Stockings and Cellulite by Debbie Viggiano Read Free Book Online

do, chop it off. Hands, arms, legs, the lot.’
    As the policeman turned to face me properly, the breath whooshed out of me.
    ‘Oh!’ I gasped with horror. Brad Pitt. This was all I needed. What a sodding day this was turning into. ‘Er, hello. Again. My car seems to have been stolen.’
    ‘So I gather Madam,’ Ploddy replied gravely. He produced a slim notebook. ‘Let’s start off with some details. Your name?’
    ‘Mrs Cassandra Cherry,’ I mumbled. Of all the policemen in the force, why did I keep running into this one?
    ‘Make and model of the car?’
    ‘Nissan Almera.’
    ‘Colour?’
    ‘Blade Metallic.’
    Ploddy’s pencil momentarily hovered before writing the word silver.
    ‘Registration number?’
    Damn. I’d hoped this piece of information wouldn’t be necessary.
    ‘Mrs Cherry?’
    ‘The registration number. Y-e-s. The registration number is, let’s see, the reg-ist-ra-tion number is…it’s ah…it’s ah…it’s ah-’
    ‘Madam, you do
know
your car’s registration number?’
    Two pink spots scorched my cheeks. ‘Of course I know my registration number,’ I snapped. ‘It’s LV – no! It’s LX, yes definitely LX and…um…then a couple of numbers…followed by something something something.’
    ‘Is that it then? Just an L and X?’
    ‘One moment Officer,’ I clenched my teeth. ‘I will telephone my husband for the exact information.’
    But Stevie was out of the office and nobody knew when he’d be returning. Upon trying his mobile, it was switched off.
    ‘Has the husband been stolen too?’ Ploddy quipped.
    Bastard! My eyes instantly flooded with unshed tears. I blinked desperately, willing the waterworks to subside.
    ‘As a matter of fact,’ my voice wobbled dangerously, ‘my husband has indeed been stolen.’
    Ah. That had his attention.
    ‘Stolen by another woman,’ I enlightened him. ‘And do you know what Officer, hm? Well I’ll tell you! I wouldn’t have minded so much if it had been some eighteen year old little strumpet with a pert behind, big baby blues and even bigger mammaries,’ I paused, struggling not to hyperventilate, ‘but she wasn’t remotely like that. My husband was stolen by a middle aged Plain Jane with stretchmarks that could challenge National Railways and a backside the size of an armchair. So do you appreciate that you’ve touched a bit of a raw nerve and do not come anywhere close to comprehending exactly what my FEELINGS ARE ON THIS MATTER?’ I bellowed into his face.
    Oh God. I’d probably get arrested now for being abusive or disturbing the peace or something. I put my head in my hands and viciously rubbed the heels of my palms over my eyes, thoroughly upset by the series of unfortunate events that seemed to be invading my life at the moment.
    An expression flickered across Ploddy’s face. Sympathy? Compassion? He snapped his notebook shut.
    ‘I trust you have documentation for your vehicle at home Mrs Cherry, so perhaps it would be better to access that data and let us know accordingly. Meanwhile I would be more than happy to run you home. I seem to remember you don’t live far away,’ he added pointedly.
    And so for a second time I found myself sitting in a squad car. Ploddy shifted the vehicle into gear and headed towards the exit which took us through a second car park. It was awfully similar to the car park we’d just left. In fact, it looked identical. A horrible churning began to play in my stomach.
    ‘W-would you mind terribly if we could divert to Aisle J only I need to, well, just check something out.’
    Ploddy looked at me but didn’t question the request. Obligingly he turned the wheel and crawled along Aisle J. And there was my car. Just where I’d left it earlier that morning.
    ‘Could you stop for a moment?’
    ‘Is everything all right Mrs Cherry?’
    ‘Ah ha ha ha, you’re never going to believe this!’
    ‘Try me.’
    Half an hour later, still smarting with embarrassment, I detoured to the newsagent’s