Pink

I am more beautiful than her and she knows it. She's jealous,
basically. So she pissed off back to her mum's. Flounced off. "I
married a man, not a - I hardly know what to call you. A fake. A doll.
A travesty." I pursed my mouth and glanced ceilingwards. "Where's my
black bra? I can't find any of my knickers." While her back was turned
I palmed several crucial items of make-up.
Anyway, why should I care? She's served her purpose and is now
discarded. False trappings, unnecessary disguise. A wife is a girl's
alibi in the straight world, sometimes her accomplice and sworn sister,
more often her secret worst enemy. Of course Julie thinks I'm the
betrayer, not her. She thinks I only married her for a chance to steal
her stockings and other things. Do me a favour! There are easier ways.
Of course I was only making a panicky last-ditch attempt to persuade
myself I wasn't what I am. I knew the truth but I wouldn't admit it to
myself. See the difference? Then you see more than she does.
The real me. The real me is completely artificial. The triumph of
artifice. Self-created, using excellent basic materials. I'm talking
about feet, hands, bone structure. Nothing nasty. We simply ignore all
that down below, those unfortunate appendages. We pretend they're part
of another person, a stranger, or an ex-friend or colleague with whom
we're not currently on speaking terms. And when I say pretend, I'm
talking about the power of the imagination to transform reality. Not
covering things up, but changing the very nature of perception. La di
dah! No darlings, I'm serious.
'Got myself a crying, talking, sleeping, walking, Living Doll. Got to
do my best to please her, just cos she's a Living Doll... ' I sing
under my breath all the way to Moira Ledward's class. That song peps me
up. Ol' Cliff knew what he was crooning about. Ageless youth and
beauty, my darlings. How does she do it? Through attending to
presentation, as Moira Ledward so often - and rightly - emphasises.
Presentation, ladies.
I'm so brimming with youthful beauty and vitality, of course I attract
jealous eyes. A tiff with Kelly. "That pink is too young for you," she
spits at me. The nerve!
"Pink suits all ages."
"Not geriatrics." I've told them I'm 29, but Kelly's found out my real
age somehow, probably by rifling through Moira Ledward's records
after-hours. She's a locksmith, a profession Love is said to find
amusing. "That pink shows up the little lines round your mouth,
dear."
"Look to your own bristles, Kevin."
I'm proud to say we fight like women, in true Hollywood or Jackie
Collins style - pull hair, scratch eyes, fall to ground, roll over
twice. Kelly's wig comes awry and she breaks a heel. I emerge
impeccable, triumphant, like Venus from the half shell, to scattered
applause. While Moira Ledward attempts to regain control I slip my hand
into my jacket pocket, checking for the little tube - yes, it's still
there. Yves Saint Laurent, a wonderful trouvaille from Julie's shoulder
bag. How I'm going to miss that girl.
"Now ladies, ladies!" Moira Ledward claps her hands. "Have you got any
more little stories to tell the class, before I take your orders?
Anything at all that's happened in the past week? Martine?
Petra?"
Martine gives a deep shuddering sigh and we all adjust our skirts.
It's obvious we're in for a long sitting, or would be if Moira Ledward
possessed an ounce of sensitivity. I should mention that the chair I'm
perching on was originally designed for a four-year-old, or perhaps a
teddy bear - Moira Ledward rents the abandoned premises of a former
nursery school for a song.
"Nobody? Well then! I have a lovely new selection of luxury products,
hand-picked for my ladies... " Moira Ledward's eyes glisten as she
peddles her cheap and flashy wares. When I say cheap, I mean we could
buy the same things down Broad Street Market for a quarter the price,
minus the heart-stopping mark-up. But dear me yes, this is the part
Moira Ledward really enjoys. A chance to exercise her sales skills -
sod the life counselling.
While she's extolling the benefits I quietly take out my Yves Saint
Laurent 'La Dame Aux Camellias' and gaze reverently upon it. I slide
off the long gold cap, on which YSL is proudly emblazoned, then smooth
onto my fingertip a little of its delicious candy pink. Almost edible.
Then like a little girl playing with her mummy's make-up I twist the
stick right up. Look on this and die, all ye minions! A moan from
Petra, fainting with lust to my right. Sighs all around. The merest
glimpse of my YSL appears to have stimulated a group orgasm, quelle
surprise. Only Moira Ledward does not participate.
"Excuse me!" she says. "Paula, what are you doing? Where did you get
that lipstick?"
"It was given to me by a very dear friend."
"I hope you didn't steal that lipstick from your wife, Paula. Stealing
is wrong. And not only wrong, it also impedes your transvestual
development. It's retrogressive, not transgressive." She turns towards
the blackboard. No chalk. "I can always get you anything you
need."
"That's so kind of you, Ms Ledward."
"Moira. Can I take your orders now, please, ladies?"
The Feeling comes over me then, as I watch my co-sheep obediently
filling out their little order forms, writing their cheques. A sort of
devil-may-care sensation, yet not empty bravado. My challenge to an
unseeing world - I'll be the thing I am, come what may. And damn Moira
Ledward!
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Martin is half-way into his jeans.
He doesn't shave and his bare legs repel the sensitive eye. A loutish
builder.
"No darling, remind me. What have I forgotten?" I dip into my handbag
- M&;S, but I will have Gucci - for my little mirror.
He wordlessly indicates.
"Oh, I'm not changing. I intend to practise walking in heels along the
common thoroughfare. Quite a challenge, I think you'll agree." I take
my YSL and apply it lavishly. Pink, pink, pink. My hand's not shaking,
I'm pleased to observe. Now isn't she gorgeous? Couldn't you just eat
her up? I bestow a seductive moue upon Kevin, a little wave. Astonished
faces, as I exit gracefully. My public awaits.