Foetal Attraction Read Online Free PDF

size was bigger than his IQ. ‘And’, added Gillian, ‘we’re
not
talking well endowed.’ There was Montgomery, who was chronically stingy. ‘Dahling, he made me go Dutch. At McDonald’s.’ She dismissed lovers, exes and suitors with the casual nonchalance of somebody ordering lunch.
    Gillian, in her polished pearls and designer suits and Maddy, with her wild red frizz of hair and chewed cuticles, delighted in the unsuitability of their alliance. Although Plum was busy teaching them that two strong flavours put together can often curdle, their unexpected friendship was setting nicely, like a custard.
    ‘Gosh, you are tall, aren’t you?’
    ‘And you’re … well …’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Go on. Say it.’
    ‘Wrinkle-resistant.’
    The two friends were facing each other wearing only their knickers; blotches and blemishes, crevices and creases magnified by the changing room triplicate mirrors. Gillian unrolled her ‘stay-up’ stockings. Apart from the fine silvery lines spidering across her breasts and abdomen, she did not look her thirty-five years. ‘Liposuction,’ she volunteered, slapping her flanks. ‘Vacuums out all the
crème brûlées
and profiteroles and
petits fours
you shouldn’t have eaten. Only problem is, I have no feeling on my inner thighs. When they sucked out the fat cells, it killed all sensation.’
    ‘But it worked?’
    ‘Well, in a fashion. The fat no longer deposited itself on my
thighs
, but on to my
derrière
. So, I had
that
liposuctioned.’ She displayed the part of her body in question. ‘So, now the fat has made its home on my midriff.’ With the detachment of a guide among the Pompeii ruins, she took Maddy on an archaeological exploration of her anatomy. ‘Basically, surgeons have removed more blubber from my body than gets harpooned by the Japanese – if we’re to believe everything your precious Alex tells us. I’m having the tummy done next. But the reality is the fat must go
some
where. Pretty soon I’ll have the fattest ear lobes in the world.’
    Maddy surveyed her own reflection. Twenty long and lanky cloned images mocked her. ‘They don’t have an operation to shorten people, do they?’
    ‘My dear. You’re sleeping with Alexander Drake, the Thinking Woman’s Crumpet. You’re about to rub shoulder pads with London’s Caviar Left. They’ll soon be cutting you down to size. Especially if you remain so, how shall I put it, sartorially challenged. Here, try this.’
    They’d been in class that morning when Gillian had suddenly turned to Maddy and enquired if she really thought red was her colour. Maddy, her hair unravelling in the steam, had wiped her wet hands on her tie-died, vermilion top and shocking-pink shorts and replied curtly, ‘Hey, Armani and I aren’t on first-name terms. I’m just going to have to get by on French Connection and charisma.’
    Gillian had immediately marched her out of the classroom, mid lamb-basting, up to Bond Street and into the most exclusive boutique where the clothes were displayed in glass cases like rare specimens.
    ‘Put it on!’ she ordered, handing Maddy an alpine knit doublet with detachable plaits, velvet hot pants and a lime-green hiking jacket. It looked not unlike an outfit to be worn when competing in the Eurovision Song Contest. ‘You’ll need something to go clubbing.’
    ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous.’
    ‘I speak as your native guide to the mysterious tribe called the English. Dress code is everything. You can be a card-carrying Nazi, you can pay gigolos to eat gnocchi out of your naval and you won’t be pilloried – as long as you never, ever wear linen with tweed.’
    Maddy put her arms up in surrender and scowled as her head disappeared into the knitted neck-hole. ‘They’ll probably put us on cooking detention. We’ll be peeling potatoes below the stairs for the rest of our natural …’
    ‘I told you. We’re not truanting. It’s business.’ Gillian’s theory was that