Love Lies - By Adele Parks Page 0,107

my T-shirt.

For the next hour I’m cast adrift in an ocean of novelties such as industrial-strength girdles, fake hair and emergency skin treatments – one for the ‘blemishes’ on my chin (kissing rash) and another for my sore feet (shopping rash). While Linda and Natalie soothe and Joy tuts I find it impossible to regret either physical imperfection – even if I am going to meet George Clooney and James McAvoy tonight – it was such fun acquiring them.

Saadi’s assistants continually mutter the words ‘seamless and bumpless’ as though it were a catechism. They wrestle me into Spanx bodyshaper underwear that starts under my boobs and stretches all the way past my knees. I have to wonder. While these garments do dissolve love handles, muffin tops and even hide cellulite, as promised, what is the point? Even if the results do drive a girl’s amour wild with desire, no woman would ever want to be seen in them. It takes a team of dedicated experts fifteen minutes to hoist me into these anti-briefs, so how could I slip out of them at the correct moment? For the first time since I met Scott I’m actually pleased there will be no suggestion of sex tonight.

The stylist (a new addition to my entourage, and I’m sorry to say I didn’t catch her name in all the haste) informs me that ‘Breasts have their own set of needs.’

I’m very aware of this. Plus I’m aware that my little babies aren’t seeing as much action as they’d like, but before I can discuss the matter at length the stylist starts to chatter about Flex Body Bras, which are made of adhesive-backed silicone cups that fit separately over each boob, sort of self-sticking bras. I can only imagine the agony of taking those off, I feel squeamish with pain when peeling off elastoplasts.

‘Designed for busty beauties who want to wear a backless gown,’ she explains. She stares (almost pityingly) at my A cups and mutters, ‘Well, at least that’s one problem we don’t have.’ The stylist hands me a couple of large smooth tiddlywinks. I assume they are some sort of eye patch (a modern-day slice of cucumber, perhaps) and I tentatively place them over my eyes. She tuts, snatches them back out of my hands, and then whips open my robe and before you know it has stuck the tiddlywinks on my nipples. In horror, I stare at this woman (who I’m not even on first-name terms with but has just touched my nips).

‘It’s a backless dress,’ she points out. ‘Be grateful for the silicone versions, they are undetectable under dresses. We weren’t always so fortunate. It wasn’t long ago that we had to put cotton balls on clients and fasten with Scotch tape.’ It sounds like something out of a Blue Peter creative project. I nod, trying to meet her level of gravity and demonstrate my respect for her craft rather than hoot and express my astonishment. ‘Although you should never underestimate the importance of Scotch tape, especially the double-sided stuff. It can be wrapped beneath the breasts, squashing them together to create cleavage, used to hold spaghetti straps in place, or to keep loose dresses close to the skin and, importantly, prevent plunging necklines from becoming pornographic.’

‘Thank God for sticky tape,’ I mutter, just a little cheekily. She doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Amen,’ she says seriously. ‘Do you sweat much?’ Not unusually so but recently my palms seem to be constantly clammy; I’m not sure if this is something I want to share. Before I stutter any reply the stylist says, ‘It’s too late for paralysing the glands with Botox. We could try Drysol, a prescription treatment that dries up the sweat glands.’

Lovely.

I want to ask them all to leave. I can zip up my own dress and daub a bit of Rimmel Lash Maxxx. I’ve always managed to dress myself in the past and no one has actually thrown stones when I emerged in public. But I don’t ask them to go. For a start there are eight of them and one of me and I feel feeble. I’m pretty sure Saadi will just remind me that this is part of my job now. My first big, glam night out with Scott is bound to draw press attention; it’s my duty to look the part. And besides, I know the results they’ll achieve will be… well… better. I’m unlikely to be recognizable.

The hair stylist clips on a mane of sleek blonde hair

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