An Extract From We Are All Made of Glue

Original full-length version published by Fig Tree, an imprint of Penguin Books, London
Condensed version © Reader’s Digest (Australia) Pty Ltd

The front door had a frosted glass panel through which I could now see a faint sliver of light far away inside. There was a bell to one side. I pressed it and heard it ringing somewhere in the depths of the house. I heard shuffling footsteps, then Mrs Shapiro opened the door.

‘Georgine! Darlink! Come in!’

Mrs Shapiro was wearing a long-sleeved dress in carmine velvet, shaped at the waist and daringly cut away at the front. A double string of pearls gleamed around her wrinkled throat. Her dramatic black curls were piled on top of her head with a collection of tortoiseshell combs, and she’d painted on a dash of matching carmine lipstick. I was still wearing my jeans and a baggy pullover under my brown duffel coat. She eyed me critically.

‘Why you wearing this old shmata, Georgine? Is not flettering for a young woman. You will never get a man this way.’

‘I . . . I don’t need . . .’ I stopped. Maybe a man is what I need.

‘Come. I will find you something better.’

She led me into the wide, tiled entrance hall, from the centre of which a polished mahogany staircase curved away to the next floor. Underneath were piles of black refuse bags, bursting with—I don’t know, really, but I could see clothes and books and crockery spilling out where the bags had split. At one side was parked an old high-sprung pram, full of bundled rags, on which a couple of stripy felines were dozing. She shooed them away and started to root among the bundles. After a few moments she began to tug at a piece of dark green stuff which, when she pulled it out, turned out to be a long-sleeved dress in a silky fabric.

‘Here,’ she held it up to my chin, ‘this I think is more flettering for you.’ I looked at the label—it was a size 12—my size—and a Karen Millen. In fact it was a gorgeous dress. Where on earth had she got this from?

‘It’s lovely, but . . .’ Actually, when I thought about it, I could guess where she’d got it from—she must have pulled it out of a skip. ‘. . . but I can’t possibly take it.’

‘Is too big for me,’ she said. ‘Will look better on you. Tek it, please.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Shapiro, but . . .’ As I shook it out, I could smell the faint sweat and expensive perfume of its previous owner.

‘Try it! Try it! No need to be emberressed, darlink.’

Did she expect me to put it on straight away? Obviously she did. She stood over me as I stripped down to my knickers and slipped the dress, still warm from the sleeping cats, over my head. It slid over my shoulders and hips as though it was made for me. Why didn’t I just put on my own clothes and politely say good night? I thought of escaping, I really did. Then I thought of the trouble she must have gone to, to prepare the meal, and how let-down she would feel.

‘Wait, I will zip it!’ I could feel her hands, bony like claws, on my skin as she wrenched the zip up behind me. ‘Beautiful, darlink. You already looking much better. You are a nice-looking woman, Georgine. Nice skin. Nice eyes. Good figure. But when you last been at the hairdresser?’

‘I can’t remember. I . . .’ I remembered the way Rip would run his fingers through my hair when he kissed me.

‘You want I will put some lipstick on you?’

‘No, really, Mrs Shapiro.’

She looked me up and down. ‘OK. For tonight is OK. Come.’