SASSY TOWN FOLLIES by Felicity Appleton, no. 15 April 15

Telling The Truth

It’s useful to have someone in your life who can tell you things they think you should be told. Someone who can be honest, who knows that no offence will be taken when they deliver the truth, and who would expect the same in return from you.

My partner in crime Kikki can always be honest with me, and it is always appreciated, and we tell each other things we’d never tell anyone else. It’s a similar story with Heather, my bestie, but the difference is because we’ve known each other for so long there are things we just don’t need to say. We can tell what the other one is feeling. It’s quite cool like that. I really love my gal pals and I’d do anything for them.

They have advised me against wearing tops which clashed with skirts and told me about a nasty reaction that my La Femme body spray was having with the perfume that Harry, my man at the time, had given me for Christmas. The smell was bad enough that no-one would share a lift with me, and I had no idea why. They have warned me about wearing halter tops until my upper arms were more toned and convinced me to try out shorter hemlines (Kikki has called my legs “sexy as fuck”, which doesn’t really make sense, but she says it’s something her brother says sometimes, and I’m happy to take it as a compliment).

Adriano offers a different kind of advice. It’s similarly fearless – he dishes it out without any thought of how it might sound or whether my feelings might be hurt – but it’s also nasty, and because it’s unpredictable I never know it’s coming and it’s often a nasty shock. He once told me that I needed a heavier duty set of tweezers for my eyebrows, and although I felt like crying when he said it, I managed to laugh and took a long, solitary look at my face in the toilet mirror a bit later, and decided he was right. The message was correct, but, well, Adriano can be a real bitch. He knows it too. He used to call himself Monsieur Bitchoir . And he can’t take it. He admits that too. He’ll walk away if you try to tell him anything he doesn’t want to hear. Like, for example, that his gym member ship isn’t doing him any good and he actually looks a lot like a pudding when he wears his lycra at dragon boat practice.

On Thursday afternoon, late, when most of the office had gone home, I was finishing something at my desk. A few of us pop into Bar Underground on Thursday, to have a drink or six, and to listen to the Beatles and the Stones on the old-fashioned jukebox, and we were just about ready to go. Adriano appeared, humming. It’s often a giveaway that something is coming. He said: “Flick, are you OK? I’m worried about you?” He seemed genuine. It was more shocking than the insult I had prepared for. I said I thought I was alright. “Then you either need to find a hobby or find a man. Maybe you could take some makeup classes. That eye shadow looks like my Nanna’s looked when she was in the Pine Grove nursing home, and she moved there when she was 93.”

Over daiquiris, he told me that he cared about me. That he didn’t want me to let myself go. And that my legs were sexy as fuck.

Published in: on April 15, 2013 at 8:38 pm  Leave a Comment  

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