still making an effort,’ but they know deep down that my jaunty neckerchief is just to hide my double chin.
And then there’s the whole fancy dress thing, which I have avoided my entire life.
Although… the right costume could make me look less, well, forty-seven.
There’s a thought. And as Cassia Carver will undoubtedly be there, being all perfect, I will need to either look my best, or unrecognisable, like a zombie.
The latter seems more appealing, because who would ever tilt their head and say, ‘How are you? You look KNACKERED!’ to one of the undead.
They’re meant to look a bit worn out, surely?
Just as I have the beginnings of a vague plan, I remember.
Lucas. Of course. Why was that so difficult?
JEEZ. Unsure what to do with this new (or old, just forgotten) information, I jump up, fling open the front door and yell ‘THANKS LUCAS!’ in the direction of the red post trolley.
By now it’s halfway down the street, past Mrs Belcher’s, near Josie’s house (one of the few people in the town that I like, apart from Keith, and smiley Gabe Dix from The Perch, of course).
Lucas turns back briefly, like a schoolchild at drop-off, embarrassed by his over-affectionate mother.
I shut the door, flop down on the couch and open my laptop to start my body scrub article, despite the fact I haven’t tried any of them yet.
I’m going to see how many puns I can squeeze in, just to amuse myself.
They’ll probably get taken out by that mean sub-editor at Grace magazine, but who cares? Makes it more fun to write.
Scrub Me Up The Right Way
By Erica Pells
We get it: exfoliate can easily become exfoli-hate, because it’s one of the most boring parts of your bodycare routine. But if you really want to be a smooth operator, this extra step can make all the difference, and that’s not just buff and nonsense.
So, which are the top products around at the moment for a really good glow job? The best ones use exfoliating particles (like sugar or jojoba beads) to get rid of dead skin cells. The result? Nobody will accuse you of looking rough.
Exfoliating treatments can also help your body moisturiser penetrate more deeply (just let that sink in).
The bottom line: if you haven’t been using a body scrub regularly, maybe it’s time to get your grit together and pick one from our line-up of the best. Everything will be smooth sailing once you’ve tried these.
I’m pretty pleased with that so far. I close my laptop, grab an armful of body scrubs from the floor and head upstairs for a shower.