A Model Life (1) Chapter 1:Should I Or Shouldn't I? Hi, my name is Janet, I live in a shared house in the city . . . Today, I worked on a few designs, had lunch ( I don’t have breakfast) and I made myself come. It was fun. Better than doing it with my boyfriend. Yet, sort of sad after I did it and still had my hand over . . . well, you know. . . My boyfriend. . . .oh, my boyfriend? You ask. Well, he’s OK. I guess. He’s sorta cute. I’ve thought of cheating on him for sometime but never actually went through with it. Hmmmm . . . and yeah, I have been thinking about breaking up with him for sometime. Am I ever going to get round to it? I don’t know. He’s pretty well off . . . He’s got a gorgeous apartment. And he’s well, sort of cute . . . I don’t know. After all, we’re practically engaged. Just the other day we were looking at some houses . . . to live in . . . together . . . I don’t know. But let’s not think about that now. So I’m sitting there at my desk, working, drawing, doing those stupid designs . . .hmmm. They’re getting a bit tiresome now. I look at the clock. How long have I been at it? Well, I have taken quite a lot of breaks . . .long ones . . .I guess another couldn’t hurt. Hey! I’ll stay up all night! I’ll catch up! No probs! Think I should treat myself? Yeahhhhh. Let’s go shoppin. Yeahhhh. Now which one of my credit cards were still valid? None of them were. Nope, not a single one. Darn. Oh well, I could go to the pool. Work off that irritating ringing noise in my head (sounds like grasshoppers) that’s been there since last night, after the nightclub. After a bit of harmless flirting, with the girlfriends . . .So, I get down there, slip into my tiniest black bikini (for the boys, cause I like the attention – who doesn’t?) and start doing my laps. The water is really, really cold. I don’t like it very much. I try to go faster, hoping I will warm up somehow, through exerting all that energy. I hope by the time my membership runs out, I’ll look as toned as Jennifer Lopez in that leather bikini I saw in some interview she had in a fashion mag – I forgot which one . . . Sorry? Did I hear u ask if I was fat? No, I am so not fat, you assHOLE. Shut UP and let me get on with the story. I have put on two and a half pounds since last month, but I am SO NOT FAT, OK? God. So some bitch behind me tries to overtake me. I swim faster. No one overtakes me. It is just SO rude. I swim faster and she’s behind me again. I can feel her hand touch one of my feet. OH, THAT’S IT. I kick the water harder and splash some water in the bitch’s face. That’ll teach her, I thought. When I get back, I call Darren ( my boyfriend) and ask him in my sweet girly voice what he’s planning to do tonight. “Fuck You, babe” he says. And he isn’t being rude, he’s serious. I giggle and ask him what he thinks about coming round my place for dinner. He says OK, we say goodbye and I put the phone down just in time to hear the pervy old man (who lives in the room next to me) come out of his room, shutting the door behind him. I don’t know what is with this guy, but he can’t stop patting me on the head, hitting me on the bum with his newspaper and greeting me all the time with a “Hellllloooooo” in a really sick, pervy old man sort of way. Sick fuck, I thought to myself. Even worse, if I leave the washing up in the sink for more than an hour, you can guarantee he will take the stack and pop it into my cupboard on top of all my clean dishes. So when I come downstairs after having eaten my meal, I will find it there, stinking up my cupboard. Nice. So my boyfriend pops over, looking amazing in tight jeans and a ripped T-shirt. But I still can’t get over the fact that he’s still verging on sorta cute. It irritates me. I wonder again, whether I should cheat on him. Actually, I don’t answer the door. Sick pervy man next door does and says, “ Oh, hello.” To Darren, of course. Darren says, “Thank you” ( he can be so polite sometimes). And sick pervy man says something I couldn’t make out about Darren, putting emphasis on the word, boyfirend” in the most sarcastic way. Bastard. I’ll get him for that. Who the FUCK does he think he is? He doesn’t own this house, he’s not my dad, and the thought of even going near that sick FUCK makes me wanna throw up. So what is with him? UGH! So Darren comes upstairs, I giggle like crazy, and he fucks me against the wall. After that, we have dinner and watch a movie I got from Blockbuster’s the other day. And that’s it really. We fall asleep together on the bed that night. And as he lay next to me, snoring like mad, I wonder again, whether I should cheat on him. Chapter 2: I Think he Suspects Something. We’re looking at an apartment. It’s a nice apartment. Ensuite master bedroom with a connecting dressing room, gorgeous living area layout, lots of glass and laminated floor . . . “I don’t like it.” “What?” Darren asks. I shrugged my shoulders. “I mean it’s nice and all . . .” “But . . .?” “It’s just not me.” I say. I turn to look at him, eyes wide, looking what I hope is nonchalant. Then turn away quickly enough to let my ponytail fall in a practised swish, behind me (I LOVE doing that. A model friend of mine taught me that . . . “It’s a smart bimbo thing.” she said – Hmm . . . is that what I am? A smart bimbo? How legitimate does that sound?) Darren follows me out into the hallway where the estate agent is now standing with a painfully patient smile on his face. I smile back. And yes, it IS that kind of smile. The estate agent responds with total bewilderment, then a painfully timid smile creeps onto his lips. I blink a couple of times. God, why do I do this . . .? “WHAT is WRONG with you?” “I’m sorry?” I ask. Pulling a cigarette out of my purse. The estate agent opens his mouth to say something, but I light it before he gets a chance. “First we see a cottage . . .” “Yes, not my style . . .” “Then we see a 1950’s detached . . .” “Big no-no.” I say with a knowing smirk. Darren looks at me, mentally calculating properties we’ve viewed so far. Twenty? Thirty? I seem to have lost count. Am I forgetful? Or am I just . . . well, horrible . . .? “May I ask you then, just what your style is?” Darren says, testily. “I don’t know yet, I thought that was why we were shopping around . . .” I say, then turn round and accidentally blow smoke in his face. He blinks and his face screws up. I’ve just made him cry . . . well close enough, shed a tear or two . . .Funny, I’ve never seen him cry before . . . We get in the car. He puts the roof down. Then puts one arm around me as he tries reversing the car. I don’t know why he does that, it seems to go with the image of the car . . . I guess . . . We’re driving along now at forty miles per hour. I don’t like the roof down. It messes up my fringe. And I hate wearing a scarf round my head. It reminds me too much of some ‘fifties Hollywood starlet wannabe’. It reminds me too much of my mother . . . “It’s something else, isn’t it?” “Hmm . . .?” I ask. “What is it? Do you not want to move in with me? Is that it?” “Noooooo . . .of course not! Don’t be silly!” I say, light-heartedly. “I’m . . .just choosing carefully, that’s all . . .you have to be picky when it comes to big things like this you know . . .?” “Yeah, fucking picky for a girl living in a shared house next to some perv . . .” Darren says, his teeth tightly clenched. I blink a couple of times and don’t say anything. There is an air of uncomfortable silence as we drive along. I don’t say anything; he doesn’t say anything . . . I start getting angry with him inside my head, trying to think of all sorts of things to say to him. But after a while, I start feeling sad. Really, really sad. Cause you know what? He’s got me there . . . * * * * “ Hello? Is that Jacques Property Management?” “It is indeed, how can I help you?” “Yes, I’m looking for a one-bedroom flat close to the city centre.” “Yes, that’s fine, and what price range are you looking for?” “I’m able to pay £600 tops.” I say, wondering what part-time job I would have to take to afford that. “Single occupancy?” “Yes, please.” Minutes later, I put the phone down and look at the pack of empty cigarettes next to me. Yes, I’m back in my shared house living next to some perv . . . But back to the cigarettes: I’ve gone through two packs today. I’ve always considered myself a social smoker (if there is such a thing). Thought it made me look cool in company, but as I picked the packet up, and sniffed it, I had a sudden feeling of nausea. Nausea. Now there’s a word I remember . . . Chapter 3: Janet, the girl? So there I am. Sitting at my computer screen. Sitting there, totally blank, haven’t a clue what I’m doing. Just clicking and clicking . . . and you know what? Lots of boxes keep appearing, and after a while, I forget why I got on the Internet in the first place. . . Life is a little like that . . . you know? One day you’re on a path, thinking you’re going one place then all of a sudden something catches your attention and you go another way . . . Janet, the girl? I can’t even remember what she was like. All I know is there is this grubby green-yellow Polaroid of a fat girl with glasses and pigtails sitting at the bottom of my vanity drawer. I can’t even remember what Janet, the girl wanted . . . Wait, I remember: She wanted to be pretty. No, not just pretty, beautiful; absolutely drop dead gorgeous . . . What do you know? One day, Janet the girl wakes up and finally gets what she wanted without even realising it . . . I mean, I knew it happened. I knew a period of time when I started to look this attractive, I just never crossed it off my to do list. In fact, the to-do-list got binned somehow, before I even got there . . . That’s a good thing, right? I don’t know . . .it still feels kind of sad . . . You know, I got fucked the day I got back to school after the summer. Yeah, I had lost weight. My mum sent me to a Fat Farm (the bitch). I remained slim from then on though. Being slim had its advantages. For the first time in my life, someone started paying attention to me – in a good way. You’d never believe it, but it was the school gardener. I was re-braiding my hair. It was a sunny day, I was on the swings and school had ended . . . an hour ago . . . My mother was late again and this man in his . . .early thirties (?) came along and sat next to me. He told me I was pretty and next thing you knew, I was in a shed with him, my skirt pushed up and crying because I was bleeding down there . . . It wasn’t that bad, I actually started to enjoy it after a while. He was very gentle with me. Tried his best not to hurt me . . . I turned thirteen a week after that . . . Some days, I can’t help but think what would have happened if my mum had been on time that day . . . Would it have happened sooner or later? Or would I have ballooned back to my previous weight and remained the butt of everyone’s jokes to this day? Well, Janet the girl seemed to disappear after that. Janet the girl was noticing a lot of things – a lot of new different things . . .Before you knew it, she woke up one day with a totally different set of priorities. Did she wake up as Janet, the woman? No, not really . . . it was still Janet the girl - just a different sort of girl. . . Chapter 4: The ‘Hand-cocks’ It’s about 2a.m. and I’m in bed crying. I don’t even know what I’m crying about. I get out bed, sobbing, pulling my cotton nightie over my head. I sober up when I see myself in the bathroom mirror. God I look a mess - all blotchy and pathetic . . . I start crying again. Walk into the living room, turn the TV on and walk over to the kitchen to make myself some tea. Yes, I’m in a flat now, found one but not through Jacques. There was some cold bitch in there who kept looking at me like a hooker that just fell off the street. I was out of there in five minutes – no way was I going to let her get my money. I got a job too. The most boring job imaginable. I’m a shelf stacker at Marks & Spencer. Thimply divvviiine dah-ling. And Darren? I’ve still got him. No, I haven’t cheated on him . . .yet. I wonder, does that make me a slut just thinking about it? We’ve been together five months now and I’ve been thinking about it like forever. For example, I was walking down the street the other day and caught the eye of this really cute guy . . . he winked at me . . . He looked a helluva lot better than Darren – there was no mistaking if this guy was ‘sorta cute’ – he was fucking gorgeous, as in: I’d-drop-my-skirt-right-now-and-let-you-do-it-to-me-in-the-street-gorgeous. The kettle stops boiling and I pour it into my cup. I sigh, pull my hair back, look around . . . taped up boxes scattered everywhere, furniture Darren and I managed to salvage from the tip. No new furniture from me – big surprise! My parents couldn’t even afford to send me to college. Oh no, I had to take out a massive loan. My dad just got up one day and thought, “Fuck it! That bitch has been a pain in my backside since the day she was born! Fuck the college fund! Me and the wife are going away on holiday!” and so they did and spent it all one night in a casino. Well, I suppose it isn’t really fair to say that . . . it was their savings after all – I’d just always assumed they’d use it to send me to college . . . or at least do something useful with it . . . * * * * * “Hi Janet!” shouted Darren. It’s after college and he’s sitting in his sports car - a big white smile plastered on his face. I put on a big plastic smile too – like the ones you see on Barbie dolls. “Hi Honey! How’s it going?” I ask him. “Just fines thanks!” he says, completely without irony. It’s at times like this when I would prefer it if he were angry at me. Darren took my moving to the flat a lot better than I had thought. I just told him I wasn’t ready for it yet – not this soon, not when I’ve got my final year nearly over with. Well, that was the excuse I gave him. I’ve got six months yet before it’s over. So we’re driving down the road. It’s really quiet, this stretch of road . . . just trees that seem to go on forever. I smile to myself. Suddenly I feel so . . . I don’t know, at peace with myself. This feeling of harmony continues for a while until I feel Darren’s hand going round mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. I squeeze back instinctively – actually irritated with him for breaking the mood. But he was obviously in a mood of his own as he drew my hand closer to his lap . . . * * * * * “Enjoyed your blow-job?” I asked, smiling – looking straight at him through my shades. “Mmmm-hmm. Fantastic.” He replied, slamming his car door. We were at his parents house now. It’s a fantastic, gorgeous house. Just like his fantastic gorgoeus apartment – poles apart from my dingy apartment full of salvaged furniture. My fault really, Darren offered to buy furniture for me but I wouldn’t allow it. I’d get to used to it and if we ever do break up, not that I can imagine him doing it . . . but just in case, I do not want to see him reclaiming that furniture. Besides not having any furniture, it would feel so . . . well, depressing . . . Mrs. Hancock (sound like hand-cock) is Darren’s mother. She’s twice my age but looks only five years older. She actually looks disturbingly similar to me which makes me wonder if Darren fancies his mum. Ugh! His dad who is also twice my age looks exactly that: twice my age. Mrs. Hancock. Or ‘Betty’ as she prefers to be called, answers the door before we even get to knock. It scares the fucking shit out of me. “Jen! Darren! Hi!” she says cheerfully. I raise my eyebrows. She’s wearing a see-thru dress today with matching bra and knickers. I looked like a school marm next to her. Honestly, I did. Funny enough I was wearing a pin-tucked blouse, pearls and a short box-pleat skirt today. It was supposed to be ironic lady-like dressing. All white with a prim black collar, belt and hair bow for contrast. The only thing that looked out of place was my intentionally messy hair and kohl make-up. Well, hopefully she’ll look like a slut standing next to me. “I like what you’ve got on today, Jen!” she says, without meaning it. “How do you think up these things? It looks so . . . ironic?” “Yes, that’s was the intention.” I say with a forced grin. “I like your dress!” I say, without meaning it too. She giggles like a schoolgirl. It’s absolutely disgusting. “Aw, thank you, Jen,” she says, flashing me a keyboard smile and giving a little twirl. “It’s a Galliano,” she adds. “Yes, so I see, those acid colours are quite distinctive,” I say, sarcastically. But it seems to go over her head. “I know, isn’t it clever?” she laughs. There’s really no hiding it. I hate Betty. Strangely, Darren nor his dad seem to have noticed. Which is good, I suppose . . . I know it sounds sick but Darren’s dad is actually quite horny. He’s got a bigger frame than Darren and he’s five inches taller for a start. Plus, I’ve seen him in a bathing suit – abs and a packet to die for! Together, he and Betty look like a couple out of a catalog. ‘A really stunning couple.’ My mum would put it. I sometimes wish my parents looked half that good. My dad’s overweight, bald, and my mum’s also overweight with a hairdo that went out of fashion in the eighties. Plus, they live on a council estate with a sofa out front that should have been tipped away a year ago. From one extreme to the other . . . Mr Horny appears wearing a polo shirt and shorts. He gives me a killer smile. I suppose if they had a girl and I was their boyfriend, I would be all over Mrs. ‘Hand-cock’ and thought Mr. Horny was a smug bastard. Oh, well . . . We go inside and sit down, dinners on the table, a conversation takes place but I’m not paying much attention to it. I’ve perfected the art of looking attentive. All you have to do is look at the person speaking with big wide eyes and nod, smile, laugh or shake your head in the right places. Simple, right? Betty and Mr. Hancock are now talking to each other and Darren nudges me with his arm. “What made you laugh back there?” he whispered. “Sorry?” “Mum said they were having trouble with the dishwasher and you laughed.” he said. “Oh, erm . . . just wondered who was going to do the dishes that’s all.” I said. ‘Quick-thinking, girl,’ I thought to myself. “Liar, you tuned out again. You weren’t listening.” He teased. I looked at him, surprised. It was probably the first time he’d seen through one of my lies.
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