‘Better make it a double...’
Well, that wasn’t a sight to inspire confidence, was it?
A fat, wrinkly, half-naked horror stared back at her from the hotel-room mirror. It wasn’t even a proper bra, just a set of twin black lace-and-netting hammocks with teeny wee straps. Not an underwire to its name. And thepants! Brazilians were meant to be when you got a butch woman called Helga to rip the hairs off your undercarriage, so you didn’t look like you were smuggling a sasquatch down the front of your bikini – Brazilians weren’t meant to be pants. Oh, yeah, theylookedlike decent-sized pants, but that didn’t stop the middle bit from disappearing right up your bumcrack.
Roberta hauled it out again.
And thestateof her...
Black lace against fish-belly skin.Somuch fish-belly skin.
She gave her fancy new underwear a shoogle, setting up a sympathetic sine wave in her not-so-taut areas. Wobble, wobble, wobble, wobble, wobble.
No doubt about it: she looked ridiculous in this get-up. Mutton dressed as spam.
Urgh...
Roberta took a double handful of pasty stomach, pulled it up, and let it thump-wobble down again. Grimacing as the ripples subsided.
She let loose a big, heavy sigh, making the lacy hammocks sag.
‘Fat. Wrinkly. Old. And horrible...’
The pants were bad enough, but the bra? What the hell had Susan been thinking? You’d have to be a flat-chested stick insect to fit into the damned thing. Roberta wriggled out of it and hurled the lacy disaster into her open suitcase, where it could bloody well stay. She’d be wearing Old Faithful for the duration, thank you very much.
She checked her watch: half one.
Urgh...
Better get dressed quick, before Susan appeared and discovered there wasn’t going to be any black-lacy-boob-hammock-horror going on.
Don’t want to spoil the mystery, after all.
The queue of guests snaked ahead of Roberta and Susan, heading for the on-site chapel, all the way through the hotel lobby and out the front door. The men a mixture of starchy Highland dress and clashing kilts, the women in weird cocktail-dress/ball-gown hybrids topped off with ridiculous hats.
Susan had opted for the nice purple dress that made her bum and boobs look eminently nibbleable. Roberta squeezed herself into the bright-blue suit that Susan alwayssaidshe liked, but kinda felt a bit like wearing the TARDIS. While those rotten Brazilian pants embarked on their fifteenth attempt at a lacy colonoscopy in the last four minutes. Should have swapped the bloody things for a nice comfy pair ofmassive pants when she’d ditched their horrible-hammock friend, but it was too late now.
‘Could I no’ have worn jeans and T-shirt?’
‘You looklovely.’
The queue shuffled forwards.
Roberta dug the Brazilian out of her crack again. ‘Feel like a right prick in this.’
‘Will you leave your undercarriage alone?’
‘All right for you, your pants aren’t trying to disappear up your bumhole.’
They passed a perky wee thing in averylow-cut dress. Lovely tanned cleavage, hair swept up in a wobbly tower of blonde. Not bad looking either, if you liked them early-twenties and clarted in YouTube-make-up-tutorial slap. Pacing up and down the tartan carpet, checking her watch, hurling angry glances at front door.
Roberta leaned in close to Susan’s ear, eyebrows jigging up and down. ‘Corrrrr... I would, wouldn’t you?’
Face dead ahead, not even looking at Little Miss Perky. ‘Behave yourself!’
‘Bet she wriggles like an eel on a washing machine if you do her right.’
‘Robbie!’
