Fur Coat No Knickers Read Online Free PDF Page B

she is ,’ said mum, ignoring Laura and wrinkling her nose at Katie with pride and affection.
    I watched Katie smirking behind mum’s back and then sticking her pierced tongue out at me. I did love my youngest sister; it was just so infuriating that, even when she’d done something horrendously bad, she still got praise.
    ‘My arse she’s a pet ,’ I growled under my breath, unable to hold back, as I laid out the Christmas crackers. ‘She’s had more chemicals in her than a lab rat!’ I snapped, throwing a look at her that could kill.
    ‘Well, you would know about chemicals more than anyone else, Tara,’ Katie barked back. ‘You have your road-mapped face injected every week!’
    ‘I DO NOT!’ I shrieked . ‘It’s… it’s… only every once in a while!’
    I enviously looked at the be autiful, olive, clear, wrinkle-free complexion of both my sisters. I was the only one in the family that had naturally milky, winter-white skin. My artificial glow came courtesy of St. Tropez’s finest spray-tan and the tanning booth, while both of my sisters had been lucky enough to inherit mum’s beautiful skin. Even more unfairly, that was the case in the old breast department as well. The memory still smarted from the time when I’d spent hours as a teenager gently picking out the stitching from mum’s ‘Dynasty style’ jacket and borrowing the shoulder pads for my bra fillers without her knowing. Of course, I got caught putting them back one day while Katie was (apparently) on guard. I was grounded for a month. It was back to stuffing socks down my 28AA bra for me. A few years later, with help from a plastic surgeon, I got the coveted chin-hitting breasts I so desperately wanted. I deliberately went twice as big as my sisters to make a point.
    ‘Lord preserve us, where’s the turkey gone?’ mum screeched at full volume from the kitchen. The cooked bird was now utterly pathetic in size. It was like one of those little ones the cat brings in. ‘I couldn’t close the feckin’ door when it first went into the oven! Sweet Jesus… I know I cooked it as it said on the instructions ( may God forgive my blasphemy ).’
    We all rushed into the kitchen. B y now mum was sobbing, flapping her apron up and down and blessing herself all at the same time.
    ‘Oh mum… don’t get upset,’ Laura hushed reassuringly, ‘there’s enough veg, stuffing and Yorkshire puddings to feed a small army.’
    It took mum a few minutes to calm down, but she was a trooper. With us girls rallying around her, she soon recovered her composure and resolved the ‘show must go on’.
    ‘Right , girls, that’s it - my New Year’s resolution is to attend a cooking class,’ mum said, pulling it back together in an instant. ‘It’s never too late. I will be purchasing a brand-new oven - one of those ones that them celebrity chefs have. In fact…’ she added, kicking the oven door closed with her Santa slippered foot in mock temper, ‘I want a new kitchen altogether. I’ll have to get saving… Right! Dinner - or should I say, rations - in five minutes.’
    While we were waiting for mum to put the finishing touches on the dinner, I walked over to the couch where Saint Katie was lying. I handed her a Christmas cracker as a sort of olive branch because I hadn’t shown her much support over our temperance lunchtime drink of poxy Ribena. If I was honest though, I really really wanted what was inside that cracker, whatever plastic shite it turned out to be. I guess you never really get over that competitive sibling rivalry thing. Plus, I had never quite forgiven Katie for poking out the eyes of my much-loved Tiny Tears doll when I was young. She’d cut off all the hair too, the bitch. I only allowed her to play with it because mum had made me.
    We both heaved and pulled at the shiny cracker , my hand carefully placed near the middle to try and guarantee me victory. But, as it went bang , I felt the body of the cracker slip from my hand. I had