‘I don’t want to.’
‘Why?’ Hester shot back.
‘Because it took me ages, and I like it.’
Hester stared impassively at her. ‘I remember clearly stating that participation in this evening is not optional, Kim.’
Kim went so red, it showed through her many layers of primer, concealer, foundation, powder, bronzer and blusher. ‘You can’t make me do it. It’s not fair. I always wear make-up. I feel wrong without make-up on.’
‘Why are you getting angry, Kim?’
‘Because I don’t like people seeing me without make-up! You know why. You heard me on the cliff. I am ugly. That’s why. I don’t want people to see that! I don’t want them laughing at me.’
‘You think we’d laugh at you, Kim?’ Melody asked, who having arrived with no make-up on, had quickly passed the bottle along.
‘No. Not out loud. But inside, you would. That’s what they all used to do.’ Kim plonked back down into her armchair.
Melody shuffled her beanbag up to where Kim sat and took hold of her hand. When Millie had finished wiping her face, Melody took hold of the bottle and the cotton wool and handed it to Kim. ‘Come on, child. You are with friends. You have nothing to fear.’
‘Will you do it for me?’
Melody shook her head. ‘I will not.’
Slowly, Kim poured out a drop of cleanser and began removing her armour, wiping away tears along with the cosmetics. ‘Great. Now I’m going to look all blotchy and red-eyed, too.’
When we had nearly all finished, Hester opened the second suitcase. She took out a pile of white T-shirts and began handing these round, too. ‘Please change into the T-shirts.’
What?
Some of the women were happy to fling off their jumpers and blouses, swapping into the T-shirts without thinking. Millie and Janice gave us all a little striptease as they shimmied out of their Marks and Spencer twinsets. Uzma and her cousin Yasmin asked if they could wear them over their shirts, as they preferred to keep their arms covered. Hester dug through the pile and found two long-sleeved T-shirts for them instead. They ducked behind the sofa to change, giggling. I was disappointed by this. Iwanted to sneak a peek at Uzma’s fancy red lace, purple silk or leopard-print bra.
Mags, one of the larger ladies in the room, who happened to be sitting next to Marilyn, made a gesture of removing her jumper, making jokes about her sagging breasts and flabby stomach. It didn’t stop Marilyn from looking as though she wanted to die as she scrambled out of her own top. In her haste, a button snagged in her hair, leaving her sitting with her top up over her head, one arm flailing, the other desperately trying to cover up her post-pregnancy body before Mags hurriedly set her free, making a kind joke as she did so.
Gradually, the other self-conscious women gave in, until me and Polly, baby bump gently bulging under her maternity clothes, were the only ones left.
‘Polly?’ Hester asked. ‘Didn’t you find the maternity top in the pile?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘But could I have a long-sleeved top, please?’
Rowan’s eyes boggled. ‘You’ve got a belly like a beach ball and you’re worried about your arms?’
I sat and watched, adrenaline sprinting through my veins. I should have changed when the rest were doing it. Nobody would have noticed. I should do it now, while they looked at Polly.
Get changed, Faith! Whip your sweater off and throw the T-shirt on before you cause a scene. You can do it!
I couldn’t. My limbs were lead.
Polly looked around at us all, stricken. ‘I… it was… I don’t want… You don’t understand.’
‘Nobody’s looking, Polly. Look.’ Millie began pointedly staring at the ceiling. Someone else rummaged in their bag for nothing in particular. Animated conversations requiring full-on eye contact broke out across the room as the others caught on. Kim, though, was having none of it.
‘Come on, Polly. Nobody’s judging you here. Apparently.’
Lowering her head, shoulders slumped, positively cowering in her chair, Polly began slowly undoing the buttons on her pretty maternity blouse. Unable to bear her mortification, I sucked in a fortifying breath, stood up and stripped off my top.
Everybody froze. A couple of people gasped. Janice said, ‘Wowzers, Faith! Did you get those wrestling a crocodile?’
No, not a crocodile, Janice. The four-inch slice beneath my collarbone and the eight-inch jagged red rip across my stomach were obtained while fighting off a snake. I put on the T-shirt and took my seat, trying to keep my chin up and hands still. I was not ashamed of having scars. I didn’t care that they were ugly. I was very, very ashamed of how I got those scars, and the ugliness that accompanied them.
