Virgin(29)

At the end of her pep talk, she collapsed onto the sofa. “Oof, that tired me out,” she said. “What do you think of Auntie Emma’s wisdom?”

I sighed and leaned my head against the cushioned wall. “I don’t know. I guess you’re right. He is definitely very clever, and he’s really funny. I love when he smiles. It’s just that I don’t know how much we really have in common when he talks about the intellectual stuff.”

“Men love talking bollocks. They all do it. Just carry on with him, and each time he goes down that road, cut him off or change the topic and he’ll eventually figure out you don’t want to hear it.”

I felt better. Emma was right. My expectations were too high and Jack was lovely and that was all that mattered. “Okay. Advice accepted. I’m going to enjoy the fact that I finally have a proper date. Anyway, tell me all about Marbella!”

She grinned and turned to face me. “Which one do you want to know about first?”

I let Emma’s stories transport me from my ordinary life to a glamorous one in the sunshine where hot thirtysomethings asked twenty-three-year-old girls out and took them for drinks. On a one-week holiday—with her parents and older brother—Emma had managed to go on two dates with two different men and sleep with both of them. I had no idea how she had managed this and absorbed everything she said to me with admiration and wonder. All she had done was smile at these guys on the beach and they had come up to her, flirted and asked her out.

The girl had a gift. She regaled me with tales of Antonio, the Spaniard, and Carl, from Yorkshire, and I let myself live through her. She was only a couple of years older than me but her life sounded so fun and exciting, like something straight off TV or out of a Carrie Bradshaw column.

“Anyway,” she said, when I had finally heard every detail about Antonio’s talented tongue, “I’m done boring you to death with my Spain goss. Tell me about your date plans with Jack.”

“Well, it’s tomorrow and we’re going for dinner but he hasn’t told me where we’re going yet.”

“Oooh, dinner. He must be planning to get lucky if he’s bothering to take you out for dinner,” she said. “Are you going to go back to his place if he asks? Are you gonna shave in case?”

“No, and I don’t think I can. I’ve, um, had some bad experiences,” I said, averting my eyes from hers. “Let’s just say I’m not very skilled with a razor blade when it comes to my vagina.”

She started giggling and when I looked up at her questioningly, she replied, “Babe, I meant your legs.”

“Ah,” I said sheepishly. “I think I can probably handle shaving those. But honestly, Emma, removing hair down there is a fucking nightmare for me. Shaving isn’t my forte, those hair removal creams don’t work and I’m out of options here.”

“Well, I go to a salon and get waxed every month. It’s kind of expensive, so that might put you off, but other than that it’s the perfect option because you just lie on a bed, raise your legs and they take care of all the dirty work.”

“How expensive?”

“My salon does a Brazilian for thirty quid, which is expensive, I know, but they use this really good sugar wax and it lasts for weeks,” she assured me.

“Thirty quid?! I could buy about four dresses with that,” I said, my mouth wide open. Then her words sank in and I raised my eyes to meet hers in confusion. “Hang on, you get a Brazilian? Why do you do that over a Hollywood?”

She shrugged. “Personal preference, I guess. I just think having it all off makes it look too bald and I feel so prepubescent. It’s kind of creepy, isn’t it? Like, suddenly we’re young girls having sex with older men. It makes me feel illegal and not in a good way.”

The color drained out of my face and as I sat there thinking about what she said, I wanted to give up once and for all with pubes. Why were they so sodding complicated? Emma picked up on my confusion and touched my arm. “Don’t worry, babe, loads of girls have Hollywoods. It’s normal.”

“But do they?” I blurted out. “I have no fucking clue what other girls do. This is my problem. I can’t handle pubes anymore. Magazines go on about Brazilians and Hollywoods, but no one actually tells you what everyone else is doing down there. You can see boob jobs, and haircuts and whatever, but you can’t see vaginas and it means that I have no idea what lies beneath for half the population. WHY DOES NO ONE EVER TALK ABOUT THEIR PUBIC HAIRSTYLES?”

My voice had reached an anguished crescendo and the entire café turned to stare at us, but I hardly noticed.