Lingerie For Felons

By Ros Baxter

If there's one universal truth, it's this: You're always wearing your worst underwear when you land in trouble.

Lola's parents told her that everyone can make a difference. And she believed them. She's been fighting the good fights since she was eleven years old. But at 23, Lola falls hard for an Australian stockbroker who thinks Doctors Without Borders is a porno and Joni Mitchell sounds like a harp seal being battered to death. She cuts him loose, but over the next fifteen years, through protests, misunderstandings, humiliating predicaments, and a number of poor underwear choices, their lives and paths continue to converge.

Along the way, Lola learns a few important life lessons: Never wear a red lace thong to a strip search. Make sure you take motion sickness pills if you're going to the Southern Ocean to save the whales. And sometimes, Mr Right can be all wrong, and Mr Wrong just needs time to find the right path.

Funny, touching, emotional and political, Lingerie for Felons is Bridget Jones meets An Inconvenient Truth, about doing the right thing, finding the right person, and always thinking through your underwear choices.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Mar 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780857991393

Ros Baxter

Ros Baxter has been writing since she was eight and penned a whimsical series of short stories about a race of tiny people who lived on a rainbow. While a few things intervened - a career in social policy, four children - Ros started writing again in earnest three years ago. In that time, Ros secured a two-book deal with Harper Collins Australia, published Sister Pact (a romantic comedy co-written with her sister Ali), been a contributing author to the e-anthology URL Love, and finaled in the STALI competition. Ros writes transporting stories about love, family, friendship and women in all their glorious strength and contrariness. She loves to turn up the sizzle, throwing heroes and heroines into screwy and sometimes fantastical situations and watching how they take the heat. Ros lives in Brisbane's North with her husband Blair, four noisy children under eight, a neurotic dog and nine billion germs.

Book preview

Prologue

Genesis of a felon — Welmore Junior High; June, 1989

If there’s one universal truth, it’s this: You’re always wearing your worst underwear when you land in trouble.

‘Heidi, I think I’m gonna be sick.’ I could taste the humidity, hot and metallic. It cuddled me, like an extra blanket you don’t quite need during the night, but can’t rouse yourself enough to shrug off. My tummy was turning queasy circles.

Heidi looked at me with that little frown of concentration. Clear blue eyes sparkled out of the whitest face you ever saw. ‘Don’t worry, Lolly. He’s not so bad.’

I’d told Heidi I was supposed to be Lola now that I’d turned 16, but right now I had bigger fish to fry. I poked my glasses back up my nose. ‘I... I’m worried. One, I’ve never —’

Heidi held up a small white hand. ‘Oh no, girlfriend. Not the numbers.’

I flapped my hand at her. ‘One: I’ve never been called up before. Two: you know I have a nervous stomach. And three…’ I could feel little hiccups rising in my throat as I forced it out. ‘Three,’ I lowered my voice, ‘I’m wearing My Little Pony.’

Heidi stopped the yapping duck gesture she’d been doing since I started my list and studied the region below my waist. ‘The ones with that pink horse head on the front?’

I sighed. ‘Pony head.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘That your Grandma gave you for your eighth birthday?’ She paused. ‘Girl, get your priorities straight. He’s not even gonna see your underwear.’ Her voice started to ramp up, spiralling higher with each sentence. ‘He’s gonna be screaming too hard to even see your face. Lola.’ She took me by the shoulders and gave me a little shake. ‘You spray-painted his goddam ride.’

I squared my shoulders, shaking her off and pressing a balled fist into my stomach. ‘Well I can’t believe he said no. They wanted to use the gym one day. Just one day.’

It was Heidi’s turn to sigh. ‘Why’ve you always gotta do this?’

‘So you’re not with me?’

She scowled. ‘I’m always with you. It’s just... Can’t you get a new interest?’

‘Like what?’

Heidi waggled her brows. ‘Like that boy. Y’know. The one in your chess club.’

I snorted.

‘Oh, I’m sorry gir-rul,’ she drawled. ‘You busy with Mandela this weekend?’

I felt myself flush. I knew most of the other kids had posters of Jason Priestly or the Coreys (Haim and/or Feldman) on their walls. But hey, Mandela had earned his place. He had been my very first crush. And the longest running one, too. I shook my head to tune back in to my best-friend-since-forever.

‘Look, babe. I’m with you. I said it and I meant it. I’m with you. Damn, I was even with you through that whole tampon boycott thing last year. But...the head’s car?’

I felt that familiar prickle. ‘He shouldn’t have said that to those people.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Heidi nodded. ‘But what’s that got to do with the man’s dick?’

I sighed. She definitely had a point. ‘Racist pin-dick,’ I reminded her.

‘Racist pin-dick,’ she agreed.

I picked up her hand. ‘Heidi, don’t make me go in there as Pony Girl.’

Heidi sighed one of her special, eloquent, whole-body sighs.

And started digging in her gym bag.

Part One: The First Time

Handcuffs and heartbreak — Back seat of a police car, NYC; March, 1998

Underpants should be the last thing on your mind when you’re sitting handcuffed in the back of a police car and your heart’s broken.

Shouldn’t they?

The lights and sirens seemed kind of unnecessary, but I also knew they were going to increase my credibility when I told the story to Heidi later. I mean, I was hardly Lee Harvey Oswald, but I’d definitely been arrested. The stereo was oozing bad R&B, punctuated by hoarse squawks from the police radio.

You know, it’s not just empty vanity to fret about underwear during an arrest.

It’s SSP: Subconscious Stripsearch Paranoia.

Why? Why couldn’t I have done the damn laundry? Washed my nice, sensible, protest rally underwear, and some nice, sensible jeans. Then I wouldn’t have had to borrow from my stripper roommate. Well, she says gentleman’s escort, but potato, po-tar-to.

I felt hot prickles scratch the back of my neck.

I imagined a prison guard slapping a truncheon lasciviously against an open palm. A beefy, unsympathetic guard who thinks girls in red lace thongs are ‘askin’ for it’.

I groped for some perspective. At least I had underwear on, unlike some of my comrades that day. I usually went ultra-sensible when scaling fences. Happy as I was to change the world with them, there was no way I wanted any of those Clan of the Cave Bear types getting a peek at my own private wilderness. Lest they felt inclined to erect something far more serious than a placard there.

I bit my lip and watched the streets slide by, looking sad and dirty at this time of year. We passed a corner where a few men were gathered, their belongings strewn around them in plastic bags. One of them lunged out onto the road, holding up a piece of cardboard with something scrawled on it. As I strained my neck to try to read it, the driver honked at the men and grunted. ‘Fuckin’ hobos. I’m votin’ for the other guy next time.’

‘Huh?’ The baby cop in the passenger seat stretched big hands to touch the roof.

The driver spoke again. He was short and bald with a strange little beard. I could see the sides of him spilling over the seat. He reminded me of an unhappy leprechaun. ‘That ex-marine guy. The one what’s gonna clean up the streets.’

Yeah, right. Takes guts to get tough with people who live in cardboard boxes. I bit my tongue though. First time for everything.

The younger cop turned around with an apologetic grin. The back of his neck was bumpy with old acne scars, and he smelled like ironing spray. ‘Dunno what you was thinkin’ tryin’ to go over that fence? Razor wire’s real dangerous. And you in that nice skirt n’all.’

His accent carried me back somewhere half-remembered. He sounded like he came from an even smaller town than me.

‘Dress.’

‘Eh?’

‘It’s a dress. Not a skirt.’

Why don’t men know the names for garments? You don’t need to be Sarah Jessica Parker to know if it starts at the waist it’s a skirt, and if it goes all the way it’s a dress. I’m hardly any fashionista myself, but surely we all learn that in our first readers. Look, Dick, look. House! Dog! Dress!

The driver spoke again. ‘Well then, I guess the point my buddy here’s trying to make is what the fuck were you doing on a razor wire fence in your itty bitty party dress?’

‘Look it’s probably hard to understand —’

I wanted to say for a mean old leprechaun but didn’t.

‘— but it’s like this. One: it’s a fact: the death penalty kills innocent people. Two: it’s incredibly barbaric, and those people, they’re just like us —’

Well, actually, hopefully not like you. Didn’t say this either.

‘Three: the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights actually says —’

He cut me off with a belch. ‘Yeah, well, some Americans actually say that being arrested for trespass is pretty stupid’. He started laughing — a horrible sound through which I swore I could hear the twanging of his hardened arteries.

‘Don’t worry,’ Baby Cop said. ‘They probably won’t even charge ya. First time?’

‘Yes,’ I sniffed, poking my glasses up my nose. ‘First time’.

But Leprechaun wasn’t finished. ‘You people should just get a job.’

Little did he know.

I contemplated telling him, just blurting it out.

But he wouldn’t believe me. I’m not like other mathematicians. What are other mathematicians like, you’re wondering? Well, take my thesis supervisor, who thought U2 (you know, Irish pop band?) meant U squared. He stayed up ‘til two in the morning to watch Live Aid, thinking it was a mathumentary. I love him, but like how you love an elderly uncle who buries guns in the backyard and chews tobacco even though he lives in the city. Then there’s the Dean of the Math School. He only wears clothes donated by a friend of his who runs a morgue. I once saw him wearing jeans with a bullet hole in them.

I ran a finger down the window glass, playing with the condensation. The car shuddered as it stopped and started in the mid-town traffic. Baby Cop fiddled with the radio and that song came on, the one where the guy declares ‘they could never, ever, ever tear us apart’. I snorted, and tried hard to think about the eleven place orders of pi.

So perfect, so soothing.

But that song, that raspy seduction, kept insinuating itself into my brain.

Never tear us apart.

I argued with it.

I tried telling the voice that it was wrong, that the chances of evisceration were actually quite high when it came to love. In fact, directly proportionate to the depth of feeling. I mentally reminded the singer that love takes perfectly nice, sane people and turns them into cartoon versions of themselves. Metaphorically running off a cliff, not realizing there’s nothing below but air until it’s too late.

Until they hurtle like Wily Coyote to their doom.

Had it really been only a year ago?

‘Welcome home, Princess,’ the driver said as we pulled up at the sixth.

I gave myself a mental Chinese burn. I had more important things to worry about.

Like what happens when you wear a red lace thong to a strip search.

***

Some things in life just don’t count.

Like cookies’n’cream ice-cream eaten straight from the container at 2am.

High school proms where you wear Doc Martens instead of a frock.

Adolescence where your only boyfriend is your Math Quiz partner.

In a similar vein, my first arrest didn’t really count because, in the end, I didn’t actually get charged after all, just as Baby Cop had predicted.

And as it happened, the worst did not come to pass either.

Strip search was apparently reserved for people going to actual prison, and nerdy girls in dresses borrowed from strippers just get taken to the holding cells to cool down.

***

You know, jail’s not at all like you imagine. You know how it goes, in your head. Long, hard benches. Steel bars running the length of one wall through which you look out at cops eating doughnuts and reading dirty magazines. Or strapping pistols to their groins while placing pins into maps of the city. In imaginary jail, the cell is occupied by three other inmates — maybe one scowling, ratty type wreathed in tattoos of skulls and dragons; one washed up looking prostitute; one (insert ethnic minority of choice) drug-dealer-looking type (hard to describe, but we all know what he’s meant to be when we see him on CSI).

Too much TV, that’s the problem.

The reality was different. Bit disappointing really. More like a dentist waiting room. I was alone and there was lots of white; a bed, a chair. My cell even had a little TV where I could watch cop shows explaining how prison is really supposed to look. And I was alone. No hookers, dealers or low-grade muscle.

No-one to distract you from the inevitable march of your thoughts.

***

‘How do you spell protest?’ I could see Baby Cop, crunched over a desk.

The cop who’d been driving belched and I swear I could smell gingivitis.

‘Forget it, Linus. I’m not doing paperwork for this shee-yit.’

Baby Cop flicked his pencil. ‘Oh, that’s awlright, Kevin. I’ve already started it now.’

‘Sorry Linus,’ the Leprechaun belched again, ‘but that girly’ll be dead before you get the charge sheet completed. Tell you what, she’s gotta see the public defender before she goes, right? Let’s call her folks. We’ll scare the shit out of ‘em, they’ll give her the third degree and we’ve done the city a service.’

Scare the shit out of my parents? I mentally clapped my hands as I settled back to wait.

An hour later, sudden noise alerted me as an ashen-faced Leprechaun ushered in my mother and father. His voice had completely changed. It was soft and oily.

‘Um, look we don’t usually let visitors here in the cells, but I think in this case we can make an exception. She’ll have a bit of a wait for the duty lawyer anyway.’

The Leprechaun motioned toward a room down the end of the corridor where I could see the back of a harassed looking young guy guiding a middle-aged black woman into a meeting room. He was incredibly blonde, like a Northern European, and she was screeching, ‘Was a fuckin’ set-up! Fuckin’ sting! Fuckin’ assholes!’

I couldn’t hear what the young lawyer was saying but I could see him lay a hand on her back and I swear I could see her shoulders lift a little as she turned towards him. Like the lawyer could feel me watching, he turned around, and smiled and shrugged. Like, sorry about the bad language, I’ll be with you soon.

He was tall with floppy hair. Sort of like a blond Hugh Grant before the whole blowjob-in-the-car thing made him look seedy and kind of corpulent.

Huh. Interesting. The Public Defender has a cute ass.

I dragged myself back to the moment, and the Leprechaun. What was he gibbering?

‘Erh, so, anyway, take your time. Like I said, we might have a bit of a wait.’

I was immediately suspicious. ‘What’s happened?’

Mom pulled at a thread on Dad’s sleeve. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I can tell you’ve upset the Leprechaun. What have you done?’

Dad sighed, rubbing my shoulder as he pulled out a chair. ‘Oh dear. Well, the...Leprechaun was playing bad cop, sweetheart. Suggesting they might be pressing charges. Your Mom may have sort of intimated we had…mob connections.’

Mom looked mutinous. ‘I did no such thing,’ she dismissed with a sniff.

‘Yes honey, you did. And you were good. He was scared. Actually, I was too, a bit.’

‘Humph, well, no thanks to you. You wouldn’t scare a flea.’ But she smiled a small smile as she sat down in the chair Dad had pulled out. It was the first smile I’d seen on her since The Breakup. I looked at Mom and Dad sitting in my cell. Traitors. I’d tried to tell them all the bad things about him. What he did for a job. How he’d never been to a protest rally. How he thought Joni Mitchell sounded like a harp seal being battered to death. How he’d probably vote Republican if he had voting rights in the US. They just looked at me disbelievingly, like I’d said Clinton was a pro-lifer. And went right on loving him.

Right up until two weeks ago. The day I dumped him.

‘So, honey, how are you? How’s the thesis coming along?’ Math impresses Mom. Up to a point. A bit like thinking it’s cool that someone’s a forensic scientist but not wanting to know about when they sliced up some body last night.

‘Erh, fine thanks.’

‘How’s Harry?’ My thesis supervisor had taught Dad as well, back in the day.

I poked my glasses back up my nose. ‘What is this? A social visit? I’m in jail. Don’t you want to know what happened?’

‘What do you mean?’ Mom’s hands flew to her throat.

‘With the arrest,’ I bit out.

‘Oh, that.’ Mom exhaled a great sigh and beamed. She flicked a quick glance at Dad and sighed again. ‘Oh God, Lolly, we were worried you were going to talk about Wayne. And really, even though we love you and totally respect your decisions, we really just can’t bear to talk about it. Every time your Dad turns on the chess, he cries.’

Dad contributed a limp nod. ‘Absolutely, sweetheart. Couldn’t agree more. A hundred per cent behind you. But let’s not talk about it, eh? Breaks my heart. Let’s talk about more cheerful things. Tell us about the arrest.’

Oh. My. God. My parents were mourning him. My parents, who volunteer every spare minute at their local soup kitchen. My Mom, who teaches poor kids to read, and blockades and boycotts every other week. My Dad, who’s so smart he could’ve been a nuclear scientist but teaches math because he thinks it makes kids better. Like a Whitney Houston ‘I believe the children are the future’ thing. My parents, who told me since the day I was born that ‘everyone can make a difference and together we can change the world.’

These people were mourning Wayne.

Wayne, who gave his life to making rich people — and himself — richer. Wayne, who thought Doctors Without Borders was a pornographic film. Until I explained it to him.

I wanted to rail and scream at them. But I couldn’t. Not because I was worried about hurting their feelings, but because, if I did, my own wellspring of loss and aching might bubble over and drown me. So I told them about the arrest.

Only in my family would discussing arrests be considered cheerful.

‘Well, you know about the big case they’re hearing down at the Supreme Court? The death penalty thing…’

I told them about how carefully we’d organized it. About how we’d arranged camera crews to be there and how the plan had been to break in to the holding area and deliver care parcels of all-American treats to the plaintiffs who’d come up from down South.

Brownies and pecan pie and stuff.

At this, my Mom gasped. ‘Good God, I hope you didn’t bake them. Poor souls don’t need to be poisoned as well, they’ve got enough on their plates.’

I gritted my teeth. ‘That’s hardly the moral of the story.’

Mom took a breath, and I talked quickly to avoid the ritual re-telling of the Thanksgiving Turkey Story. ‘Look, someone else made them, okay? Home science major.’

Dad started to look more interested. ‘Yeah? So what happened to the goodies after the cops came and interrupted the action?’

I smacked myself in the forehead. ‘Dad. Really. It’s hardly the —’

‘Cops probably confiscated them. They’re probably all sitting somewhere now with their snouts in the trough of our daughter’s imagination and labor —’ Mom was building to a crescendo and had to be stopped.

‘Look, I don’t know where they are now. But, again, it’s hardly the point. Even if they did confiscate them, just imagine the headlines: ‘Cops Eat Dying Men’s Last Supper’. Et cetera. You want to hear what happened or not?’

They both nodded contritely. ‘Anyway, so we were scaling the fence —’

My mother’s head whipped around at this. ‘In that?’ she queried with her eyebrows knitted together in horror.

‘Huh?’ My brain hurt, as it often did trying to keep up with her.

‘You scaled a razor wire fence in that?’ She motioned to Monica’s dress. It truly was a beautiful thing, made of some gossamer material, like some springtime spider had spun the world’s most beautiful web.

I stroked the beautiful thing covetously, imagining for a moment I was the kind of girl who wore things like this. ‘Ahhhh…yeah. Well, not exactly, I was having a pretty hard time getting over. Then the cops arrived. But no-one made it over, actually. Some of the guys were almost at the top, the ones with the food baskets. A matter of seconds and we would have been over.’

Mom looked down at Monica’s beautiful dress and a dark cloud of consternation descended on her handsome features. ‘Not you, my darling girl. You would not have been over the top in that. What are you doing in it, anyway? The movement was supposed to have liberated women from torturing themselves for men’s ideas about female beauty.’

Oh God, no. Please not this sermon.

Dad patted my leg quickly and shot Mom a look. ‘A fantastic action, sweetheart. You always had a great imagination, even when you were doing that stuff at school.’ He turned to Mom. ‘Darling, we should —’

‘Mm.’ Mom picked up her bag.

‘Okay, darling. Well, call us when you get released and we’ll come down and pick you up. Oh, and I almost forgot,’ Mom gathered up her things, ‘Aunty Vera sends her love. She’s in Paris with what’s-his-name.’

We always call Vera’s boyfriends what’s-his-name. Not because we didn’t know their names, but because they’re generally so short-lived we all decided long ago there’s no point wasting emotional energy on them. Names just get you attached.

But Mom hadn’t finished. ‘I rang her as soon as you called, of course. I knew she’d want to know. Be so proud of you. She said viva le revolution. Must be the Parisian air going to her head.’ I laughed and Mom clucked in disapproval and turned to go, pushing Dad in front of her. ‘Oh, dear, just one other thing. We called Wayne to let him know where you were. Love you. Bye.’

I’d never seen her move so fast.

She didn’t even hear me as my stunned lips croaked out, ‘You did what?’

***

Like the predictable entry of a villain in a Disney film, there was a knock on the door.

I was on the attack before I wrenched it open.

‘Look, Wayne…’

But it wasn’t him. And I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It was a disgruntled-looking Leprechaun, with Heidi and Steve behind him.

Word sure travels fast.

‘Visitors, Ms Murphy. Like I said last time, not usually allowed in the cells but…’

‘But?’ I challenged, pushing my glasses up my nose.

‘The meeting room’s full,’ he finished lamely.

Heidi was clutching flowers. ‘Your Mom called,’ she explained unnecessarily, glancing quickly up and down Monica’s dress.

I gave them a quick hug. ‘This whole visiting thing is weird,’ I say. ‘And the flowers. I mean, they’re beautiful, but I’m in jail, not the hospital.’

Steve weighed in. He was wearing the same blue jeans I’d seen him in almost every day since I’d known him, and a t-shirt with the Cookie Monster on it.

‘Well we couldn’t miss it, Lolly. So apparently they aren’t pressing charges, huh? I guess in that case we should go out tonight. Y’know, celebrate.’

Heidi, Steve and I shared an apartment. Monica the Stripper had only joined us recently. We got Steve from a billboard at the school, and I thought he was brilliant from the moment I clapped eyes on him. Heidi took longer to warm to him. She was like someone’s grandma, inherently distrustful of anyone too clever, too good looking, too nice. And Steve had all that in spades. But he absolutely made up for these faults with the comedy he brought to our lives through the utter chaos of his.

‘Good,’ Steve said. ‘So drinks after then?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I sniffed. ‘You know bad things happen when I drink.’

Steve clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘That is only because you don’t do it enough, my little Einstein.’ He looked at his wristwatch. ‘What do you reckon, Lol? Nine?’

I looked at my own watch. ‘Nine Steve time, or real time?’

Heidi looked at hers too. ‘Steve time I reckon.’

We all nodded.

Steve shot a little frown at us. ‘You know it’s not my fault, don’t you?’

We smiled back. ‘Of course, Steve,’ Heidi said. ‘You’re just a weird magnet.’

‘Exactly,’ Steve nodded. ‘Like the thing with Little Steve.’

I patted his arm. ‘You can’t just let a woman give birth in an alley alone.’

‘And that SWAT raid cockup,’ Heidi contributed.

‘I still can’t watch Law and Order,’ Steve moaned.

‘PTSD,’ Heidi sniffed. ‘Bastards.’ Then she seemed to remember where we were and wrapped me in a hug again. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

‘Guys, I’m okay, really. They’ve been treating me fine.’

I tried to extricate myself from the hug but Heidi clung on. When I finally pulled away, I saw a tear run down one of her cheeks.

‘Heidi,’ I said, shaking her. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘Well,’ Heidi said, with a pretty sniff. ‘It’s just, we wondered how you were really doing. I mean, you keep saying you’re okay, you’ve been saying that for two weeks, but…’

Oh great. Now I knew what this was about. ‘Well, I’m fine, thank you,’ I bit out.

But Heidi was on a roll. ‘Because, you know, it was only a year and stuff, but you guys seemed so happy. Well, okay, maybe happy’s not exactly the right word. You screamed at each other half the time. But so crazy about each other. And he was your first —’

‘Aha,’ I said, cutting her off. I didn’t need to think about firsts. ‘See? Screaming. People who scream at each other are not happy. Not meant to be together’.

‘Oh, Loll.’ It was Steve’s turn. ‘It wasn’t real screaming. Not I-hate-your-guts screaming. Or, worse, I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-you screaming. Or that other awful one. The you’re-such-a-loser-why-can’t-you-organize-your-life-better screaming.’

He stopped suddenly, realising Heidi and I were looking at him.

‘Wow,’ Heidi said. ‘Women really hate you, don’t they?’

‘Yep,’ he sighed. ‘But anyway, that’s beside the point. Point is, you guys screamed at each other in that getting-to-know-each-other kind of way. Passionate. Like...foreplay. Anyway,’ he sniffed. ‘You did most of the screaming. He only screamed back when you said something really mean. Or when you took a breath.’

I couldn’t deny it. Wayne and I had spent a large proportion of the previous year arguing. Usually when I was trying to explain something to him, and he didn’t get it, or disagreed with me, or, worst, asked questions I couldn’t answer or that kind of changed the complexion of how I understood an issue. ‘Look guys, I’m only going to explain this one more time. Some people are just too different. Hey, I know I’m not easy to be with. But there must be someone out there who gets it.’ Something squeezed inside me and for a moment I wondered if I might faint. I dug a fingernail into my palm. ‘Who gets me.’

Heidi looked beseechingly at me. ‘But Wayne was starting to get it, don’t you think? And it’s not like he thought you were stupid for believing the things you do. You could tell he actually really liked it. It’s like your Mom always says: "good raw material".’

I glared at Heidi. She should know never to invoke my mother in an argument. But she charged right on. ‘Look, Lolly, he’d never been exposed to any of the stuff you believe before he met you. Man, you’ve had 24 years to become who you are. He only had one year to try to get up to speed.’

‘Yeah,’ Steve chimed in. ‘It’s like Rainman.’

I looked Steve right in the eye. ‘Just a warning, in this analogy you are about to use, Wayne had better be the Dustin Hoffman dude and not me.’

‘Course, Lolly. It’s like…he’s this guy whose mind works in a totally different way to yours. And he’s really brilliant, but he just finds it hard to understand your brilliance all the time, like how Dustin Hoffman found it hard to communicate with normal people.’

‘My God, Steve.’ Heidi rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t say normal people.’

‘Whatever,’ Steve returned. ‘But y’know what I mean. It’s like he speaks French and you speak American.’

‘English, Steve.’ Heidi interrupted. ‘We speak English. Geez, how many times do I have to tell you that? We live in America, but we speak English.’

She sat beside me, quiet for a moment, holding my hand. ‘Oh, remember the first time we met him? Remember, Steve? He invited us over and

Reviews for Lingerie For Felons

[shelleyraec · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Lingerie for Felons is a funny, engaging romantic comedy with a social conscience by Australian author, Ros Baxter.Lola’s parents have always told her she can make a difference and she is determined to do just that, whether she is wearing a red lacy thong or superman emblazoned undies. She can’t let the blazing chemistry she shares with Australian hottie, fund manager Wayne, who thinks Doctors Without Borders is a porno and Joni Mitchell sounds like a harp seal being battered to death, distract her and Lola is confident that breaking up with him is the right thing to do. But letting go is more difficult than she ever imagined.I liked Lola a lot, she delights in bucking the stereotype of math geek, is passionate about important issues and loyal to her family and friends. But with her heart and her mind in constant conflict with one another she is never quite sure about exactly what she wants or needs. This is particularly evident in her relationships with Wayne and Clark, who both offer her very different things. Lola is an ‘all or nothing’ kind of girl and fiercely independent, unsure how to compromise without sacrifice.It is fair to say though that Lola always means well, her ’causes’ often lead her into trouble (wearing unsuitable underwear), having never quite thought things through. She winds up in some odd situations, including jail three times, though luckily always with the support of her quirky, opinionated family.The time shifts of the narrative are a little disorientating to begin with though eventually I settled into the rhythm. The prose is spiked with witty banter, the dialogue natural and the story is well paced.Combining romance, humour, drama and politico-social commentary, Lingerie for Felons is an enjoyable read with hugely appealing characters and a happy ending that will leave you smiling.

[kbranfield-837433 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

4.5 stars.

With laugh out loud humor, a vibrant heroine and a refreshingly unique storyline, Ros Baxter's Lingerie for Felons is a fun, light-hearted novel that is also thought-provoking and poignant.

Lola Murphy's passionate relationship with Wayne only lasts a year, but when their paths continue to cross for the next fourteen years, she cannot help but wonder if he truly was "the one". But the timing is never right for them to reconnect and Lola falls into a comfortable romance with Clark Cooper, the public defender she meets at her first arrest (more on that later). Just as she decides that maybe it is time to give Wayne another chance, she is thrown an unexpected curveball that forever changes her life.

Lola is passionate, headstrong and she truly believes that she can make a difference. A math geek who finds comfort in numbers, she settles into academia, but continues to wonder what she is going to be when she grows up. She never gives an inch when it comes to her causes and beliefs and while I admired her for it, this trait could also be frustrating. In Lola's world, everything is black and white, with no shades of grey and that gets in the way of her happiness on more than one occasion. Lola has a great support system but she is so independent that she sometimes has a difficult time accepting their help.

And speaking of her support system, Lola's family is her staunchest cheerleader no matter what wacky situation she finds herself in. Arrested more than once for acting on her fervent beliefs, they, along with her good friends Heidi and Steve, always rally around her and raise her spirits in the sometimes humiliating, but always humorous, aftermath. It is following her first arrest that she meets Clark and they fall into a comfortable relationship that withstands their differences, but in the end, proves unable to survive her long lasting feelings for Wayne.

Ahh, Wayne. How I wish we could have had more of him! When Lingerie for Felons begins, Lola and Wayne have already split up and we only get to experience their tempestuous relationship through flashbacks and their brief meetings through the years. What little bit we did see of him though is wonderful and I positively adored him. He is kind-hearted, gregarious and well-liked by Lola's family and friends. While they don't always see eye to eye, Wayne truly values her opinions and most importantly, he likes Lola just as she is. Although they are complete opposites, Wayne is perfect for Lola but she lets her principles get in the way and ends their relationship.

A lot of Lingerie for Felons is revealed through flashbacks and while it takes a little getting used to, it is an effective form of storytelling. These transitions from present to past usually occur at a critical point in Lola's life and the shifts add a bit of suspense to the unfolding storyline.

Lingerie for Felons is an extremely entertaining novel with an outstanding cast of appealing characters. Witty dialogue and Lola's giggle inducing internal monologues perfectly balance the more serious moments in the story. The overall plot is quite clever and I was absolutely delighted by Ros Baxter's unexpected plot twists. All in all, a very smart and amusing novel that I highly recommend.