Divorced Divas – to the end of Chapter 1

Divorced Divas last pages of Chapter 1:

It appears that Alessandra agrees with me — I look shocking in this outfit. Her plump lips curve in a down turned arch. ‘Take it off,’ she demands and I instantly obey. She points to a polished-cotton pant suit. I also question this outfit. Jade is not really my colour and paisley print certainly not my style. I tend to favour plain neutrals. Although my mother often tells me that I need to add more colour to my wardrobe. But I’m a brunette (my mother prefers to use the term ‘mousey’) and I guess neutrals are easier. No need to think about what to wear before I fly out of the door each morning. With six neutral non-patterned pant suits and three similar skirt suits I can interchange them into a multitude of combinations at my whim. I do have a plethora of colourful silk scarves though, so I’m not averse to a splash of colour, but this is ridiculous.

‘That’s better,’ Alessandra decides, ignoring my upturned nose which is clearly indicating my distaste. ‘I have many more like that. Now, what size shoe do you take?’ She stares with obvious disgust at my well-worn sneakers. Thankfully, we have the same size feet and before I know it, I’m walking around in a pair of stilettos that could substitute for Acrow props on a building site.

Half an hour later, Alessandra slaps her hands together. ‘Okay, that should do it for today.’ She bundles up my booty into two large suitcases and leads the way back to her lounge room. ‘Let’s get back to our limoncellos and we’ll talk about the rest.’

The rest? My nervous laugh rapidly turns into a snort. I’m famous for ‘the snort’, but I don’t like it. It not only erupts during laughter but also when I’m embarrassed. And dare I mention during sex? I also snore. You see, I have adenoid troubles. Something that my husband (I still can’t bring myself to call him my ex) loved to point out at parties when the snort would erupt. Well, now he doesn’t have to deal with that any longer, does he? No! My snort, snoring and I can now live happily ever after together, thank you very muchly, Mr. Perfect.

By the fifth limoncello, I’m buzzing, happily nodding along in agreement to all of Alessandra’s plans for my future life. The clothes are sorted. I am to begin exercises on Monday. (There’s no point even thinking about it over the weekend because I still have several girlfriends to commiserate with, now that the news is out.) My new food-combining diet is arranged, albeit with a little resistance because I can’t get my head around it. I simply don’t understand why one can’t eat starch and protein in the one meal. I mean, imagine life without fish and chips? No ham sandwiches? Not even my all time favourite breakfast, eggs on toast? I settle down somewhat when she tells me that I can eat almost anything… just not at the same time. I’m considering my new life as a non-stop snacker when she hits me with—

‘You will have to read up on sex.’

My eyes fly open despite the rising alcohol levels willing them to close and allow me to fall into a year-long sleep and wake up when the hard stuff is over. ‘SEX?’ I shriek.
We are now sitting on the balcony of Alessandra’s unit block which faces directly into a neighbouring balcony crammed with barbecuing, beer-swilling blokes. A cheer goes up and I hear their beer bottles clinking together.

‘I’m ready and willing, love. Just let me get these snags cooked and I’ll be right over!’ one smart-arse calls out. His mate, smart-arse number two, yells, ‘Super-sized snags, they are, too! Jacko will bring one over to you all right!’

My face floods with blood and I gulp down the last of my glass.

Alessandra’s face turns sour. ‘Those are not the type of men I’m thinking about when I think about you having sex.’

Merely thinking about Alessandra thinking about me having sex leaves me lost for words. She rises, flicks an erect digit at the barbecuing blokes before bringing her thumb and forefinger a mere centimetre apart. I don’t need to describe their response. Suffice to say, it involves quite a bit of hip thrusting and crude gesticulation; enough to make me hightail it out of there in pursuit of my friend who is now retreating in disgust in the direction of her bedroom. I’m too tired and drunk to follow so I plonk myself down on the lounge.

Seconds later Alessandra reappears with a basket full of books and colourful, strange-shaped toys. ‘I have several great books here,’ she announces. ‘They are manuals for lesbians, but pleasure is pleasure, Olivia, no matter who delivers it.’ She fossicks through the basket, flicking strange objects in my direction. ‘I also have a few sex implements you can borrow.’

I reach for the last of the limoncello, drinking the defrosted dregs straight from the bottle. Did she actually say I can borrow her sex implements? Oh, my dear Lord! This situation has so got out of hand!


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