softer emotions.
“Can you return it and get your money back?” I asked.
“Dunno,” he said moodily. “Are you sure you haven’t got room? Maybe in the boardroom—spice up meetings,” and he looked so hopeful, my anger drained away; he was just being Vince.
I rubbed my forehead.
“Have you got a headache?” he asked.
“Yes,” I sighed.
“Exercise will help that,” he said with a half-smile, pointing at the pole. “And you’d look fook hot.”
“Vincent! A stripper pole is not going to help with my headache!”
“It’s an exercise pole,” he said defensively, then sighed. “Hey! We could use it for the best man and maid of honor dance!”
“Absolutely not. No way. Never.”
“So you don’t want it?”
“No.” Not in this lifetime. “Thank you.”
“Okay,” he said defeated. “I’ll have to think of something else for your birthday. What about a ThighMaster? You could keep that under your desk.”
“No.”
“Kettlebells?”
“Still no.”
“A mini trampoline?”
I rubbed my forehead again. “No, Vince. You don’t have to get me anything for my birthday—the flowers and balloons are more than enough. They’re beautiful, thank you.”
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Maybe I could donate the pole to the kids’ playground.”
I had a vision of six year olds spinning like they were about to join a revue bar.
“Yes, great idea,” I said as I escorted him to the door.
“I’m good with kids,” he said happily. “I used to be one.”
“You still are,” I muttered.
“Thanks!”
“That isn’t a compliment.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t!”
“Is.”
“Isn’t!”
“Are we arguing?”
“YES!”
“Can we get to the part where we kiss and make up now?”
“Aaaaagh!”
“Is that a yes?”
“NO! Goodbye, Vincent.”
He brushed a kiss onto my cheek as he departed with the nine-foot pole under his arm and a swagger in his step.
Vince
I was gutted that Gracie had turned down the exercise pole. I’d had a lot of fantasies about watching her use it, which was probably the primary reason I’d bought it. But exercise poles could be a great workout and sexy as fook.
I stared at it sadly while I navigated the Manhattan sidewalk traffic. It’s funny, you can be invisible in a crowd, but add in a nine foot pole, and you get a lot of looks. I’d have to mention that on my IG page. Maybe I could learn some moves for Fans Only. I’d have to plant the pole in the back garden and remember to clear up the dog shit first.
As I headed back to the subway, I ran through the problem that was giving my gray matter its own workout.
I needed some more models for the fashion show. Well, I needed different sorts of models. Most of the ones I knew from the biz were skinny giraffes; I wanted a bit of variety, and being somewhat distracted with my pole, so to speak (the Vin-meister is on form!), I made the cosmic mistake of sending a mass text to everyone on my phone’s contacts list. I hadn’t meant to, and it was only when my plumber said he was well in there that I realized what I’d done.
Erik the plumber was a top bloke: five foot nothing and five foot around, with a bald head and enormous mustache. But as he was a huge dog-lover, I just shrugged it off and sent a text message to Uncle Sal’s assistant (because the old codger didn’t do text messages) to give him the happy news that one of his suits for the show might need a bit of alteration.
The reply was a lot of exclamation marks and emojis of ducks shagging (if I had to guess, I’d think he was telling me to fook off, but I could be wrong).
Unfortunately, there was way worse to come and I really was earning my knob-head credentials.
I got tagged on Instagram by someone I’d hoped never to hear from again for the rest of my life.
Shout out to the darl @CanineCrusader @VinceAzzo an old squeeze of mine begging me to be part of the #CanineCrusaderFashionShow and im IN! Beautiful people only. No fuglies!
@fabulousMollyMckinney
#fuglies (Fansonly pix in my profile)
I took a deep breath. Molly was the last person I wanted to see/speak to/spend time with ever—but she had a fuckton of followers, so maybe it would work out. She couldn’t be as bad as she used to be, right? Squinting slightly to hide from bad news, I read her previous post.
Being hated is hard work. You think Piers Morgan wakes up in the morning and suddenly has an idea about who he’s going to skewer today? No way. Ive worked hard to be the girl