by Lauren Bell
‘Scent me up,’ she said, her voice sharp as glass. ‘And no slacking.’
I swallowed hard, thinking all the while that she needed her head testing. In the past two months she had called in forty-eight times. It was becoming a farce. How could she justify these visits? It was a good thing we had a don’t ask policy otherwise I’m sure there would have been hell to pay.
I stood less than three feet away, and remembered the story of the illustrated lady whose skin was an artist’s canvas, a miraculous invention where inked fairytales came alive; exquisite to look at, even better to wear.
Or so I thought.
But as I looked at this harridan before me, I realised that some people just don’t know when to call it quits, and their need becomes pure greed.
You see it all the time: the latest designer handbags, apple gadgets, even a specifically genetically bred pooch – a different sort of fashion accessory.
So I did as I was told and sprayed her from head to toe, working my way through Brazil Nut, Vanilla, Coconut, Arabian Nights and Exotic Jasmine, knowing there would always be an inch of her left exposed.
Lauren Bell lives in Birmingham, loves rainbows and is often drunk on inspiration.