Eat Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

you,’ gushed Chantal, relieved. ‘There are some fantastic sales on at the moment.’
    â€˜That’d be great, actually,’ Helen forced a smile. ‘You know, the funny thing is, and I don’t want to sound too bitchy about it, but Marc goes to a fair amount of trouble himself with his clothes and his looks. He shaves his head—well, a “number two,” he calls it—leaving only two baby pigtails above either temple.’ Helen put her hands up to her head and wiggled her forefingers to indicate their position. ‘And he’s dyed these lime green. He secures them with little clips—today they were pink ones in the shape of elephants. And he wears things like retro nylon shirts over baggy black trousers and black and white sneakers. Sometimes he wears dresses. He talks about “gender-free” dressing. I mean, he’s clearly allowed to buy into a beauty myth of one kind or another.’
    â€˜Typical man,’ Julia shook her head. ‘Double standards R Us.’
    Helen grimaced. ‘Yeah, no, maybe I’m being unfair. He’s really quite likeable, a bit of a honey, really, and he’s smart, and he actually does all of the reading for the course. Which is more than I can say for some of my women students.’
    â€˜Then again,’ Chantal noted, ‘if you were a man taking women’s studies, you’d look like a real fraud if you weren’t putting in any effort.’
    The same ageing pop star to whom Jake had taken exception that night with Julia appeared on the tube again. ‘Oh, puh-leeese,’ Chantal exclaimed, ‘remove that boof-head from my sight. Now.’ She grabbed the remote control and switched to another channel. ‘I simply won’t have him in my lounge room,’ she declared. A current affairs program was just wrapping up a report from the Paris fashion shows.
    â€˜Do you know what your problem is, Helen darling?’ Chantal opined as the catwalk faded from view. ‘To misquote that mortal pop song, you’re just too sexy for your skirt.’
    Helen looked down at her lap and remembered the stain. ‘Oh God, that tomato is going to be murder to get out.’
    â€˜I’ll get a wet cloth,’ Philippa volunteered, rising and heading into the kitchen.
    Helen studied her whole outfit, seeing it as if for the first time: conservative white blouse, beige pleated skirt of about knee length, brown cardigan, brown leather belt. Maybe the pizza stain was a sign from God. After all, if She created women in her own image, She’d be pretty concerned about what they were doing with it. But hold on, weren’t beige and brown supposed to be coming in again? Chantal had recently complimented her on her brown leather tie-up ankle boots with the little heels.
    Philippa emerged with a cloth and a glass of water. ‘Here,’ she said, passing them to Helen. ‘Pat, don’t rub. By the way, did you know that tomatoes were once called “love apples”? They were believed to have aphrodisiac powers.’
    â€˜Surely not in the form of pulp on clothing,’ Helen replied.
    Philippa shrugged. Helen worried the spot with the damp cloth. ‘Thanks. That’s a bit better.’
    Chantal, having refilled glasses of red all round, now sprawled decoratively on the sofa beside Helen. ‘I didn’t exactly have a drama-free day either, if you really want to know,’ she announced, hoping they would.
    They did.
    â€˜We were doing a photo shoot with Jessa at Circular Quay. Do you know Jessa, that model with the shaved head and tattooed neck who can usually be spotted mainlining short blacks at Tropicana’s?’
    â€˜I’m sure I’ve seen her,’ Philippa said.
    â€˜Anyway, she’s what you might call a cerebro-atmospheric individual.’
    â€˜A what?’ Helen asked.
    â€˜Airhead. And she happens to be a paranoid coke-addict as well.