Sally, A Fiction: part 5

When she finally arrived at book group she had ruffled feathers and stepping into Maria’s giant house on Eaton Place, Chelsea didn’t make her feel any better. It was huge, with massive ceilings and art everywhere, expensive art, not just crappy prints.

In the white hallway there was a huge glass staircase that curved round, with statues of monkeys crawling through the railings. It smelt of lavender and peach. She looked up to see a giant chandelier twinkling above her head. It was the one she had wanted to buy but Dominic wouldn’t let her; he said pink crystal was naff.

“But it’s just so sparkly,” Sally thought to herself.

Rows of porcelain cheetahs and eagles lined the marble corridor leading to the drawing room that was home to a life-sized porcelain elephant eating some leaves.

“My husband has a passion for Africa” Maria explained as she threw herself on a gold chaise lounges. Above her were mounted an array of ancient agricultural tools which book grouper regulars Tilly Woods and Jessica Rilling-Bonds were admiring from afar. She rested her head upon the most beautiful cushion Sally had ever seen.

“Great cushion where did you get it?” she asked.

“Somalia.”

“I don’t think I’ve been there, is that on the King’s Road?”

Before Maira had time to correct her Venetia stormed through the door clutching a pile of Browns Focus shopping bags. “Hi everyone!” she said, making her usual fresh faced entrance. “Sorry I’m late, awful traffic. Isn’t your house just wonderful Maria?”

Sally suddenly noticed a Swarovski crystal telephone twinkling in the corner like a shooting star.

“It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen!” she blurted out.

Venetia sat down and poured herself a cup of tea. She was wearing brown slacks, a lime green jumper decorated with little cherries and some really cool Todds loafers. Sally looked on in admiration but in her opinion it didn’t even compare to Maria’s red cat suit.

Sally and Venetia were old friends. They first met in the Hairdressers years ago when Sally was having her highlights done but they had messed up the dye, turning her silky locks a strange shade of green. Venetia was sitting next door and had some tissues in her pocket: the rest is history.

Venetia opened up her handbag and a Jo Malone candle fell out, followed by a bottle of Chanel nail varnish. Sally couldn’t help but notice the striking shade of red. “Great colour! What’s it called?”

“Blood Red”

“They should have called it Really Red!”

Venetia erupted into laughter. “Gosh poo face you are too funny!” She started handing out some of her delicious home made biscuits. Venetia was an incredible cook and Sally set about eating as many as she could.

“Venetia I’ve had the most awful day” Sally explained munching her fourth. “Pilates was cancelled, Fran embarrassed me, my patient was late and someone told me that Dominic’s having an affair.”

Venetia put down the biscuit tin and took Sally by the hand. “Why Sally that can’t be true. Dominic is like the nicest guy ever.”

“I know.” Sally took another biscuit. "Of course my husband isn’t having an affair.”

“Exactly. Isn’t it your anniversary today? You've probably just got the jitters.”

“You are so right.”

She got up and felt much better, she was just making herself worry about nothing. Her life was perfect. Okay sure, there had been a few hic-cups but nobody’s perfect. Besides how could her nightmare be coming true when she wasn’t having her period?

She positioned herself next to Maria to try to make small talk. “So is your husband African then?”

Maria didn’t reply but shrugged her shoulders and started stroking her cushion. She evidently did not want to talk about her husband, but Sally was insistent.

“What does your husband do?”

“He works in M & A”

“Don’t you mean M & S?”

“No M & A” she snapped. “It means mergers and acquisitions, he’s a banker.”

There was a little giggle from across the room. Sally frowned.

“Right girls, before we begin I just want to say a big well done to Sally whose having her 13 year anniversary today!” Venetia cooed.

Sally thanked her friend, smiled graciously and made a little speech, but underneath it all the jealousy was mounting. Why didn’t Dominc get a job at Marks and Spensers? Could a younger, better-looking version of Sally Pooper even exist, and if she did, was she sleeping with Dominic in Hollywood? She suddenly remembered that she wasn’t that rich. Her life wasn’t looking so good: a powerless woman trapped in a marriage of lies, deprived of nice things!

“Today’s book is Madam Bovary.”

Everyone fished out their copies. Most editions were published by My Little Slack Brain. The cover showed a picture of Emma Bovary wearing a beautiful satin ball gown holding up a diamond necklace and smiling, surrounded by scarves, but this imagined scene was encircled with a thought bubble and one could trace the little puffs of clouds back to the head of the real Emma who was dressed in rags and crying.

“So what did everyone think?” Venetia asked.

There was some general mumbling. Tilly thought it was as shame the heroine had to kill herself and Jessica found it quite boring but liked it when they went to Paris because it reminded her of when she went to Paris. Venetia really liked the imagery but had to confess she’d only read the first chapter. Sally loved the story but didn’t find Madam Bovary very convincing.

“That’s interesting why do you use the word ‘convincing’?” Venetia asked.

“Oh sorry I forgot to say I didn’t have time to read the book so I watched the film instead.” Sally was nervous her eyes kept glancing at the Swarovski telephone.

Maria stepped in. “Well I just think that if the husband hadn’t been so lazy and given her what she wanted then she wouldn’t have topped herself. The poor girl thought she was going to be rich.”

“Well it’s strange that you mention that because I stumbled across a word the other day and it made me think of this book,” Venetia said. “It’s called patriarchy.”

The girl on the sofa finally spoke. “I disagree with you,” she said. “The book’s not just about her desire to change her life, it’s about her inability to change it for herself. Don’t you think?”

No one replied. What was she talking about? Show off.

“Do you seriously expect me to answer that?” Sally asked in the bitchiest tone she could muster.

“Well, yes.”

Silence.

“Emma is an oppressed woman lost in a patriarchal society,” she continued. “No one can buy their way out of that. I mean look at today, all these ghastly women thinking that if they only had the right pair of shoes everything will be fine. It’s ridiculous!”

Book group stopped andlooked up at the new girl, and then from the new girl to the new pair of shoes that Sally had just taken out for show and tell. The ladies awkwardly sipped their tea, giving each other knowing looks. The atmosphere was so tense you could slice it up and serve it on bread. The poor girl on the sofa looked embarrassed, she was just about to leave when Maria rejoined.

“But all those lies,” she said. “I mean she literally couldn’t go to the shop to buy some loo roll without telling a lie.”

“I think that was kind of the point Maria,” Venetia pointed out. “They didn’t have any money.”

“Oh how annoying. Okay so the rich man she sleeps with, Rudolph?”

“You mean Rondolpe?”

“Yes him. She does not know how to keep a man. You must give a man what he needs and play hard to get at the same time. She knows nothing of flirtation. If that had been me I would have got myself to Paris a long time ago.”

Sally was becoming extremely jealous of Maria. This was a woman who had it all, big house, pink chandelier and a Swarovski telephone. Sally had to pull herself out of this incredible ‘green ey’d monster’ knawing at her heart.

She walked into the exotic hallway where she hit speed dial for Dominic’s office, Systems’ Businesses Business, a business for business systems. Hearing his voice would make the world right again, thank god for Dominic.

“Hello Systems Businesses Business. Dominic speaking.”

“It’s me.”

“Hi darling how are you? Happy anniversary.”

“Honey it’s so good to hear your voice!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing: I just called…to say…I love you!”

They both giggled.

“Happy anniversary honey. Honey you haven’t been on any business trips recently have you?”

“Business trips? No why?”

“I knew it! I love you baby poos!”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh I just bumped into that stupid Sylvia Bloomingdale and she mentioned something. It’s not important.”

“Sylvia? What Old Salmon Bags?” he chuckled.

“Yes,” she laughed. “Well the stupid bitch is lied to me saying she met you in Universal Studios. She was just stirring things up so I told her to fuck off-” Sally paused, the line was silent. “Dominic?”

“Yes, I’m still here. Listen darling I’ve really got to go there’s an important call. Don’t forget about your special surprise now, I think you’re going to like it.”

“My special surprise? Oh I haven’t forgotten, see you at seven.”

“At seven. Oh and darling,” he drew the receiver close to his mouth; close enough to hear his breath. “You know how much I love you don’t you?”

“Yes I know. I love you too.”

“Goodbye then darling.”

“Goodbye.” Sally hung up and squeaked when she closed her flip phone. But her happiness was soon quashed when she turned round to see the new girl standing in front of her. She had her coat on and was holding a backpack.

“I’m just off” she said clutching her backpack.

“Goodbye then.” Sally’s eyes followed her across the hall to the door. She decided to blackball her from book group. “I never got your name?”

“It’s Shirley.”

Her nightmare! First the famine, then Finnegan and now this strange ‘Shirley’ girl. Was this a sign for Sally to save her? She did seem pretty mental. Everything about her was so…wrong.

“Shirley?” she called.

Shirley, who was opening the door paused and turned round. “Yes?”

“Are you having your period?”

There was an awkward pause and the door closed. Shirley had departed. All those hours, days, years and that poor girl could have been saved, but now it was too late. Poor Shirley.

Sally felt sad when she walked back into the drawing room but was instantly thrust back into a sense of reality when Venetia started screaming, “No Sally! Get back!”

She looked up to see a huge pitchfork coming down over her head. Venetia, who had been doing an impression of a farmer, had been holding the ancient Kenyan artifact high in the air, but lost her balance the moment Sally entered the room.

Sally screeched and threw herself in front of the coffee table where Tilly Woods, who was painting her fingernails, accidentally spilt the entire bottle of Chanel ‘Blood Red’ all over her bottom. Luckily the pitchfork missed her, landing just a few inches from her feet. Sally rolled over. “NO NOT MY CARPET!” Maria yelled.

But it was too late; nail polish the colour of blood was everywhere. What was once a well put together, glamorous book group had descended into a team of gaggling maniacs. Then, as if from nowhere, a small crucifix appeared from the sky and plopped onto Sally’s head.

“Where did that come from?” she asked.

“Witch! Witch!” Maria started running around the room throwing her arms all over the place.

“Did you see that? The crucifix; it came from the air! Jesus wants to kill you!”

Sally was ordered out of the house. It had literally been the worst book group ever. It later materialised that the crucifix belonged to Tilly Woods, well I say crucifix but it was actually a Vivienne Westwood earring that fell off in the midst of the confusion as Tilly made a quick dash for the loo.: she often wet herself in stressful situations.

Sally, A Fiction: part 4

Sally Pooper was agasp. Never before had she been confronted with so many problems on one day! Bumping into Sylvia was the final straw.

“All this on my special anniversary day!” Sally sobbed. The skies opened up as if they knew, and it started to rain. Luckily she had an umbrella but it didn’t open and she stumbled into her top colour psychologist's surgery in a flap. Her receptionist, Annabelle, barely raised an eyebrow at this performance, and handed her her appointments for the day: she only had one.

She sat in her perfect office waiting for her patient, staring at a framed photograph of Dominic and Jenson holding up a salmon they had caught on a fishing trip in the country, only rather than using a rod Jenson used his BB gun so there was quite a lot of blood. She kept staring at her beautiful husband, and was transported back to when they first all those years ago, at a shitty members club in Soho called Wanker House.

She had been having some cocktails in the upstairs reading area all dressed up for Fran’s 24th birthday. She scoped him out at once, and he too had spied her across the room and offered to buy her a drink. Dominic was gorgeous, dark, tall(ish), his eyes were quite far apart but that wasn’t a problem. He was confident and smooth, not particularly intelligent, but as you’ve probably guessed by now, neither was Sally.

The two talked all night about their hopes and dreams, their fears for, and of, the future. Dominic was one of the few people who really understood the importance of cushions, after all they were the original sofas and in China people still used them as sofas. Within half an hour Sally knew this was the real thing, that this was love.

They went on a few dates, one thing led to another and suddenly they were off to Bermuda where Dominic proposed. They had been together for two months.

Of course Fran couldn’t help but cast doubt on the whole thing. She thought it was suspicious to get married so soon, but that was because she hadn’t met that cheating snake David yet. Fran could be so selfish sometimes.

Dominic’s favourite film was Braveheart so they were married in a little Scottish church in the highlands. Sally wore daisies in her hair and they rode away on a white horse!

A knock at the door pulled Sally back to the present. It was just Annabelle telling her her the client was going to be delayed. Sally got out her copy of Marie Claire and started flicking through the adverts, then she read Vogue and Grazia. The clock was ticking and still no sign of the mysterious Mr Miner.

Finally Sally marched into the reception and insisted that the receptionist phone this “Mr Miner” Sally said reading his name off the list. But when the receptionist put down the phone she didn’t look happy. “He told me to fuck off” she said, on the verge of tears.

Sally was shocked. In all her years of colour psychology she had never heard anyone be so rude. She comforted poor Annabelle and insisted that Mr Miner be blackballed from their books.

“What’s his first name?” Sally asked.

“Finnegan, Finnegan Miner.”

Sally’s jaw dropped. Unbelievable! First the dream about the Irish potato famine and now she was late for her book group! She was becoming increasingly convinced that the nightmare about Shirley, her pre-incarnation as an Irish peasant, had put a curse on her day. Things like embarrassment, lateness, suspicion of extra marital affairs and the like just didn’t happen to Sally Pooper. Her life was perfect, just like a film.

Sally, A Fiction Part 3

Okay gals! Here's the next installment of my exciting novella (inspired by Wollstonecraft's wonderful 'Mary, A Fiction'. Well sort of). In it I cunningly undermine the ghastly genre of chick lit. As the wonderful Angela McRobbie writes (when slating Bridget bloody Jones) it is a genre in which ‘new lines of demarcations are drawn between those subjects who are judged responsive to the regime of personal responsibility and those who fail miserably.’

Bridget (although she is a mess) is undoubtedly subservient to those perverse images of femininity staring us in the face, ye visual position. Helen Fielding pretended to destabilise this receptiveness, I go further: I take it to the bottom of the river, like a iguana takes a monkey. I drown it using my lady talons, I leave it down there for three weeks only to return and gobble it up when its all juicy and decomposed.

Sally Pooper, my heroine, shits bigger than Bridget Jones. Her inane self lethargy sickens even the most fickle of minds.

Here she is: Part Thrice:

Sylvia Bloomingdale and Sally Pooper were sworn enemies. As far as our heroine could remember Sylvia had been the dullest, meanest person in the world, ever. Their mothers were friends and they were forced to play together as children. Sylvia would pretend she was a trader on the stock market, which gave her an excuse to scream at Sally who only wanted to play princesses and shoe queens.

The last time they met was at Sylvia’s parents’ golden wedding anniversary in Cornwall three years ago, when Jenson had poured an entire terrine of salmon into Sylvia’s new handbag. But there she was, one sunny afternoon is Notting Hill, bellowing into a payphone. Sally wanted to run away, but knew she couldn't.

“Sylvia what are you doing on a pay phone? No mobile?”

“What?” she couldn’t hear through the glass and opened the door. “Sally Pooper, it’s weird but I’m actually glad to see you, can I borrow your phone? I’ve left my handbag in a bloody taxi somewhere and I have a meeting with a client in half an hour.”

“Still having handbag trouble I see?” Sally chuckled.

“Yes,” she replied in a stern voice. Sylvia was a lawyer, which gave her an inflated opinion of herself.

Sally handed over the phone. “Only sorry it’s not a blackberry,” she added sarcastically.

“Oh come on don’t apologise, I mean why would you need the Internet? Do you even have an email account?”

“Bitch.” Sally thought to herself. “I mean everyone has the Internet.”

“Yes, I do have an email account actually,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“Oh really?” Sylvia seemed surprised (which makes sense because Sally didn’t really have an email account) and tried to disguise her disbelief with courtesy. “Well in that case you must give me your address. I’m throwing a birthday party for mum and I’m sending out the invitations online, you know ‘Flash’ that kind of thing.”

“Yeah I know Flash.” She was cunningly trying to create a facade of technological know how.
“Yeah, websites-”

“ What’s your address?” Sylvia was poised with a pen.

“Oh well it’s… Sally,” she panicked, “…dot…Pooper…” She had to buy herself more time. “That’s Pooper spelt ‘p’ double ‘o’-”

“I know how to spell your surname.”

“Yes of course you do!” she laughed. “So, it’s Sally dot Pooper at…” she looked around frantically for inspiration. She had to make up a server name. She glanced at her shoe bag, “…at LK Bennett dot com.”

“LK Bennett? Are you working for LK Bennett?”

“No not working, I’m just a really good customer.” She smiled knowingly.

“Right. Well I’ll send an invite for you and Dominic” Sylvia paused. “Jenson’s not invited.”

There was an awkward silence and she quickly tried to change the conversation. “I’ve been working on this really dull job recently. These wankers are building a new ride at Universal Studios in LA and there’s so much legal work.”

Sally was falling asleep but had to seem interested. “What’s it called?”

“It’s a reconstruction of the Irish potato famine.”

Her ears pricked up.

“Half of southern Ireland is suing for emotional damages. Apparently the figures look like their ancestors or something. I mean come on: they're robots for godsake.”

“I had a nightmare about the Irish potato famine last night!”

But Sylvia wasn’t listening. She was too busy doodling something on the back of the card with the email address. What Sally doesn't know is that the doodle spelt out ‘I Hate You’ just above her name.

“That reminds me,” she continued. “I bumped into Dominic when I was out there last week. He was looking well.”

“Sorry Sylvia but that just can’t be. The last time Dominic went away was with me on a wine tasting course in the Loire Valley this summer. You must have got him mixed up.”

“No, it was definitely him.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Look I’ve really got to make this call Sally. Give me two secs.”

“Dominic? The Irish Potato Famine? Dominic in LA?” She thought long and hard while Sylvia was on the phone talking lawyer speak. "There was no way Dominic could have gone to America. First how could he have got there? Second he was always busy when he came home late. Third he would always call me. Could you make phone calls from America to the UK? Anyway, what am I thinking, this is fuck face Sylvia- she cannot be trusted.”

“I don’t trust you,” she said when Sylvia handed back her phone. “Dominic was never in LA!”

“Don’t talk to me in that way. Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know, why would Dominic lie to me?”

“Maybe he forgot to tell you?”

“You’re a liar and I would rather be sick all over my new shoes than come to your shitty party.”

“How dare you! You wouldn’t be welcome Sally Pooper." Syliva heaved and grew red. "Don’t accuse me of lying when it’s blatantly your husband that’s the liar! He’s probably got some blonde bombshell tucked away in the Hollywood hills, likes to tuck into a juicy burger now and then when he’s not choking on stale bread in west London!” She hailed a taxi, opened the door and got in. “Goodbye Sally!”

Sally was fuming. “Fuck you Sylvia Bloomingdale!” she marched onto the street and started chasing the taxi down the road. “I don’t even have an email account you silly bitch!”

Sally, or an Independent Woman Chapter 2

More treats for you! Writing is so theraputic, and important. Particularly when you've had the weekend from HELL like poor Posie! Enjoy!

****

“I found a really big moth in my wardrobe last night, only I didn’t know what to do with it!” Fran was crying into her skinny latte, “So I just put a big glass over it and watched it flapping around in there all alone…just like me!”

Lunch was nearly over and Sally sat fixated on her new shoes. They were fluffy and pink and far more interesting than Fran.

“And then I thought of David because he always used to catch the moths you see,” Then with panic surfacing in her eyes, struggling against the puddles of realisation she asked, “Whose going to catch the moths now Sally? I’m not! I hate moths!” Fran erupted into hysteria, banging her head against the table, spilling the bowl of balsamic vinegar and olive oil from the beginning of the meal all over her head.

“Calm down, you’re making a scene,” Sally said, trying to subtly mop up the grease.

“But whose going to catch the little moths?” Fran sobbed, “Who will release them into the wild?

“I’m sure David will move back in soon,” she threw down the browned napkin and wanted to give Fran a good slap round the face but decided against it.

“Why is she yapping on about moths?” Sally had no idea. Now it was silent and she would have to say something, again.

“Now Fran,” she tried to look serious by putting the palms of her hands together as if in prayer, “That woman is too old to have children. Now, all men want is food and children. They are all just like David Beckham- extremely simple. He’ll be home soon, you’ll see.”

Fran smiled and a little bit of olive oil trickled down her face.

Sally quickly added “I didn’t mean David Beckham was coming home of course, I meant the other David. Imagine: you with David Beckham!” Sally burst into a fit of laughter and starting beating her fist on the table. She had cracked a fine joke and would have given herself a pat on the back if she hadn’t been wearing such a bulbous gillet that day.

When the laughing was finally at an end, Sally dried her eyes and Fran pushed away her food. She was looking thin and Sally was jealous. “When was the last time you ate?” she asked, “You haven’t touched you’re nicoise salad.”

“David always said that it was bad to eat tuna,” she replied. “Now that he’s gone, well I thought I was strong enough to eat it but…I’m just not!” The tears came crashing back down onto the tablecloth and Sally seized the opportunity to start talking about herself.

“It’s my anniversary today. Aren’t you going to wish me a happy anniversary?”

“Hap-py anni-vers-ary Sally,” Fran sniffed.

“Well done. Now that wasn’t too hard was it? Kindness doesn’t cost you know, pleasantries don’t charge.”

Fran tied back the hair from her face and blew her nose. Deep black lines encircled her eyes and she had never been paler. She had to pull herself together; her life was less important than Sally’s. “How are you going to celebrate?” she muttered.

“He’s taking me to Le Gavroche!” Sally squeaked, “Look at my shoes, oh and look at the anniversary card Jenson made for us, isn’t it cute?”

Sally had taken out a piece of damp toilet paper about 5 ft long and was slowly unravelling it to reveal a series of pictures documenting her romance with Dominic. The scene was drawn badly in felt tip pen and the acidic ink had created large holes across the paper. It was shredded at the corners and slightly yellow.

“He’s been learning about the Bayeux Tapestry at school and thought he’d make one for his mummy and daddy. He’s very creative. Look, he’s drawn an arrow going through my eye here, just like King Harold.”

“Yes,” Fran replied apathetically. She was staring into her coffee.

“Christ Fran, you could at least pretend to be interested!” But Fran just kept staring at the lukewarm latte or the sugar bowl or the toothpicks or the handbag, at anything except the thing Sally was trying to show her. “Why isn’t she looking at the thing I’m trying to show her?” Sally thought to herself.

She decided to grab her friend’s attention by raising her voice, as if she were talking to a disabled person, “I said I think Jenson has a real talent for art, that he could even make a career out of it, that or history. Fran, hello?”

Silence. Fran was so selfish like that! Why did it always have to be about her? The two had met at Interior Design College in the early nineties. Fran studied curtains and Sally was taking a diploma in cushions. People said they got on like a house on fire; a popular irony because house fires were particularly bad for interior designers. Yet Sally always got the impression that Fran thought herself superior and would frequently claim that curtains were more important than cushions because they blocked out the light to help people sleep. But what about when you have a bad back? Never thought about that did she?

Fran, who was shaking and rocking forward and backwards, interrupted Sally’s musings. She was tightly twisting a napkin round her thumb until it turned white. Her eyes: vacant. Her cheeks: white. Her smile: vacant. She glared into the cold tuna and whispered; “Fly away little moth…fly away home…” Then looking out of the window she continued; “When a moth flies to a light bulb it thinks its flying to the moon, but it’s not Sally, no, it’s only a tiny light bulb,” she paused, then like the peaceful eeriness before a storm when the gentle wind pushes a child’s swing or spins the wheel on an upturned bicycle, there came the the most almightly racket, “But it never gives up!” Fran shouted, “Always pushing, always reaching upwards to something it can never touch! Poor, stupid, little moth!”

Her head came crashing down on the table once more leaving Sally irritated by her friend’s pointless display of melodrama. All that imagery was so unnecessary and besides this was her story. She quickly downed her cappuccino and when the bill was paid the two women set off down Westbourne Park, popping into Monsoon where Sally bought a glitter pencil and Fran got a new hat. “Why do you still buy that stupid stationary?” asked Fran. “You’re a grown woman Sally Pooper.”

“I know, but they’re just so cute. I still keep a diary you know. I write in it when I can and I only use my special pens.”

They turned the corner and reached Fran’s shop. Fran had set up her own curtain shop, Curly Curtains, two years ago. People could bring in photographs or pictures and she would print them onto curtains. That afternoon she was printing a photograph of Pat Sharp onto a blind for a downstairs loo.

“Well here’s where I leave you,” she said. “Have a great time tonight.”

“Thanks and you take care now.” Sally turned shook out her beautiful long blonde hair and started strutting down the street, but half way down she stopped and turned; Fran was calling after her. “Sally!” she cried, “I’m not going to let the moth go!”

Sally bit her lip; people were staring. “For god’s sake will you shut up about that bloody moth?”

She quickly ran back down the street to Fran who was glued to the shop doorframe. Sally pushed her inside. “It’s really embarrassing!” she whispered, “just get back inside the shop OK?” Fran started crying again, but Sally really couldn’t be bothered. “I’ll see you soon,” she said and made off down the street.

Desperate not to be recognised Sally held the shopping bag containing her new shoes in front of her face. “How humiliating!” she thought, “I mean what was all that moth nonsense about anyway? I’m Sally Pooper, what do I care about any stupid moths? What does a moth, trapped in a glass, trying to reach a light bulb it has unknowingly mistaken for a moon have to do with me?”

“Ouch!” She had walked straight into a phone box. Rubbing her head she looked up through the glass to see a familiar, yet slightly shocked, face staring right back at her. It was Sylvia Bloomingdale.

Sally, or an Independent Woman: A Fiction

OK readers! so, as promised, here' s my latest offering to my literary mistresses on high! It's a working title. I was thinking 'a womb of her own' but I'm not sure, don't you think it's quite sexist?

It's basically a pastiche of chick lit, a genre I totally subvert in this incredibly probing work.

So, this is the first chapter. Tune in soon for the next!

Sally, or an Independent Woman: A Fiction

Last night I dreamt I was back in Cork, before the famine killed all the little potatoes. I dreamt I was with Gim, my Irish boyfriend. Gim worked down the mines and in the night time we would pick potatoes together. But then the famine came.

It happened on a Sunday when I did start to bleed. But my Irish friends, who did not know what it was to be woman, thought me a witch and cast me out yonder.

But then the famine came. Thinking it be a curse to punish those who had wronged me so, the villagers came after me with pitchforks and sticks of fire. “Kill Shirley! Kill Shirley!” they yelled.

Oh, I was scared without Gim! But he was still down the mines! So with courage in my heart when they found me crouching in ditch, I stood up against the mob!

“Stop you fools!” cried I. “I am Shirley! Yes I bleed! I bleed as did Christ on his most holy of crosses. I give myself up to the mercy of the little baby Jesus, now, in the hour of my need. He shall hear me and all shall be well!”

But nay alas! With their pitchforks high in the air and fire consuming the sky the mob crept nearer and nearer towards me. The heat rose, my heart leapt, the blade hurtled towards my eye and then-

Sally woke up. It was a beautiful day in Notting Hill. The sun was shining and she could hear the gentle hum of city life outside her massive town house. She put out her hand to find that Dominic had already left for work. Dominic. He was in business.

Sally couldn’t stop thinking about her dream, nightmare, even. As a West London physiologist she was quite accustomed to over analysing and occasionally cutting herself. She pondered the meaning of Shirley.

“Irish? Well maybe its about music, or the colour green?” Sally concluded that yes, the dream must certainly symbolise the hope associated with the colour green; the colour of Ireland. Happily contemplating the good fortune her dream might bring the burning smell and hiss of the straightening irons let her know that she had finished doing her hair and after some more time putting on make up she was ready to start the day. Tuesday 23rd September 2007. It went something like this:

Fruit
Someone else take Jenson to school
Pilates
Shoe shopping (!)
Lunch with Fran
Appointments
Book Group
Dinner with Dominic…

Dominic! Could you believe it? Married for 13 years today. The arrival of little Jenson eight years ago made their family complete and now they had a Russian au pair, Александра, they were truly happy. Sally couldn’t resist creeping over to the wardrobe to have a peek at the GORGEOUS Amanda Wakley in her closet. Tonight was going to be so magical, Dominic said he had a surprise for her. What could it be?

But then Sally remembered Fran. Oh Fran, poor Fran. Fran, who had recently discovered that David had been shagging his secretary. To make matters worse the secretary was actually 18 years older than Fran. Not that it really made that much difference, “Fran is pretty ugly”, Sally thought to herself.

Poor Fran. Sally had done everything she could, she had even given her free physiology, but still the pain remained. Fran was a broken woman. It made Sally realise how lucky she was- Dominic would never cheat on her. No, Sally and Dominic would be the happiest, best, most amazing couple in the world, always! Sally was spinning round so much she fell over and wacked her head on the wardrobe. But just before that she thought: With a love that strong how could it not last forever?