Nip 'N' Tuck Read Online Free PDF

labia minora. The whole ambrosial, raspberry red cunt-fection was crowned by a delicated candied clitoris, which nestled temptingly beneath the piped icing pubes. Guests hovered hungrily, in lip-licking salivation … until they realized that they’d just been subjected to an account of infibulation from a Somali victim. It had been a harrowing monologue from her heart and what was left of her vagina, which had made complaints about western sexism seem trivial. Shuddering at the memory, nobody dared wield the knife to cut the cake. Eventually, ravenous guests unhygienically took to gouging out chunks with surreptitious fingertips.
    ‘I know he’s here
some
where.’ My sister anxiously scanned the throng, looking for Sven. ‘I couldn’t believe it when he said he was coming tonight. I mean, this is
not
his scene at all. I think he’s finally on the brink of proposing! The night before he left for the States he said we’d look cute on a wedding cake together! I so want to be happily married like you, Lizzie.’
    I was about to point out that Sven was really not my cup of slime when a whiff of aftershave strong enough to dissolve igneous rock forewarned me that the patron saint of Fake Tan Man was in the near vicinity. I swivelled and, sure enough, Sven appeared, a gold chain glinting amongst the hairs of his toasted torso. Though thinning on top, he wore the prerequisite ponytail, which straggled down the back of a shirt darker than his tie. Inhabitants of the lower slopes of showbiz genuflected before him.
    ‘Well, here I am! What were your
other
two wishes?’ he oozed, in a silken voice.
    ‘Sven, darrrrrling.’ My sister kissed him proprietorially.
    ‘Vicky,’ he daubed his mouth with a satin hand-kerchief, ‘let me wipe off a place for you to sit.’ Sven’s easy charm was negated by his cold, slow, unblinking eyes – which he rested, in turn, on each woman in the room. The scrutiny was so intense, so calculated, it made me feel as if he was assessing which of us to eat first, were we ever adrift in a lifeboat.
    ‘What the hell are
you
doing here?’ I asked him icily. ‘Your views on women date back to the Jurassic period.’
    ‘I couldn’t miss out on seeing my fiancée in action.’
    Victoria beamed at me. But when we turned back towards Sven it was to see him tentacling an arm around the miniscule waist of Britney Amore.
    The atomic bomb on Hiroshima had less impact than this conversational detonation. My sister made a third-stage-of-labour face.
    ‘Your – your fiancée?’ she stammered, trying hard to digest the unsavoury information. (Probably all she’d eaten that day.) She was as crushed as the marzipan clitoris Sven had just circumcised from the cake with his penknife and was now devouring whole.
    ‘Christ, you’ve only been in the States for six weeks!’ I said, amazed. ‘I mean, where did you get her?
A fiancée-vending machine?
’
    Victoria’s daughter, Marrakech, chose that moment to bound up to us. ‘Mum! You were amazing.’ She hugged Victoria with an enthusiasm usually reserved for foliage in the path of a bulldozer. ‘I’m so proud of you. You’re, like, finally using your fame to help the less fortunate …’ She kissed me too. It was like being greeted by a Labrador pup – all limbs, wet mouth and yelps of joy.
    My niece, devoid of her Doc Marten boots, combat trousers and beanie, had at last allowed her thick golden hair to fall free. Marrakech, who is desperate to be Taken Seriously, is a bottle brunette. Much to her mother’s horror, she regularly dyes her blonde locks a mucky dull brown.
    ‘This is
your
daughter?’ Sven asked, amazed.
    ‘So they tell me,’ Victoria said, almost inaudibly. To preserve her unlined visage, my sister kept her emotional thermostat at a constant sixty-two degrees. And yet from the play of muscles beneath the surface of her face, I could see just how much Sven’s marital announcement had mortified her.
    ‘But she’s grown so