Diva Diaries Box Set

5. Santa Claus and his G-string

Chapter Five

Santa Claus and his G-string

Even the elderly have dreams

“Are you wanting a custard cream?” said the postman with a sympathetic smile. He, like the rest of the cast, knew about “the vegan.”

Charlie shook his head. It was his fourth rehearsal and things were not going smoothly. He was sitting in the Community Hall watching the postman pass around biscuits and feeling anything but amicable.

His karma (to quote the f—ing “vegan”) was buggered, and a custard cream was the last thing on his mind.

Daisy had been on his laptop all afternoon; the “I’ll just be five minutes” had turned into five hours. And Charlie had spent his hours writing notes in the shed, scraping up unwanted leftovers from the hens’ dish, shooing hens from the shed, and then rewriting his notes now covered in hen s**t. And Francis wasn’t any help, ignoring his “is there nothing of mine sacred, does she want my balls too” protest. She had told Daisy to take as long as she liked; apparently, he had “plenty to do.”

Charlie looked down at his stained, scribbled notes. He felt naked without his laptop, it was his lifeline.

Deloris arrived and took a seat beside Charlie. He nodded a small smile; she beamed back . . .

She had heard stories about his wife and wondered about a woman who befriended a known lesbian when she had Charlie to wake up to.

Charlie was nothing like the men Deloris had “been with.” He wasn’t striking but more nerdy with glasses and a full head of hair. A bonus at her time of life—most of the men she knew had hair that hadn’t required a comb in years. And he was patient, not like her exes, who raged at everything from queues to television ads. Nothing bothered him, and she wondered what would.

Not that she was looking or anything. It’s just that, well . . . it had been a long time.

She was just about to say something “chatty” when Derek called him over. Charlie stood up, and Deloris took in his slim hips as he casually moved to the stage.

Derek, looking agitated, pulled Charlie aside.

Deloris looked at Charlie’s notebook and came across his Santa’s G-string story. She began to read. It was as funny as she had heard.

“George says he’s got a costume big enough for my bum, and a wig just right for my fat head,” Derek whispered to Charlie.

“He said that?”

“Well, not exactly.” Derek gestured to the back. “Red Riding Hood said he said that.”

“George wasn’t talking about your bum,” muttered the postman.

Charlie looked at the postman, clutching a biscuit between his teeth while painting over last year’s this way sign with wolf’s hangout don’t go there.

Did he ever did do anything other than fix things? thought Charlie.

“Then he said that Deloris will come over and take my measurements as long as there’s no funny business.”

Deloris, who had the hearing of an elephant, looked up from her second Santa read. “He said what?”

“Takes a brave man to face Deloris and her dressing pins,” laughed the postman.

Deloris threw him a look.

“I’m not needing no fitting,” muttered Derek. “I can make my own costume.”

Deloris looked from Derek to Charlie. They were the same size.

She smiled. Fitting a costume on Charlie would be fun, and Derek would never see it until it was too late.

“I could bring a few dresses in for you,” said Deloris. “See what you think.”

Derek smiled an OK.

Now all’s she had to do was convince that delicious writer to be her model.

Charlie stood at the front gate of his house. He could see the light was on in the spare room where Francis and Daisy were. “Business planning” as Francis called it.

The next-door neighbour’s cat wrapped itself around Charlie’s legs. He stroked her, then with a deep sigh headed into the kitchen.

The house was strangely silent. A queer feeling hit the pit of Charlie’s stomach. As he entered the kitchen, the smell of burning hit him; he wondered what Daisy had been trying to cook . . . .

His scanned the surfaces; the kitchen was tidy—nothing. Then in the corner he saw it, his precious purple Mac . . .

It was no longer purple.

“There’s been an accident,” said Francis, walking into the kitchen. She pushed a dram in his direction. “Daisy spilt her soup.”

“What?”

“She thought that the best way to get lentils out of a computer was with bleach.”

“BLEACH!”

“Don’t think she realised it was flammable . . . suppose anything is when it’s plugged in.”

Charlie stared at his computer, sitting black and buckled in the corner, with a burning feeling in his stomach making its way to his throat.

“She was on the phone straightaway . . .”

Charlie speechlessly moved the lid of the laptop. It squeaked and fell off.

“Tesco’s got a sale on at the moment,” said Francis. “And you’ll have backed up, so . . .”

Charlie, holding the lid in his hand, looked at his wife casually leaning against the kitchen door with a disinterested look any thirteen-year-old would be proud of.

“Everyone backs up,” she muttered.

Charlie, tight-lipped, shook his head. Anger rooted him to the spot as it burned in his chest.

Daisy walked in with two coffee cups, placed them on the shelf, and missed.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” she stuttered. “Tesco’s got a sale on.”

Charlie stared at his wife. His heart felt like it was pumping out of his chest.

“All my work,” he said.

“It’s only a panto,” said Francis.

Charlie glared at his wife’s blank face with rage—she didn’t even care. He felt so angry he decided to get out of the house.

Francis watched his back as he walked out of the kitchen then poured herself vodka. Charlie’s cooling off never took long, she told herself, and she was sure Tesco was into purple, or at least pink.

Deloris poured herself a whisky and pulled the wedding dress from her costume cupboard . . . with a bit of tweaking, she could make it even worse.

She sighed. For six months she’d had (thanks to a cousin with a slightly warped sense of humour) a vibrator sitting in her cupboard. She pulled it out and looked at it. It was big and made more noise than a washing machine on full spin . . .

She thought about Charlie’s story. Laughter always made her feel sexy . . .

Santa jumped into the camper van and stretched out his hand. “You coming, love?”

Mary Christmas stared at his shirt as it fell open. A few beads of sweat meandered between the grey hairs. It had been a long time since she had seen his n****e.

Mary took his hand and decided to live a little.

And so did Deloris.

Deloris gave in to the moment, revolving around her bed in a state of hot, sweaty, quivering pleasure with more orgasms than she could remember, including her teenage years when she had put it about a bit.

The next day, Deloris got up to walk Len. She looked in the mirror and for the first time noticed the faint down on her upper lip. Without thinking she wiped it off, then pulled out a lipstick.