Читать книгу Sex, Lies & Stellenbosch - Eva Mazza - Страница 7

It was John’s fifty-fifth birthday bash; a birthday that would have been overlooked but for Brigit, the eldest of their offspring and the apple of her daddy’s eye. It was Brig’s idea to surprise her father, yet as much as they’d tried keeping it a secret, he had found out. Brigit was disappointed, but Jen was happy the cat was out the bag; surprises weren’t something she was comfortable receiving, let alone organising.

Things had gone awry after the speeches; a pity, since the party had got off to such a good start. It was Jen’s fault entirely. If only she had stuck to her prepared speech. Well, it wasn’t really hers; Brigit had written it. Blame it on the champagne and shooters. Maybe if she hadn’t drunk so much, she wouldn’t have reacted the way she did. Brigit had always said that Jen couldn’t take a joke, that she had no sense of humour. Tonight, I proved her right.

Looking back, Jen’s sense of humour failure could be traced to her gold stretch pants. Normally she paid no attention to Brig’s jibes. Since she could remember, Brigit almost always found her mother embarrassing, invariably resulting in some snide remark which she had learned to ignore. However, the eldest’s disparaging comments about her outrageously expensive too-tight pants had hit a nerve because, well, they were embarrassingly true.

“Oh my God! You’re not wearing that tonight, are you?” She asked in the demeaning tone reserved solely for her mom.

“Yes, I am,” Jen said, pouring herself into them.

John came to his wife’s defence, which was rather sweet of him as the two loved to tease her. “Brig!” he bellowed from the bathroom. He’d strutted through to their bedroom, bath-towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips, and planted a kiss on Jen’s cheek. “Mom’s aim is to look hot; it’s an age thing, hey love?” he teased, looking her over appreciatively.

“What is it with men and women in tight pants?” Brig ridiculed.

“No, it’s not my aim!” Jen lied as their daughter watched her struggling to close the zip. John moved in to give her a hand, which Jen smacked away.

The mirror reflected her delusional wannabe-hip forty-nine-year-old self in pants intended for someone decidedly younger. Maybe John’s birthday had triggered fears of her imminent fiftieth. She had told the shop assistant she was sick and tired of looking like a boring middle-aged farmer’s wife and the young woman had assured her the pants did the trick.

“Actually, my aim is to look hip.” She’d managed to get the zip up. “I’m tired of looking like a mom.”

“So, you decided to shop at Forever 21?” Brig chortled appreciatively at her own joke and, as usual, John joined in.

It was true, Jen wanted to look sexy. Instead, she looked like a desperate cougar at a university digs’s sex fest. She’d watched her husband as he prepped for the party. He’s effortlessly hot.

In truth, it wasn’t effortless. John spent three afternoons at gym and two mornings cycling or jogging through the vineyards, every week, without fail. It had paid off. Unlike many of his friends who had developed paunches, he devoted a lot of time to his appearance.

“More time than I do,” Jen had bitched to her book club friends.

“Count yourself lucky,” Shelley had retorted, and the rest of the group agreed. “At least you have something to work with. Some of us have to use our imaginations.”

Jen had cringed at the thought of poor Shelley having to perform her wifely duties.

“You still look hot, Daddy,” Brig said, then turned to her mom giving her the once over. “Just don’t tuck your shirt in, k?”

Jen hated the way Brigit would shorten okay to ‘k’. It’s not like it’s a thirteen-letter word, for heaven’s sake. And it’s so bloody condescending!

However rude her daughter was, she valued her opinion. “Why not?” Jen asked, lest she became the laughing stock of the party. Her eldest looked at her dad and rolled her eyes.

“Cleavage, push-up bra, butt and crotch… Leave something to the imagination. You don’t want to look like you’re really trying, do you?”

“You’ve already established that I’m really trying! By the way, does my new haircut also look like I tried too hard?”

“You look great, love,” John said, turning from the mirror and dabbing cologne onto his freshly shaved face. “Don’t listen to Brig. You’re gorgeous.”

Jen gave him a peck on the cheek. “Why thank you, John,” she said, then playfully stuck out her tongue at Brig.

“I personally like your hair darker and longer,” Brigit said while tugging Jen’s top out from her pants as if Jen were a three-year-old. “But if a mousey bob blows you away, then hey, who am I to comment?”

Jen inhaled deeply. She tried hard not to allow Brig to get under her skin. Definitely not tonight. They’d got along so much better these past few weeks, both preoccupied with John’s birthday preparations.

“Well, Brig, you look as chic as ever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to fasten my shoes.”

She hoped she would be able to carry them off. Farm girls don’t wear heels; they wear practical flats – her mother’s favourite line when Jen was an adolescent. Judging from the look in Brig’s eyes, it was obvious that her daughter concurred.

Jen had meant it when she said that Brigit looked chic. She had developed a unique style; understated, but elegant. She wore her hair short – a throwback from her swimming days at school – and was one of the few women who could wear a boyish hairstyle without looking butch. In fact, she never had a shortage of admirers; there was something so feminine about her that complemented her masculine crop.

Brigit had chosen tight black satin pants that tapered to just above her ankles and a loose-fitting black top with a subtle gold shimmer that plunged sexily at the neckline. Her accessories were understated: a gold cuff for her wrist, a long black and gold necklace that hung low to her belly and small studs in her ears. She wore an unusually big ring on her middle finger, drawing attention to her manicured nails.

Her look was simple yet sophisticated. The exact opposite of Jen’s.

“Don’t forget this,” Brigit said, handing over a typed speech before leaving the room.

Jen tucked the speech into her pants pocket, and her shirt back into her pants.

“Cow!” she mouthed to John.

“Don’t be like that, Jen,” John said. “I think you look shaggable, especially bending over to buckle those heels, baby.” He rubbed up against her. “John-John agrees. Here, feel. He’s standing at attention.”

Jen playfully pushed him away and turned to give the birthday boy a quick peck on the lips.

“Now, piss off,” she teased. “You and John-John. We have a party to go to, and I believe it’s yours, you dirty old man.”