Charlie's Back
It's been two weeks since my last entry and I’ve lost 10 pounds with the help of my mother’s not so delicious home cooking and her subliminal messages and insinuations that I am in fact, overweight. Part of me thinks that her motive to get me looking my best is so she can get me married off to the first guy that shows the slightest bit of interest. That way I’m out of her hair and she can save face with all of her friends that I’m not some spinster that’s ultimately going to be left on the shelf. I can see it now, her dreaded response when someone asks, "So....where is your daughter living? Well....She’s still living at home." This will be uttered with a tone of disappointment and shame, yet she will try to remain proud!
Whatever her reasons, I’m feeling and looking good and everyone is commenting on how great I look. Which makes a change from the usual.... ‘You’re looking well’ remarks, which we all know is a polite way of saying FAT. Anyway, I’ve purchased a totally fab new dress for the big night out tonight. It’s a sexy little number which cost me a small fortune but hey, you can’t put a price on that feeling of when you put something new on and it feels incredible. Its black of course, silk, short and boned so it pulls me in, in all the right places. I’ve had the spray tan, the nails done and I’ve discovered this fab new hair in Selfridges which I just clip in and I must say, I’m looking like a member of Girls Aloud right now. Well in my head I do. I’ve honestly not had this much money to myself or felt this good in a long time. I’m wondering why I spent so long putting a loser before my fabulous self for all those years. The resentfulness takes over for a minute or two while I get angry over all the time, money and energy I’ve spent the last few years on someone who didn’t give two s**ts about me. Deep breaths I tell myself, I must not mess up the makeup.
I head out with a recently single friend and we go over to the posh bit of town. My friend thinks it would be good for me to meet a rich guy and you know what.... I agree. That’s what I need, a rich guy who can look after me for a change. As I queue up to get in the one decent bar, the creatively named 161 and its number position on the street; I quickly realize that I don’t really fit in, I mean I look the part.... kind of. We enter the bar and I go straight to the toilets to apply more make up as I feel the pressure building up inside me; mainly due to the women in there who instantly look you up and down to see if you’re competition or not.
My friend heads to the bar and orders some cocktails for the two of us. I look around the toilets and I notice that the women here fall into two categories; the wag wannabes with their curvaceously skinny bodies which are maintained by a regular coke habit and plastic glaze, I’ve nicknamed them the 1666 (16 from the back 66 for the front). I fit neither of these, I was neither fat nor thin, rich nor poor, and I was definitely not trying desperately to climb the celebrity social ladder or to hold on to a youth which had long past me by. I felt out of place here, distinctively average and there was only one thing to do.... get drunk and quick!
I proceeded to the bar trying to look as sexy as possible whilst holding my stomach in and my boobs out, ‘God this is hard work’ I thought to myself. I started drinking and drinking, so fast my friend couldn’t keep up. I headed to the bar to order more drinks.... it was there that I met a girl called Isabella. She was 30 years old, bisexual and lived off countless boyfriends or sugar daddies as she liked to call them. She was a funny character and wasn’t what I would call conventionally beautiful but had a personality and the confidence that would draw anyone in. We had a couple of drinks together and she commented on how pretty I was and how after the ordeal I had been through, I should go online and meet some wealthy guys like she did. It wasn’t long before her 'sugar daddy' came over and asked if I would like to join them back at their penthouse apartment. It was at this point that I made my excuses, got my coat and friend (who I had deserted) and we left to go and get a pizza in a vain effort to soak up the copious levels of the alcohol in our system and gossip over the nights events.
All night I tossed and turned on my friend’s sofa thinking about what Isabella had said to me.... was my Mr. Right really online? ........
