7

Miniature Scotch Eggs

It’s the evening of the broadcast and Pippa has arrived from Kent. Reclined in our ancient corduroy beanbag, wine glass on the floor beside her, she’s telling me about someone she knows at university whose mother is friends with Jude.

‘Apparently she used to have a terrible drink problem,’ says Pippa, twining a ribbon of hair around her index finger.

‘Did she?’

‘And she believes in open relationships.’

‘Is that so?’

She assesses me as if I might know something I’m not willing to divulge. ‘What’s she like? What’s she really like?’ So I tell her again about Jude, making the details as colourful as possible, recounting a few choice moments from our conversations with my best version of her voice, ‘Do the model pose, darling. One hip out, that’s it Scrumptious.’

‘She called you Scrumptious?’ Pippa whoops with laughter. I’ve forgotten how much I love that sound, the delighted gurgle which hasn’t much changed since childhood. It’s a treat to see her, even if it is because of this make-over show.

‘I thought we could go on a walk tomorrow, see the bluebells in Fosset wood.’

‘That sounds nice,’ she says. ‘What’s her skin like up close?’

‘Skin? I don’t know, it’s skin. Not as many wrinkles as some women her age I expect.’ It’ll be easier to catch up properly when it’s just the two of us, when all the TV palaver is finished.

‘Do you think she has Botox?’

‘You know Botox is a poison, it comes from botulinum…’

‘Yeah, I know, I know,’ says Pippa in a never mind that voice. ‘Did she have lines when she frowned?’

I try to think. ‘Well, now you mention it, she did have a certain waxy quality.’

‘Knew it,’ she says, as if she’s discovered vital evidence.

Pete enters with a tray of miniature scotch eggs, a plastic tray of salmon vol-au-vents from M&S and an assortment of crisps. ‘Excited?’ I glance at him without comment. ‘You should be, a whole programme devoted to you.’ He settles beside me and drapes an arm around my shoulders, which ordinarily would be nice, but tonight feels deliberate, a public gesture to prove everything’s all right. Things have been less than all right since the filming, but he’s obviously hoping to be vindicated as the world sees me turning into Rita Hayworth before their very eyes and my life is subsequently transformed with offers of personal appearances and invitations to open local branches of Asda.

Dom is in the armchair paging through the TV guide. He’s wearing a new pair of chunky Goth boots with crepe soles and silver toe caps which he brought home proudly from Camden Market, much to Pete’s horror and Pippa’s hilarity. He leans over and palms some snacks.

‘Not having any?’ asks Pete, waving a bowl of Wotsits at Pippa, who shakes her head. ‘You’re getting too skinny.’

‘Do you think I’m skinny?’ she says, bright-eyed.

She’s definitely thinner – I noticed it the minute she walked in the door but I’ve learned not to mention her weight.

The credits to the previous programme roll and Pete slides up the volume ‘…This week Make me Over visits a woman from Cambridgeshire who’s sartorially stranded at Greenham Common.’ Pippa squeals. Dom lays down the TV guide. I take a huge gulp of my Sauvignon Blanc and the saxophone-heavy theme tune kicks in as Jude narrates: ‘Forty-eight-year-old Tessa Perry left her fashion sense in a field at Greenham Common and, according to her best friend Maggie, she hasn’t worn a dress since The Iron Lady was in power…’

‘That’s not true!’ I exclaim as Maggie’s face appears smiling on screen.

‘Shhh!’ says Pippa.

‘But while the country rid itself of cruise missiles, Tessa never quite managed to rid herself of those Cold War fashion trends.’ Cue an old photo of me in knitwear. ‘…so it’s our job to stand up for a woman’s right to look sexy. We’re saying No to the drab (image of me in a checked shirt getting off my bike), ‘No to the shapeless’ (me, unglamorous while putting out the rubbish), ‘And Yes to a little Jude magic. Tessa Perry, it’s time to MAKE YOU OVER!’

‘There you are!’ declares Pete.

And there indeed I am, smiling widely as the voiceover mentions our campaign. It’s not a flattering shot, my hair is blowing around my face and my arms are outstretched as I stand before the five acres of grassland which is Heston Fields.

‘Oh, Mum,’ says Pippa, half sympathy, half dismay, ‘why are you wearing those?’ She means my orange trousers: linen, handy multi-pockets, drawstring waist.

‘It’s not about my trousers.’

But I can see from the shot that it very definitely is about my trousers.

The footage in the field is spliced together with a few images of me at work, one in which I’m giving a presentation to a local business about the economic benefits of sustainable practice, while apparently wearing an unsuitable jacket. In succession, these clips give a quick sketch of what Jude refers to as my lifestyle. Then it’s on to the make-over. There’s a view of me and Bobby the make-up artist at the kitchen table. He takes my hand as if he’s going to hold it, but instead the camera examines my stubby nails. ‘No more builders’ fingers for you,’ he says. I look tense. He recommends using formaldehyde-free nail polish, which is more environmentally friendly. Next he’s mixing a face-pack made from honey, yoghurt and avocado: another close up and there I am in all my glory, a swamp creature, nodding with feigned interest as he tells me the avocado is rich in natural proteins and vitamin B6. Pippa and Dom roar. I can barely bring myself to look.

The programme is rushing by in a frenzy of skin pimpling vignettes, the camera swinging from one cringe-inducing sequence to the next. We’ve reached the scene in the bedroom where Jude has bullied me into stripping down to my underwear.

‘And where exactly did these,’ she hesitates before saying it, ‘pants, come from?’ The knickers are not my best pair, but I hadn’t thought they were anything to be ashamed of. They are averagely cut, plain and white.

The pink-faced woman on screen says, ‘They’re comfortable.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Jude flits a hand in the air, ‘the C word again. Let me tell you something, Tessa, a bed is for comfort. An armchair is for comfort. But when it comes to underwear,’ she twangs the back of my knickers, apparently lost for words. ‘Lingerie. It’s French. It’s about sex, darling. These…’ another twang, ‘…are not sexy.’

Pippa groans. ‘The shame,’ she says, at the sight of her mother scrambling to cover herself. My face is now burning. Sheila next door will be watching this. My mum and her friends will be watching. The mothers from Dom’s school will be watching.

It gets worse.

What I obviously wasn’t party to were the ‘behind the scenes’ chats. There’s a point when the camera flashes to Pete’s face and sees him depressed by the contents of my wardrobe. There are chummy little shots of Jude and Bobby having a good laugh or throwing their hands up in despair. There’s a snapshot interview of Maggie, prior to filming I imagine, saying I need to devote some time to myself because I’m always spending so much of it working on what she calls my causes. In the back garden, while I’m presumably inside being forced to try on yet another outfit, Pete leans against the garden wall and says with an air of wistfulness, ‘It’s not that I don’t support what Tessa does but sometimes…’ he makes a despairing face. A pain goes through my heart. Jude nods understandingly. I stiffen, but the next blow catches me off guard. ‘You can see what I mean,’ he says, and Jude sympathises.

Pete’s arm is like lead on my shoulder. No one is eating the miniature scotch eggs.

‘They’ve manipulated that,’ says Pete. I draw away from him.

We move to the transformation scene. There is the obligatory before and after shot, ‘from that’ (oh dear) to this (wow), me going through my three looks: daytime, evening and what they refer to as ‘full-on green glam’, wobbling towards the camera in the dagger heels.

Of course, it is an illusion, I am still that, but now a more humiliated that.

We stare at the television all the way to the last painful credits, a shot of me and Pete gazing into each other’s eyes, me wondering what is happening, he, presumably, thinking I want you to look like this always, fire of my loins, envy of other women, fantasy of other men.

The last word goes to Jude. ‘Join us next week when we’ll be meeting a pastry chef from Sunderland and transforming her from Eccles cake to French Fancy.’ Then the saxophone theme tune again and it’s all over.

Pete, whose arm is now resting on the top of the sofa rather than around my shoulders, uses his free hand to applaud against his thigh, while I reach for the control and flick the television off. We sit in the aftermath.

‘What did you think, Pip?’ asks Pete, with false brightness.

‘Yeah, fun,’ she says.

‘How about Mum, didn’t she look fantastic?’

Dom realises something is called for. ‘Yeah. Well done.’ He shifts his boots uncomfortably.

‘To my glamorous wife,’ says Pete, raising his glass. How can he pretend everything’s all right after what he’s said on national TV? The glass is still in mid-air. ‘You looked fantastic.’

‘But it wasn’t me, was it? And it isn’t me now. I’m still the before, not the after.’ I get up to leave the room.

‘Nice one Dad,’ mutters Dom.

Pippa rustles in the beanbag. ‘Come on Mum, Dad was only trying to help.’

Pete smiles at her, grateful.

‘Pip, can’t you see what a sham that programme was?’

‘It was fun.’ She readjusts herself, looking up at me. ‘Things are different now,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to dress like a man to be a feminist.’

‘I don’t dress like a man,’ I say edging back into the room.

‘Not you. But, you know, feminism is basically all over isn’t it. Who wants to go around with armpit hair, banging on about equal rights.’

Armpit hair?

‘And anyway, you can still be into all that and do it with lipstick on.’

‘No one’s saying you have to look a certain way to be anything.’

But she doesn’t seem to be listening, she’s going off on a tract of her own. ‘Feminism is about allowing personal choice, isn’t it? Individual expression. The point is, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look attractive…’

‘Of course there isn’t.’

‘And just because you like to look good it doesn’t follow that you’re some sort of…’ she casts around for the word but doesn’t seem to find it, ‘bimbo or something.’

‘Who said anything about bimbos?’ I lean on the door jamb. ‘I’ve never been particularly bothered about fashion and make-up, have I? It’s no criticism of women who are.’

‘Yes. But all I’m saying is, women these days should be able to do what they want, because it’s their choice.’ Her brows have knit intensely together.

‘Where’s all this come from?’

Then Dom, who’s been flipping back through the TV guide since the programme ended, chips in. ‘It’s because she’s going in for Miss Student Body…’

Pippa shushes him.

‘What?’ I say to both of them.

Dom ignores Pippa and drops the magazine. ‘I heard her telling Dad but she didn’t want to say anything to you because she thought you’d freak.’

Now I glance at Pete who opens his mouth as if to say something and then changes his mind.

‘What’s Miss Student Body?’

Pippa’s colour is up.

‘It’s a beauty contest,’ says Dom.

She wriggles upright in the beanbag. ‘Look, it’s no big deal okay? We’re post-feminism now. Post-post probably.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ I say, unable to look at Pete.

‘It’s a bit of a laugh,’ she says.

‘At your expense.’

‘No. Not at my expense.’

‘She volunteered for it,’ says Dom.

‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ she snaps.

‘Pippa,’ says Pete reprovingly from the sofa. But I’m blocking him out. Presumably this is something else he wasn’t going to share with me. I try very hard to keep calm. After some level-toned questioning, Pippa explains that Miss Student Body is a beauty competition for female students in the Eastern and Southern regions and she was invited to enter by a guy who approached her in a nightclub. As far as I can tell, the thing is organised by an outside events company and has nothing to do with the university.

‘Pippa, this stuff is so out of date. I thought your generation had got beyond beauty contests.’

She runs a hand through her hair, the way her father does when he’s wound up. ‘No one’s being exploited. We’re doing it out of personal choice.’

Dom crosses one boot over the other. ‘Sounds sad.’

‘The prize is two thousand pounds,’ she says, ignoring him. ‘And they make a one thousand pound donation to a charity.’

‘Oh well, that’s all right then,’ I say, ‘if they dress it up like that.’

‘See, I told you she’d be like this,’ Pippa says to her dad.

‘You could nominate Easy Green,’ says Pete, which I imagine is his way of lightening the atmosphere.

‘So you think this is all right? Having your daughter parading around in her knickers.’

‘I won’t be wearing knickers,’ says Pippa, aghast. Dom laughs loudly. She tells him to shut up. I remind her that no one in this house tells another person to shut up. She says oh yes, that’s right, sorry she was forgetting and asks me again why it was they were never allowed to play Monopoly. I close down that particular discussion before we go completely off topic.

‘Pip, there are people fighting for university places. Students are out on the streets trying to protect their right to an education. Why do you want to waste your time with this nonsense? Just think about it, that’s all I ask…’

‘There’s nothing to think about. It’s no big deal.’

‘If it’s what she wants,’ says Pete, ‘I don’t see the harm. We all do silly things when we’re young.’

‘It’s not silly. Oh.’ She rises from the beanbag, but with difficulty because beanbags aren’t designed for decisive action. ‘For some reason I thought someone might be, God, I don’t know, pleased for me or something.’

‘I can’t say I’m hugely excited about my daughter parading around in her pants, no.’

‘Well everyone’s just seen yours,’ she says, straightening up.

‘That was different.’

‘How?’

‘I wasn’t doing it for me…’

‘Well I’m not either. I’m doing it for charity.’ I give her a sceptical look and her brown eyes become fierce. ‘You know how expensive fees are, you were the one who wanted me to go on the marches, remember?’

‘This isn’t the answer is it!’ I knew she wasn’t joining the women’s society but I didn’t expect this. ‘If you’re going to use that argument you might as well take up pole dancing, that probably pays a few quid.’ She picks up her glass and heads towards the door. I try to calm my voice. ‘Pip, you may think this is all a bit of fun, but there’ll be people making money out of it. Making money out of you. You’re a beautiful girl, of course you are, but you don’t have to prance up and down to prove it. You don’t have to feed the machine.’

‘What machine? There is no machine!’ she says flinging an arm up so the silver bangles on her wrist jangle and her wine sloshes. ‘I’m sorry you haven’t got a daughter who wants to sit in a field all day eating mungbeans and going on about global warming… I’m sorry I’m not kicking about in charity shop clothes getting neurotic about other people’s heating bills or whatever it is you do…’

‘Pippa!’

‘…but that’s not me, okay. And it never will be. I’m not like you.’

She makes her exit.

Dom shakes his head. ‘She’s mad.’

I have the urge to run upstairs, to suggest that walk in Fosset wood so we can talk things over and make our peace. But even as I’m thinking this I also want to shake her by the shoulders because for the life of me I can’t understand her. A beauty pageant? And what was that about mungbeans? It’s her first year at university, she’s young, she wants to fit in, but even so, a beauty pageant? Is her need to be accepted really that strong? I remember nineteen – the muddle of it – and I remember what it was like wanting to belong, only the gang I wanted to belong to had a very different agenda.