*
This damn bra has come undone and I’ve felt it hanging on my back until now; the discomfort is torturing me, but, of course, I can’t fix it here, so I run towards the toilets as soon as the first half ends.
In the cubicle, I take off my jacket and shirt and I try to fasten the hook. To hell with Delphina and her wrong size minimiser bras. While I take it off to shorten the straps, I hear someone open the toilet block door in a flurry of heels and giggles.
What the heck was the name of that broomstick I met earlier who gave me such a flaccid handshake? Sophia. Yes, it must be her, I recognise her voice, and she’s probably accompanied by her little entourage of porcelain dolls.
“Coming here was worth it just to see her. It’s a show!”
“Afreakshow, you mean!” A second unknown doll says.
“Or a zoo specimen!” A third one adds.
I try to hold back a laugh, thinking of the unwitting victim of this gossip.
“Seriously, have you seen the way she walks? She sways as if she were recovering from a hangover!”
“Not to mention her dress! You can see they forced her to wear it from a mile away. She squirms as if she wanted to shake it off!”
“I thought Ashford had better tastes. She is so common!”
“I bet she doesn’t even speak French! Or German!” Says a more squeaky voice.
When I realise that I’m the target of their spite, the laugh I was barely holding back dies on my lips. God, I’m so furious! I’d like to go out and kick their posh asses, take them by their fancy styled hair and make a mess of them. If we were at the stadium, we would do this my way. If only I had my own clothes! But I’m wearing this garbage bag instead, which embarrasses me to death, and I even have to agree with them: yes, they chose it for me and yes, they forced me to wear it. No, I don’t speak French or German. But I’m not a bitch like you are, ladies!
Their chatter and giggles are suddenly interrupted by someone emerging from one of the other cubicles, and a fourth unknown voice joins the conversation. “You know, Linda, I had the displeasure of having to mark your German, both spoken and written, and they’re quite poor, both of them. As for your French, I won’t comment. It would be rather unfair, considering it’s my mother tongue.”
The three gossips fall silent and, after a short sound of rushing water followed by that of a hand dryer, the fourth person seems to leave the toilets.
“Bloody baguette eating frog.”
“Cécile Loxley is among the people I wish were swallowed up by the ground they walk on. That Jemma isn’t, at least she’s funny. Ashford Parker’s laughable wife!”
I can hardly gulp, but I raise an ear to listen to the rest of the conversation while I’m still half naked in the cubicle, with my bra lying on the toilet lid and my arms covering my breasts.
“I thought he would marry Portia,” one of them comments.
“Yes, everyone thought so.”
“I talked to Portia before Christmas and she was confident that Ashford would propose by spring!”
“Well, she wasn’t quick enough. The fishmonger beat her.”
“She was a theatrical make-up artist, I think,” says the other.
“It makes no difference,” Sophia says nonchalantly. “Anyway, since Ashford is no longer Portia’s stuff, let me say something.” She noticeably lowers her voice. “His polo trousers are so tight that you barely need to imagine anything… you can actually see how well hung he is! There’s a lot of fun to be had there!”
The group bursts into an overexcited giggle.
“What a waste.”
“I bet that Jemma doesn’t even know where to start!”
“Why? Do you?” One of the bitches asks.
“Are you challenging me, Linda?” Sophia replies maliciously.
My cheeks are on fire. Those three think Ashford is attractive! And they shamelessly examined his package!
