A woman’s work

Andrew and Tristan Tate were having a lovely afternoon at their mum’s house. She’d gone out for the afternoon and left the boys to it because they made her skin crawl, so they were up in her room, trying on her clothes. 

Andrew was wearing a black velvet evening dress that had a gold sparkly motif, like a firework exploding, running over the left shoulder and down one sleeve. Mrs Tate had bought it for a cruise she and Mr Tate went on in 1987. Andrew had paired the dress with some fifteen-denier beige tights and a peacock fascinator that his mum had got for their cousin’s wedding, although she’d felt too self-conscious to wear it in the end. Andrew’s feet were a little too big for his mum’s shoes, but if they had fitted, he’d have worn the red patent kitten heels.

Tristan always preferred his mum’s normal day-to-day clothes, so he had chosen a sage green ankle-length pleated skirt from Next and a navy blue George at Asda jumper that said ‘Chic Sunday’ on it. He’d finished the look with a beige anorak from Littlewoods that his mum used to wear when they were kids. Tristan’s feet were a bit smaller, so he could just squeeze into his mum’s Uggs. 

Once they were both dressed, they pretended to be their mum, bustling about the house, hoovering, ironing the boys’ shirts, and preparing dinner, all the time enjoying their outfits and complimenting each other on how lovely they looked. Andrew liked the tights best, and Tristan couldn’t get over how swishy the skirt was when he turned around quickly. 

When all the chores were done, they sat down and had a cup of tea and a fag. 

“Do you know what, bro?” said Andrew. “I think this might be my best day ever.”