Passing the Parcel
"Going out is the new staying in!" exclaimed Berenice, pouring pink fizz into fluted glasses.
"With a house like this, who needs the pub?" Jo replied, pointing to the Art-Deco style bar, with its neon under-lighting, mini fridge and strategically placed liqueurs.
"Shame you haven't got Tom Cruise behind there as well; your mum and dad have got everything," Vicki gushed; slouching back on the chaise, her head restfully cocked to one side. She looked up at the chandelier and squinted at the light reflecting prisms blurring into a single sparkling mass.
"Ah-hum; step dad - remember!" corrected Berenice, flicking her shiny blonde mane over one shoulder and the satellite channels to MTV. "I've got the house all to myself for two more days yet, so relax, girls; make yourselves at home!" she shouted over the startling boom of Eminem.
Another cork was popped, mules kicked off and cigarettes offered, as Berenice complacently described the renovations hubby Carl was doing on their new abode whilst she was house-sitting for her mum and Phil who were doing the whole L.A, San Francisco and Vegas caboodle.
"It should be finished next week, but I'm not moving in 'til it's perfect. You should see me kitchen; all stainless steel and beech - not that I'll be cooking much," remarked Berenice, proffering a bowl of Bombay mix around to show off her perfectly maintained nails.
"Aren't you missing Carl?" Vicki asked, picking a lentil from her back tooth. Berenice pondered for a moment ... She smiled - falsely...
"Now who's for another?" She made the swift conversation change from her marriage to Mandy Macdormat's forthcoming twenty-first and the three of them began to run through a plethora of outfit options for the 'do'.
Cocktails were spilled and fags were chucked haphazardly as the girls giggled and bitched about Mandy and before long they were continuing the conversation into Berenice's bedroom.
Rummaging through her wardrobes, Berenice pulled out shoebox after shoebox and carelessly flung expensive garments onto the bed. Jo pushed her heavy fringe from her face and rolled her eyes at Vicki, who was slouched by the window, smoking weed.
"Blimey, Bern's, you've got so much stuff?" Jo mused, picking out a white suit.
"Two words - gold card," gloated Berenice, fluently slipping into a skin-tight cat suit which exposed her perfect cleavage.
"You could wear a sack and look fab," tutted Jo as she struggled to zip up the size ten hipsters; her belly rippling over the waistband.
"There must be - what - fifty pairs of shoes here, all new!" exclaimed Vicki as she riffled through the boxes haphazardly. "You're a bloody shopaholic, Berni!"
"I know, but I just can't help myself and Mum's got all these catalogues going and..." Berenice raised her eyebrows.
"What?" Jo and Vicki unanimously asked. Berenice faltered and coyly bit her lip; should she divulge further? She snatched the joint from Vicki and drew deeply.
"I was simply gonna say how you can get practically anything without leaving the house these days ." She inhaled again; deeper. "Okay, okay! I can't keep it to myself any longer."
"Give it 'ere then, my turn for a puff;" beckoned Jo, dejectedly removing the ill fitting suit.
"Not this, stupid!" dissed Berenice as she handed over the joint. "My secret ."
"An affair!" bellowed Jo.
"With a delivery man!" smirked Vicki, wrinkling her nose. "How, when, wh...?"
"Three weeks ago I took a parcel in for Mum from a right bit of hot- stuff, so I decided to put in a few orders of my own; it didn't take long for him succumb to my charms." Berenice raised her brow more alluringly this time. "Now I phone my order through for express delivery and he turns up the next day for a bit of 'how's your father'!"
"Or in your case - step-father," joked Jo. "Now that's what I call service," she giggled.
"You may laugh, but I'm telling ya, girls, he is gorgeous. Tall, athletic, not too much chest hair, about twenty-three, twenty-four "
"You mean you've counted them," interrupted Vicki, looking both bemused and stoned.
"I'm guessing his age, you silly cow! Get with the programme, Vicks. Hmmm, he's tanned with perfect teeth... eyes...nose..." Berenice drifted for a moment and the others exchanged glances. Here was a woman who had everything but always wanted more - and she got it!
D'ya know what I like about it ? The mystery. We don't talk much; don't have the time for chit-chat. I don't even know his name. I call him Mr. P."
"Is that on account of the size of his package," winked Jo, digging for juicy details. Berenice squeezed herself between the two girlfriends on the bed and continued...
"What he lacks up top," she prodded her temple, "he more than makes up for downstairs. He 'delivers' every time; the sex is amazing - quick but fucking quality."
"Or quality fucking," quipped Jo, "he sounds too good to be true." Jo and Vicki held out their glasses, beseeching for more alcohol and information. Berenice secretly delighted in their expressions of envy and shock as she topped them up.
"I've got one more shag coupon to hand in then I go back to being faithful Mrs Bowers and Mr. P. will have to cope without my body." Berenice sighed, gazed down at her flat stomach and took of sip of wine, giving the girls time to absorb her confession.
Vicki began to titter then full blown laughter erupted. "Nice wind up, Berni ."
"See; told you I'm not making him up."
Gob smacked and lips a smacking, Jo and Vicki almost salivated over the butt-shots of Mr. P.
"That is one fantastic arse," agreed Vicki, holding the Polaroids close up.
"We've done it in every room in the house; the first time he took me up against the six ring Smeg and we nearly gassed ourselves in the process."
"Now that would have been a combustible bang," joked Jo with a hint of covetous sarcasm. "You're addicted to shopping and sex; a bloody two -timing, nymphomaniac shopaholic, Berni!"
The next morning, Berenice awoke in a midst of shoe boxes and tissue paper, with a severe migraine and a bad dose of PVT; pre visa tension. She knew it was time to stop spending but she had to get out those catalogues for one last spree.
Her heart pounded with anticipation, like a drug rushing through her veins as she perused the pages of lingerie and home furnishings. She was about to place her order for a set of steak knives and a camisole when...
"Coo-eee, Berni love, we're back!"
"Shit." Berenice despondently hung up the phone and pretended to be reading a magazine at the breakfast bar. Mother was home - early.
"Make us a nice cuppa, sweetheart; well aren't you pleased to see me? Thought we'd surprise ya!" hollered Lorraine, who was sumptuously bronzed from the California sun.
"Not exactly," huffed Berenice, like the spoilt daughter she was, nonchalantly flicking the pages of the Enquirer. "Where's Phil?"
"Paying the taxi, and he's your dad, not Phil," tutted Lorraine, looking like a blonde Sophia Loren in her sun hat, scarf and dark glasses.
"The cat okay?"
"Fine." Berenice turned over a page flippantly.
"And you let the repair man in last Tuesday?"
"Yep."
Lorraine removed her headgear.
"Carl doing all right with the house, love?"
"Yes, Mum." Berenice got up and hit the switch on the kettle.
"Did erm, any parcels come for me?" Lorraine asked, sheepishly lowering her tone.
A wicked smile crept across Berenice's face as she remembered doing something very naughty with a spatula on her mum's waterbed.
"A couple; I put 'em in your room."
"That'll be me gym stuff . I better hide it from your dad; he's having a fit about the credit card bills lately!" Lorraine called as she rushed upstairs.
"How's my princess?" bellowed Phil, laden with bulging cases.
"All right, love; did ya give the driver a tip?" asked Loraine looking guiltily flustered.
"Yeah, I told him to steer clear of the bloody M25 next time!"
"Phil, what you like?" giggled Lorraine and Berenice rolled her eyes in disgust as her step dad slapped her mum on the backside.
"Ooh, Phil, give Berni her prezzies! We got your perfume and fags, sweetheart."
"Thanks, Mum, Dad," Berenice replied without one iota of genuine gratitude for the brimming duty free bag. Phil leant into her and prodded his cheek. She grimaced and obliged with a peck.
"I'll make that tea shall I?" said Lorraine, pulling three cups from the dishwasher.
"Sorry, Mum, you sit down, I'll do it," offered Berenice, suddenly displaying a demeanour of goodwill. Whilst stirring the brew she contemplated the prospect of a full-blown affair with Mr. P. She needed to see him again, needed another fix of his body; needed to get acquainted with more kitchen aids! With Carl on nightshifts, maybe Mr. P. could be persuaded to do some moonlighting.
"You two have a good time then?"
"It was great; but it would have been better if your mother hadn't had the painters and decorators in. Five grand on a holiday and not one bleedin' shag the whole time. Bleeding shag, d'ya get it!" Phil bumped Berenice and rasped with laughter.
God, that man was brash, loud, fat - but very loaded. Berenice supposed she could tolerate his crap if he could bail her out of debt.
In a lapse of getting the joke, Lorraine's infernal giggles surfaced again. "Oh, Phil, what you like?"
Berenice couldn't take much more; rolling her eyes to the ceiling she prayed that Carl had got the plumbing sorted at last.
She spent the next three days sucking up to her step dad in hope of scoring some cash; tolerating his churlish jokes, overbearing ego and her mother's silly laughter and new found love of aerobic activity. Why was her mum suddenly donning sweatbands and lycra at her age, she wondered. It was ridiculous!
Utterly bored with too much time on her hands, Berenice popped round to the house, interrupting Carl for a gratuitous bonk to keep him sweet and incited to finish the feathering of their luxury love nest. It was painful sex, which bothered her, as this had never happened before.
She began to worry, concluding that the overly frequent trips to the loo and abdominal pain she experienced of late may have something to do with it. A trip to the doctors was in order.
Feeling utterly humiliated after enduring stirrups and swabs at the genito-urinary clinic, Berenice took a slow walk home then took solace in her room to read up on the pamphlets about STDs. She had an agonising week to wait for the results but was certain the dreaded outcome was Chlamydia. The symptoms she been experiencing were all there in black and white: the mild fever, the need to pee all the time, and it wasn't smelling too good downstairs. But it was the pains in her stomach that worried her the most; signs of pelvic inflammatory dissease. It was her payback for being a freeloading, uncaring bitch and the infamous Mr. P. I.D - as she now called him, had some serious explaining to do. She wanted to know his real name, his actual age, where he lived and who else he'd been doing 'the rounds' with. She was ardent on keying his car; telling his girlfriend - if he had one, and making him suffer the same indignity she had recently undergone.
Berenice needed a drink, a fag and a friend's shoulder to cry on.
Jo was all ears as she iced the finishing touches on Mandy Macdormat's birthday cake and Berenice paced around the kitchen, nearly knocking a carefully prepared prawn ring from the work surface as she flung her hands up in angry despair.
"Ooh, I could kill him! Don't you dare breathe a word to anyone that I've got the clap."
"Why didn't you use protection? Have you told Carl? You should tell Mr. P. Maybe talk to your Mum. I told you to so."
Blah blah blah; Berenice was getting no sympathy from her best mate; all Jo was interested in doing was handing out clichéd advice whilst garnishing sandwich platters. She fought back the tears and stomped out.
"Going already, Berni? I wanted you to try me Coronation ..."
The door slammed.
" ...Chicken." With a sprinkling of paprika, Jo smiled to herself. "What goes around, bloody well goes around," she muttered under her breath.
"What's up with Phil? He's a got face like thunder," noted Berenice. Her mum, quiet for once, didn't answer; merely shaking her head as she angrily stuck returns stickers onto a pile of packages. The front door slammed and Lorraine looked up, she deeply exhaled, obviously glad to be rid of him at last.
"Oh, Berni love; I've got myself in right ole state."
"What's wrong?" Berenice sat beside her mum and offered a hand of consolation. It was time she started spreading a little karma around - not Chlamydia. She could see the traces of tears in her mum's eyes.
"You think I'd be wiser at my age huh? Forty years old and still stupid enough to fall for a wink and a smile; just like I did with your real dad - good for nothing loser. If Phil finds out the truth he'll bloody leave me, I know it." She turned to Berenice and put her hand on hers."Me and Phil haven't slept together for a while; I had to make an excuse about Aunt Flo on holiday. But the truth is ..." Lorraine plucked a tissue from the box and dabbed the corners of her eyes. Berenice hugged her. Lorraine pulled a hospital letter from her fake Vuiton handbag. Berenice couldn't read it.
"It's not cancer is it - or some awful disease?"
"Lorraine stopped dabbing and looked at her distraught daughter, bemused at her aberrant sincerity.
"It's awful enough all right; I've got the pissing clap, love."
Berenice detracted her arm and covered her mouth.
"You? Has Phil been... ?"
Lorraine shook her head in shame.
"I had a stupid fling with that bloody lad from ...Oh it doesn't matter. Thought it was just thrush from those nylon knickers at first or I'd started me change early. Doctor Powell reckoned it was Chlamydia before I got the results."
Berenice shook her head in disbelief and clocked the pile of catalogues in the bin. She knew exactly who her mother had been having it off with.
"How could you!" she shouted, "You're disgusting; woman of your age!"
"I only wanted to feel young again; don't even know his bloody name. He looked like a nice clean lad to me; talk about pass the parcel." Lorraine's feeble attempt at a joke was about as funny as toothache.
"I don't wanna hear this," Berenice burbled, putting her hands to her ears, but thoughtlessly her mother raved on.
"...And I only saw that Beverly Cranleigh down at the clinic too, she's been ordering from me club for years - and we all know what clap comes out of her trap."
Berenice backed out of the kitchen.
"You should have told me you and him were...I'd never have... !" She ran upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom, hoping to dispel the sickness inside, but all she could manage was a pitiful Coco Pop. Lorraine banged on the door pleading for Berenice to let her in.
"Piss off!"
"Berni, sweetheart, I didn't think for one moment that you and he had ...you know...Like mother like daughter eh... ? How about a nice cuppa ? Something stronger ?" Lorraine lingered on the landing with the cognac decanter until Berenice emerged bleary-eyed with tears.
"What am I gonna do, Mum?"
"We'll get through it together, sweetheart; you and me. It'll be our secret."
"If we send all this back and get a refund, at least we can clear some of the debt," suggested Lorraine, looking at the array of packages before her.
"We should tell him, so the Doctor says," added Berenice, swirling her brandy around.
"I don't know, love. Let's leave it eh; wait for your results and if it's what I've got then with that course of Doxy-whatsit..."
"Cycline; Doxycycline," corrected Berenice.
"That's the one. It'll be over with in no time, then we can get on with our lives and no one will ever know."
"That's okay for you, Mum; you had your only child! What about me - what if I can't have kids because of this!" screamed Berenice; her mother obviously hadn't read up on it as much as she had. There was nothing Lorraine could say to that.
Berenice put on her sexiest suit and bravest face for Mandy's party, but it didn't take her long to realise she was the topic of tittle-tattle amongst the partygoers. She pretended not to overhear the jibes directed at her indirectly as she sauntered past her 'supposed' friends whom all shot stares with mirth and glee on their two-faced faces, speaking in hushes to spread the genital gossip.
She could have throttled Jo for letting it slip - who incidentally stood by the huge birthday cake for obvious cover, knowing that Berenice wouldn't dare throw a punch in the direction of chocolate ganache whilst she was wearing her white suit.
Berenice was used to being the centre of attention, but not this kind of malicious tongue-wagging. Deciding to pick her juicy bone with Jo at a later date, she sloped off early, realising not only did could she no longer trust her so-called mates; she had to tell Carl before one of them did.
Berenice had been waiting for dawn and as dawn broached, Carl came in from his nightshift. He hit the light switch and jumped back with his hand on his heart. It was a virtuous heart thought Berenice; one she was none deserving of.
"Babe, you scared me 'alf to death! You're not supposed to see this place for another day; I wanted it to be a surprise." Carl looked shattered after working his socks off to provide Berenice with a dream home. She never gave him credit for it, only credit to clear for her insatiable spending and if she couldn't give him a baby in the future - what was the point of all this?
She twisted her wedding band, guessing that it wouldn't grace her finger for much longer; barely a few months as man and wife. Carl stooped to kiss her but she turned away shamefully. He sat on the dustsheet-covered couch and rubbed his weary brow in confusion.
Her conscience momentarily surfaced as she walked over to the window.
"Carl, I've got something to ..." She drew breath, about to confess all. The doorbell rang. Strange at six in the morning she thought. She drew back the curtain and cursed, "What the f**k! Carl cursed too, his face turned as white as the dust sheet. He tried to keep Berenice from the door but it was too late. She was onto it.
There she was, all done up the nines with a bottle of cheap plonk; wearing nothing but a rain mack and cheap perfume; the smug smile slipping from her face.
"Beverley bloody Cranleigh! Carl; what the hell's been going on?"
