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It always had to be pink.  Pink for a girl.  Pink for a girly-girl.  She would never had worn them.  Dungarees.  How could her Mother think of this?  Aveton Gifford always had style, she was the cutest of babies, she was pretty, and then she was attractive.  And she always knew it.

 

What is the first thing you remember?  For Aveton Gifford it was glitter – shiny and sparkly.  Her eyes followed the glitter around the room.  The eyes were followed by a giggle.  Her parents had been enchanted.  It was love.  They loved their beautiful daughter, the daughter who loved glitter.

 

It was a telling time.

 

At school she always had immaculate plaits.  It was something her Mother had introduced.  Her Mother was not a natural.  She was an ordinary woman, however she seemed to have an extra-ordinary child.  Aveton was so pretty, a girly-girl.  She would always be the same.

 

Aveton only had one doll.  She was given many but only one that she loved, the others didn’t feel the same, didn’t look the same, didn’t smell the same.  Of course, she could not articulate that, but those were the reasons.  She had one doll she loved.  Aveton made clothes for her, dressed her up, wanted the doll to look like her.  She wanted the doll to be perfect.

 

She called her Anne.

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They went to a girl’s school.  There should have been no-one to impress.  Girls want to impress other girls.  Boys would be seen later.  At bus-stops, outside sweet shops.  Aveton knew she would be noticed.

 

She always was.

 

Aveton never adhered to school regulations.  The discrete mascara.  The teachers knew but it was not enough to spark their fury.

 

Knee-length skirts.  Aveton was never having any of it.  She looked like she was pregnant.  It was because she had rolled her waistband up so many times.  It showed off her legs and she had good legs.  She knew she had good legs.  At the bus-stop, outside the sweet-shop the boys looked at her legs.  She pretended that she did not notice.

 

Aveton always noticed.

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For her fourteenth birthday Aveton was given a bra.  She didn’t need it.  She did not really have a chest yet but if defined her, defined her shape.

 

Was padding cheating?  Aveton did not think so.  The boys looked at her differently.  She did not care if it was false.  They were boys.  They would not see inside the bra, inside her – they were boys.

 

In the changing rooms for PE no-one said anything.  No-one dared.  Aveton was the supreme lady, always had been. 

 

One day she let it slip, she was usually so careful, carefully managing the pretence.  The padding was noticeable.  Only one person noticed it, saw the deception.

 

Only one person noticed the lie – the one person who would never tell.

 

The one person Aveton never spoke to.

 

Anymore.

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Aveton was always lucky and if luck would have it she was born at the right time, and she was in the right place.

 

The swinging sixties.  It made her laugh at the time.

 

The clothes suited her, everything short, everything tight.  She was a glamorous lady.  Everything suited her.

 

She was now earning money and she spent her money on the things that attracted her.  Money was spent on clothes, on objects, on her.

 

She always got what she wanted and now it was in her control.

 

Heads turned.

 

No discrete mascara.  No teachers to hide from.  No-one to hide from.  She was on display.

 

She was a head turner, she always had been, but she was no longer cute.

 

She was desirable.

 

Looking in the mirror she made promises, pledges to the reflection she saw.

 

Always high heels.

 

Always long hair.

 

Always blonde.

 

Always desirable.

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She was never going to be the conventional bride.  Not Aveton.

 

They called it blush but to her it was always pink.  The same pink princess she wanted to be when she was six.

 

She was now 20.

 

A young bride.

 

She had got the prize.

 

The one everyone wanted.

 

He was flash and so was her dress.  Over the top, trains and tiaras.  She now looked at the photos with distaste.  She thought she had such good taste.  Her taste in men was lacking.  It was always flattery, the key to her existence.  Turning and turning and turning – turning heads. Not engaging, but they had got engaged.  And they had got married.

 

Pretty in Pink.

 

A formal suit at the divorce.

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No expense was spared for her second wedding.  People commented on the length of Aveton’s train.  It was an express, and excessive.  Lavish and luxurious.  It was a show stopper.  Silver this time.  She knew how to wear a dress, she always had, and always knew what was appropriate.  Money was appropriate this time.

 

High heels.

 

Long blonde hair still.

 

People looked.  She was still a looker.

 

She had landed on her feet.

 

Landed in high heels.

 

A formal suit at the divorce.

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It was always style over substance for Aveton.

 

This time, this third time.

 

There was substance.

 

She didn’t ask for an engagement ring – he couldn’t afford it.

 

It was too big for her, her delicate fingers.  It was not to her taste.  It never had been.

 

She wore her grandmother’s ring on her wedding day.

 

Everything was simple.  Her outfit was simple.

 

It was simply perfect.

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Aveton was never modest but, with age, modesty has to follow.  She would probably been described as stylish.  She abhorred those who refused to acknowledge their age, who dressed too young for themselves.  Aveton never did that.  She was always dressed appropriately.

 

Dressing in black was appropriate.  How else do you honour your parents?

 

Still stylish.

 

She wanted to wear dungarees.

 

 

 

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