ds1000 - Little Miss Chav - P12

January had faded into the bleak, grey skies of mid-February, and with every miserable, rain-soaked week that passed, the wedding hurtled closer.

There had been zero let-up from the routine. Liam was still surviving on Hannah’s restrictive, vegan-based diet and punishing exercise routines to maintain an unnaturally slim waistline. He was still dragging himself to the Black Horse most evenings, pulling pints for the estate’s regulars while squeezed into skirts barely wider than a belt and heels that left his arches screaming by the end of his shift.

Then there was Sharon. Twice a week at Pilates, Ronnie’s wife would chatter away on the exercise mats, forcing her unwanted opinions on floral arrangements and seating charts down his throat. It was as maddening as it was suffocating. The quiet, nerdy lad he used to be was buried beneath a draining, ditzy personality, trapped inside a swollen, stretched, and starved body that didn't feel like his own anymore.

The sham was becoming frighteningly real. The hen do was officially booked—deposits paid, tacky sashes ordered. But that was next month's problem. First, he had to get through tonight.

Downstairs, the house had been given a makeover. Cleared of its usual clutter, the living room was fully decorated for an engagement party, the furniture re-arranged to create a buffet table and a makeshift dance floor. Within the hour, it would be hosting half the estate, a flock of Hannah and Molly’s loud mates, and a handful of his distant relatives he hadn’t seen in years.

Upstairs, Liam was undergoing a transformation of his own, from everyday estate chav to belle of the ball. Recently showered, slathered in a fresh coating of dark fake tan, and wrapped in a white towel that barely contained the heavy, unnatural weight sitting on his chest, he had spent the last hour perched on the edge of his sister’s bed, drinking strong vodka and Diet Cokes.

His sister and cousin had hovered over him the entire time, critiquing and guiding his makeup application until his contour was razor-sharp, his eyes were hidden beneath a thick canopy of lashes, and his swollen, glossy lips dominated his face.

Having slipped away to the bathroom to empty his bladder—a tedious and complex ordeal when trying to keep everything smoothly tucked—he now stood frozen at the sink.

He looked into the glass. A heavily glammed, platinum blonde stared right back, her masses of hair yanked up into a painfully tight, cascading ponytail. He gripped the edge of the porcelain, his long acrylic nails clicking against the basin, desperately trying to fight the sickening realization that the plastic, pouting bimbo in the mirror was actually him.

“What’s taking so long?” Molly asked, appearing in the doorway in a short, tight purple dress, her braids styled into an updo pinned high on her head. “We’ve still got loads of prep to do downstairs before people start turning up.”

Liam spun around to fire back, but the sudden, violent twist of his torso sent a sharp jolt through his sensitive chest. He gasped, instantly bringing his manicured hands up to cradle his large breasts, supporting the weight as his glossy lips pulled into a miserable pout.

"Because I'm having a nervous breakdown, Molly! That's what's taking so long!" Liam choked out, his voice cracking. "Look at me! Look at what I've turned into!"

Molly rolled her eyes, popping her chewing gum as she leaned against the doorframe. “Oh, give over, Tiff. Stop being so dramatic. You look proper fit. Half the girls turning up tonight will be dead jealous, so pack it in."

“I don't want them to be jealous!” Liam shrieked, fighting the urge to cry. He let go of his chest and looked down at his trembling, hairless arms. “I feel like I'm losing my mind, Mols. My body... it feels wrong.”

Molly scoffed, crossing her arms. "Well, you're probably just stressed, aren't ya? You've got a lot on your plate with the party."

"It’s not just stress!" Liam pleaded, desperate for someone to understand what he was living through. “I’m exhausted all the time. I'm constantly freezing. I literally cried watching an advert on the telly yesterday! And my skin...” He placed a hand back under his right breast. “It's so sensitive. Even this towel is driving me crazy. And I don’t even...”

He swallowed hard, a deep flush of humiliation burning beneath his makeup. “I don't even wake up with a stiffy anymore. It’s like everything’s dead down there. I feel like I’m actually turning into a girl for real, Mols. I’m scared.”

Molly smiled and let out a casual snort. “There’s nothing to be scared about, babes. That’s what the pills are supposed to do, innit?”

Liam froze, his blue eyes widening beneath his thick lashes. He glared at his cousin in absolute horror.

“What pills?” he demanded.

The colour drained from Molly’s sharply contoured face as she realized exactly what had just slipped out of her mouth.

“Molly,” Liam whispered, his voice trembling as a cold, sickening dread washed over him. “What pills have you been giving me?”

Molly pushed off the doorframe, her chewing gum suddenly going still in her mouth as she refused to meet his eyes. “Erm... you know. Just something Mei gave us to help you stay… hidden.”

Liam stumbled backward as if he’d been punched. “You mean… hormones? Female hormones?”

“Look, we didn't have a choice, alright?! Mei said the disguise wouldn't hold up if people looked close enough.” Molly stammered, slowly backing out of the bathroom.

“You had no right!” Liam screamed.

Molly took one look at his face, spun on her heels, and ran.

Liam tore after her down the landing, clutching the towel to his chest and closing the gap just as she crashed into the bedroom and threw herself behind Hannah for safety.

Liam skidded to a halt just inside the doorway, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild with fury.

Hannah dropped her makeup sponge, feeling Molly trembling against her back as she eyed Liam’s murderous glare. “Hey! What the hell is going on?”

“I know about the pills,” Liam said, his voice dropping into a raw, hollow whisper. “How could ya?”

Hannah froze. She shot a sharp, furious glare over her shoulder at Molly, then let out a slow, heavy breath. “Listen, I—”

“Are you actually mental?!” he exploded, his solid mauve acrylic extensions digging into his palms as he tried to make a fist. “Who knows what damage you’ve done? What if my body never goes back to normal?”

“I'm sorry, alright?” Hannah said, stepping forward. “I didn't wanna go behind yer back, but—”

“Then why did ya?” Liam yelled, cutting her off. “You're bang out of order, Han! You had absolutely no right!”

“Cause you'd have said no! Wouldn’t ya?” Hannah fired back, matching his volume. “And if you said no, and someone clocked you, Ronnie would have butchered us. All of us! This isn't a joke. It's life or death. I did it to keep us from being pig food.”

Liam began to hyperventilate. He wanted to scream, to smash the vanity mirror, to storm out of the house and never come back. But the cold, hard reality of Hannah’s words anchored him to the floor. She had violated his trust in the worst possible way, but she was right about the danger.

He let out a shaky, furious breath, pointing a manicured nail towards the door. “Get out. The pair of ya. Just leave me to get dressed, yeah?”

Ten minutes later, Liam sat perched on the edge of Hannah’s leopard-print duvet. He had squeezed his curvy figure into a dusty-pink minidress, its tiered ruffles barely covering his thighs while the thin straps and plunging neckline showcased swollen, tender breasts that demanded attention.

He gazed blankly at the wall, his jaw tight with lingering resentment as he reached down and slipped his foot into a towering pink platform sandal, the sight of his hairless legs and painted toenails amplifying his frustration.

His long acrylic nails clawed frantically at the tiny metal buckle, slipping twice against the slick leather strap before he finally forced the prong through a hole. He threaded the rest of the strap through, securing the sandal a notch tighter than he would have liked.

He glanced down at the second sandal, about to begin the frustrating process all over again, when the door slowly creaked open.

Hannah popped her head in, offering a small, tight-lipped smile. “Look, I really am sorry,” she said quietly, her voice tight with nerves. “But people are turnin' up. You ready?”

The living room stank of spilled drinks, cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume. The heavy thud of the makeshift sound system rattled the entire room, drowning out most of the chatter.

Liam practically collapsed onto the middle of the battered floral sofa, too tired to care that the hemline of his frilly dress had ridden high up his  thighs. The last hour had been an absolute gauntlet. He’d had to fake a breathless giggle while dodging invasive questions from his mum, play dumb for a pair of leering regulars from the Black Horse, and smile politely at neighbours who had known him since he was in nappies. None of them suspected a thing. They just saw Gaz’s ditzy bride-to-be.

He was mentally exhausted, his entire legs were throbbing, and beneath the caked-on makeup and fake tan, he was still fuming.

Pressing his knees tightly together and folding his manicured hands in his lap, Liam just wanted to turn invisible. He wanted to escape the endless interrogation and be ignored for the rest of the evening. But knowing that was not going to happen, he was just glad of a moment's peace—at least until Hannah dropped onto the cushion to his right, and Molly squeezed in on his left.

Hannah leaned in, flashing a bright white smile. “Keep smiling, Tiff. You look like you're about to glass someone.”

“My feet are literally about to fall off, Han,” Liam hissed through gritted teeth, maintaining a stiff, glossy pout. “I can't keep this up all night.”

“You're doing brilliant, babes,” Molly shouted over the bass, fixing the bottom of her dress. “Your mum totally bought it. Didn't suspect a thing.”

“That doesn't make me feel better, Mols,” Liam shot back without looking at her. He watched Gary laughing with a group of men by the makeshift bar, shaking his head as his anxiety flared up again. “How are we actually getting out of this? I can’t marry my own uncle, Han.”

Hannah adjusted her sparkly pink top, keeping her posture relaxed. “I spoke to Uncle Gaz earlier. He promised me he’s got a plan and he guaranteed me it would work.”

Liam scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “Another plan. Great. And what happens if it doesn’t work, Han?”

Hannah smirked, entirely unfazed by his panic as she leaned across him to look at Molly.

“Well,” Hannah joked, raising her voice slightly to cut through the music. “If it doesn't work, I guess you’ll be Molly’s step-mum. And I’ll have to start calling you Aunty Tiff.”

Molly burst into a fit of laughter, grabbing Liam's arm as she cracked up at the thought. Liam didn't find it funny. He just sat stiffly between them, glaring at Hannah, and let out a low, angry growl that was completely lost to the thumping bass of the party.

Hannah’s smirk faded as she caught the look on her brother’s face, realising she hadn’t lightened the mood like intended. “No, listen,” Hannah continued, her tone softening. “We’ll sort it out, promise. We’re through the worst of it tonight now. Just have a drink and it’ll be over soon.”

The music suddenly cut out, sending a collective groan rippling through the crowded living room.

Gary was standing in front of the makeshift buffet table, having just yanked the plug on the sound system. He picked up two flutes of champagne and turned to face the room, a massive, arrogant grin plastered across his face.

“What is he doing?” Liam whispered, his panic spiking instantly.

Before Hannah or Molly could answer, Gary raised one of the glasses. “Alright, shut it, you lot! Give us a minute!” The chatter died down as all eyes turned to him. “I just wanna say a few words. Where is she? Come up here, my gorgeous little Barbie doll.”

Liam’s stomach dropped as the entire room shifted their gaze to the sofa.

He had no choice. Bracing himself, Liam pushed off the cushions, his ankles immediately trembling under the sheer height of the platform sandals. The short walk to the buffet table was pure agony. Heavy hoop earrings slapped against his jaw with every unsteady step. The unnerving weight on his chest bounced jarringly, and his thick, heavy false lashes narrowed his vision, making it even harder to navigate the sea of smiling faces. He felt utterly degraded—an eighteen-year-old lad hidden beneath a mass of platinum blonde extensions and fake tan, forced to totter past cheering blokes like a piece of meat.

When he finally reached the table, Gary thrust a champagne flute into his hand. His long acrylics turned gripping the stem into a clumsy fumble. He barely had hold of it before his uncle wrapped a heavy arm around his slim waist, pulling him aggressively flush against his side. Liam’s skin crawled. He hated how small and fragile his diet-starved frame felt in Gary's grip, but he swallowed his pride and stretched his glossy lips into a wide, vacuous grin.

“I know what you’re all thinking,” Gary announced, projecting his voice to the back of the room. “You’re thinking, how did an ugly old bloke like me land a bird this fit? And to be honest, I ask myself the same thing every morning.”

A few of his mates cheered and whistled from the bar. Liam stood frozen, locking his knees just to stay upright. Gary squeezed his waist tighter, his heavy fingers pressing into the thin, ruffled fabric of the dress, ignoring the rigid, furious tension radiating from the 'girl' next to him.

“But seriously,” Gary continued, laying the performance on thick. “She’s knocked me right off my feet. I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, made a lot of messes. But putting a ring on Tiff’s finger? Best decision I ever made. I am officially the luckiest man in the world. So, I want to thank everyone for coming and hope you’ll raise a glass to my beautiful fiancée.”

“To Tiff!” the room echoed, a rough chorus of raised beer bottles and plastic cups.

“Go on, Gaz! Give her a kiss!” a voice called out from somewhere in the room, sparking a fresh wave of whistling and cheers.

Gary turned toward Liam, playing the part of the proud fiancé perfectly. “Come here, babe.”

Liam’s stomach plunged. He knew the drill, and the entire room was watching, waiting. Suppressing a violent shudder, Liam tilted his chin up and squeezed his eyes shut to block out his uncle's face.

Gary leaned in and planted his mouth firmly against Liam's. The sensation was horrifyingly familiar. Liam felt his massive, overfilled lips squish unnaturally under the pressure, the dense, swollen cushions of filler pressing against his oversized veneers. The thick layer of pink gloss acted like glue between them for an agonizing second, locking his mouth to Gary's before his uncle finally pulled back, their lips separating with a loud, sticky pop.

A wave of loud whistles and crude cheers erupted from the men by the bar. Chuckling, Gary dragged a rough hand affectionately down Liam's back before turning away to plug the sound system back in.

Blinking rapidly, Liam forced out a breathy, vacant giggle, the sound scraping against his throat like sandpaper. He raised his flute with a trembling hand and took a desperate gulp of the warm champagne. It did absolutely nothing to wash away the sickening humiliation burning beneath his heavy makeup.

As the bass swallowed the room again, Liam remained frozen to the spot by the buffet table, his arches screaming in the towering platforms. He stared blankly into the sea of laughing, drinking guests while delicate layers of pink fabric tickled his hairless thighs. The disguise was flawless, the lie was working perfectly, and he had never felt more trapped in his entire life.