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Authors: Chloë Thurlow
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had lunch with Mummy.
âMilly, you didnât used to be quite so vain,â she remarked as she caught my eye.
âSheâs discovered the inner Camilla,â said Binky; my little sister had a way with words.
Although I flushed, Mummy was rather too preoccupied gazing at her own reflection in the mirror on the wall facing our table to take much notice of me. Someone once said the faults we condemn in others we excuse in ourselves and Iâm sure he must have had my mother in mind when he said it.
The purpose of this lunch at the Jewel Royale was for mama to tell us that she had to go away on âurgent businessâ for the weekend and we mustnât invite the Chelsea riffraff back to the house for a party, which had happened before when we were younger and found ourselves deserted during school holidays by our parents. They were
so
spoiled.
âI know what you children are like,â she said.
As the waiter fussed around with bread rolls his eyes fell first on Binkyâs cleavage and then on my own. We didnât lunch together very often these days and dressed to kill when we did. Kill each other, that is. Mummyâs eyes followed the waiterâs eyes and if I could read her mind I am certain she was thinking just how much her daughters were like her, less children, more rivals. My step-mother was used to being the most beautiful woman in every room she entered and the expression on her face at that moment reminded me of the Wicked Queen when she inquired as to who was the fairest of them all and the mirror, inanimate thing that it is, gave the wrong reply.
âDo you really need quite so much bust on display, Binky?â she asked, and turned to me. âAnd you, Milly.â
Binky glanced down at her breasts welling over the white lace trim of a bra pushing over the scooped neck of a sleeveless black dress. âItâs summer, Honey,â Binky said, and lit a cigarette with a golden tip.
Mummy had honey-coloured dark blonde hair and encouraged us to call her Honey which, except for reasons of irony, we never did. She sighed and as the air escaped from her scarlet lips it stirred the coils of blue smoke rising from Binkyâs cigarette. Mummy was one of those women who needed to be admired. She had always traded on her beauty and, at the unforgiving age of 39, Iâm sure, like the WickedQueenâs disillusionment with the looking glass, what mother saw in her own reflection was the cruel hand of gravity dragging her down. Her beauty was waning, fading, the freshness of youth was slipping, sliding, running away, and it occurred to me with my limited experience that what mattered to her most was her beauty. I donât think she was really interested in sex. What she wanted was to be desired.
A year ago during the last summer hols when I had gone one clammy hot day to look for something in the greenhouse, I found Mummy perched on the potting table with her knickers around the heel of a red Manolo Blahnik shoe, her legs spread and the Polish gardener with his tongue inserted in her like a key in a lock. Her back was arched and her head was thrown back, but what shocked me was that her pubic hair had been shorn like some porn star and the dome of her mount was as smooth and white as a porcelain vase.
My mother shaves her pubes!
It was hard to believe, to comprehend, to appreciate.
I watched through the crack in the door, my hand over my mouth, my cheeks burning red with shame and embarrassment. I had still been a virgin then, of course, and was both repelled and drawn to this bizarre scene, this movie clip: my mother with her skirt rolled up around her waist, the gardener slurping over her wet parts like a dog lapping from a puddle, Mummy puffing away like a steam engine straining on a steep hill as she thrust her shiny mount into the gardenerâs mouth.
The gardener was about twenty, a sullen boy who spoke English without recourse to vowels. Neither Binky nor I
âMilly, you didnât used to be quite so vain,â she remarked as she caught my eye.
âSheâs discovered the inner Camilla,â said Binky; my little sister had a way with words.
Although I flushed, Mummy was rather too preoccupied gazing at her own reflection in the mirror on the wall facing our table to take much notice of me. Someone once said the faults we condemn in others we excuse in ourselves and Iâm sure he must have had my mother in mind when he said it.
The purpose of this lunch at the Jewel Royale was for mama to tell us that she had to go away on âurgent businessâ for the weekend and we mustnât invite the Chelsea riffraff back to the house for a party, which had happened before when we were younger and found ourselves deserted during school holidays by our parents. They were
so
spoiled.
âI know what you children are like,â she said.
As the waiter fussed around with bread rolls his eyes fell first on Binkyâs cleavage and then on my own. We didnât lunch together very often these days and dressed to kill when we did. Kill each other, that is. Mummyâs eyes followed the waiterâs eyes and if I could read her mind I am certain she was thinking just how much her daughters were like her, less children, more rivals. My step-mother was used to being the most beautiful woman in every room she entered and the expression on her face at that moment reminded me of the Wicked Queen when she inquired as to who was the fairest of them all and the mirror, inanimate thing that it is, gave the wrong reply.
âDo you really need quite so much bust on display, Binky?â she asked, and turned to me. âAnd you, Milly.â
Binky glanced down at her breasts welling over the white lace trim of a bra pushing over the scooped neck of a sleeveless black dress. âItâs summer, Honey,â Binky said, and lit a cigarette with a golden tip.
Mummy had honey-coloured dark blonde hair and encouraged us to call her Honey which, except for reasons of irony, we never did. She sighed and as the air escaped from her scarlet lips it stirred the coils of blue smoke rising from Binkyâs cigarette. Mummy was one of those women who needed to be admired. She had always traded on her beauty and, at the unforgiving age of 39, Iâm sure, like the WickedQueenâs disillusionment with the looking glass, what mother saw in her own reflection was the cruel hand of gravity dragging her down. Her beauty was waning, fading, the freshness of youth was slipping, sliding, running away, and it occurred to me with my limited experience that what mattered to her most was her beauty. I donât think she was really interested in sex. What she wanted was to be desired.
A year ago during the last summer hols when I had gone one clammy hot day to look for something in the greenhouse, I found Mummy perched on the potting table with her knickers around the heel of a red Manolo Blahnik shoe, her legs spread and the Polish gardener with his tongue inserted in her like a key in a lock. Her back was arched and her head was thrown back, but what shocked me was that her pubic hair had been shorn like some porn star and the dome of her mount was as smooth and white as a porcelain vase.
My mother shaves her pubes!
It was hard to believe, to comprehend, to appreciate.
I watched through the crack in the door, my hand over my mouth, my cheeks burning red with shame and embarrassment. I had still been a virgin then, of course, and was both repelled and drawn to this bizarre scene, this movie clip: my mother with her skirt rolled up around her waist, the gardener slurping over her wet parts like a dog lapping from a puddle, Mummy puffing away like a steam engine straining on a steep hill as she thrust her shiny mount into the gardenerâs mouth.
The gardener was about twenty, a sullen boy who spoke English without recourse to vowels. Neither Binky nor I
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