Penny was losing it. Tried not to scream at Fiona Roberts as she asked: ‘You’re saying you won’t come to the CA with me?’
‘Not today Pen, I’m up to my eyes.’
‘I need you, Fiona.’
‘I can’t, honestly. Let me call you tomorrow, we’ll arrange coffee.’
‘Jeez, I can’t wait. Thanks a bunch, girlfriend!’
And she slammed the phone down and thought: I could hate that cow. Well, OK then, I’ll go shoplifting.’
Thing was, she was a very bad shoplifter. But if she resented Fiona, she out-and-out loathed Jane Fonda. She had admired Jane as the American Bardot and heavily envied her. Then she’d held her breath during the hard Jane bit. Had been in awe during the years of ‘serious’ actress. Had the hots for her when she was fit and forty. Began to resent a tad how fabulous she was at fifty. Screamed ‘bitch’ when she sold out at sixty to a billionaire and became one more trophy wife in the Trump tradition.
Penny had been in Hatchards of Piccadilly when a hot flash hit and she’d fled in search of cool air. Outside the Trocadero, she realised she’d stolen a book. There was Jane on the cover. A cookbook. Oh shame! And worse. She hadn’t even written it but borrowed recipes from her THREE chefs. THREE! Count ’em and weep. She’d slung the book at a Big Issue vendor. The man had taken it well, shouted: ‘Saw the movie.’
Restless, irritated, pacing, she tried to watch breakfast TV. A gaggle of gorgeous blonde bimbos were discussing the merits of being ‘childfree’.
‘Hold the bloody phones/ she screeched. ‘When did we go from being childless to this hip shit?’
A child, the woe of her aching heart and the biological clock hadn’t so much stopped as simply run into nothingness.
Upstairs she had a wardrobe full of baby clothes. These weren’t stolen. She’d bought each item slow and pained, and paid a lot of money.