Gimme More by Liza Cody Read Free Book Online

went grey. Redheads, she made us believe, had the secret of eternal youth. We were far too young to be interested in eternal youth and in any case we wondered why she bothered to be vain about her hair when her face was so old.
    Robin said, ‘Funny. Auntie May was younger then than we are now. And weren’t we little snots? We mistook panic for vanity.’
    â€˜Weston-super-Merde!’ I said.
    â€˜Snob,’ said Robin.
    Something happened at home the summer Robin was twelve and I was ten. We never found out what. We were packed off one morning in August and Auntie May picked us up at the coach station at the other end. No explanation. All Auntie May ever said was, ‘Your dad’s gone and Done Something.’
    â€˜What?’ Robin asked, chewing her knuckle.
    â€˜Never you mind,’ said Auntie May. But Robin did mind, andwhen she wasn’t chewing her knuckle, she chewed the ends of her hair. I was excited: my dad had Done Something worthy of high secrecy, a hushed voice and a pursed mouth. As far as I knew neither my mother nor father Did anything. But the Something he did was big enough to send Robin and me away alone for the first time in our lives; and to bring our girlish hopes and fears face-to-face with a grown woman’s delusions and disappointments.
    May was never married. She had no children. In another age she would have been the spinster doomed to live with one married relative after another. She might have been happier for that. Because although spinsterhood was by then an archaic concept, singularity was not yet accepted as it is now. The single woman was neither an economic force nor was she a political entity. She was still considered an unfulfilled creature. She had an impoverished independence but no dignity or respect.
    Yes indeed, poor Auntie May. She had a string of what she called gentlemen friends. These gentlemen friends bewildered the shit out of Robin and me. Clearly they were too old and seedy and unattractive to be boyfriends. Clearly Auntie May was too old to have boyfriends. But they could reduce Auntie May to tears by being half an hour late for a walk along the sea front.
    Watching her get ready for a date was a revelation. Off came the plain black dress with the white Peter Pan collar. Off with the white nylon slip, the Marks and Spencer cotton underwear, the thick stockings and flat shoes. On went Mum Rollette and a squirt of Diorissima. And the running commentary began: ‘Always apply perfume to the pulse points. See these veins in the crook of my arms. Well, my skin’s very thin there. I’m famous for my thin skin. Never call it scent, dear, it’s perfume. My skin is so delicate some of the perfume seeps into my blood. It even finds its way into my hair.’
    On went the lacy underwear. ‘White is for purity, black is for sin. Red is too crude for words, children. If you want my advice – stick to coffee colour or ashes of roses. No, it isn’t pink, Lin dear, it’s ashes of roses. No, that isn’t pink either, it’s cyclamen. It enhances the colour of my skin – makes it pearly. Redheads have very pearly skin.’
    There I was in my ten-year-old skin watching, horrified, andwondering if the seriously demented lace contraptions May wore were an obligatory part of becoming a woman. I could not imagine what process would give me a body which would need such preparation, such lifting and separating, tucking and tweaking. I thought of it happening all at once, like in the horror movies. I could see myself walking into a mad scientist’s transformation capsule. He would flick a switch, laser lights would flash, I would writhe in pain as, before my eyes, flesh bulged and wobbled, coarse hair sprouted, breasts extruded like sausages from a sausage machine. Then I would walk out of the capsule slowly on feet which hurt because my toes were bent and bunioned. I was a woman and it only took two minutes.
    Now, of