by JD Nixon
She stroked the lingerie set that I was clutching, causing the silver chains to tinkle together charmingly. Her moisturised, manicured hand clasped mine and her large angelic hazel eyes fixed on me in supplication. She shook her carefully curled blonde hair back behind her shoulders and used one finger to wipe her upper lip line to remove excess lippy – all done with languorous eroticism. God, she was hot!
“Well, okay,” I found my mouth saying, even though my brain was giving me very firm and sensible instructions to turn the offer down.
“Yay!” she smiled, bouncing up and down and clapping her hands. “My finale is going to be perfect, after all.”
She’s much nicer than I expected from a top model, I thought, staring at her dreamily. But then she grabbed my hand and dragged me back to the changing cubicle where she ungently pushed me inside and threw the lingerie at me.
“So get those fucking undies on now,” she ordered, “and stop your whining. I will not have some fucking plain nobody ruining my grand finale.” She stalked back to her chair, not even casting me a fleeting backwards glance. She was used to being obeyed.
Plain? Me? I was insulted. Didn’t she know that Heller coughed up a lot of money to keep me looking this good? Appearances were important to him, and as well as being one of his security officers, I also occasionally accompanied him to meetings with prospective clients, whenever he felt a nice cleavage or pair of legs might help win him the job.
Muttering under my breath, I reluctantly peeled off my uniform and underwear and replaced them with the bra and panties, spending two minutes simply trying to untangle the silver chains.
“Shoes! Extra large as ordered!” yelled an unknown voice and the two high-heeled stilettos flew over the curtain, almost knocking me unconscious. I yanked them on, resenting the Big Foot comment. Tall women have larger feet – everyone knew that.
The curtain was yanked aside and one of the minions dragged me from the cubicle and pushed me into a vacant chair. A duo of stylists pounced on me, one liberally plastering makeup on my face while the other took control of my hair. The hair stylist, an older man with suspiciously smooth skin and kind eyes, loosened my hair from the bun I wore for work, twisting and pulling on it uncomfortably.
“Hey, be gentle!” I squealed.
“There’s nothing gentle about this business, my darling,” he warned as he cruelly plied the curling wand.
“I’m not in this business,” I grumbled quietly, praying he wouldn’t singe my scalp he was working so quickly. He shot me a sympathy-face as we both watched me transform from security officer to sultry vixen. Afterwards, I regarded myself critically in a full-length mirror, twisting and turning, not happy with the skimpiness of the underwear or the kilogram of makeup I was forced to wear. God Heller, I thought to myself gloomily, the things I do for you! The only saving grace in the whole sorry situation was that all of the models donned burlesque half-masks – frivolous lacy, feathery disguises to reinforce the Masquerade branding. They also provided a small modicum of anonymity. Or so I hoped.
Frowning at myself in the mirror, I suddenly felt a hand on each butt cheek and swung around, ready to rearrange some dental work.
And that’s when Jules Roux made his rude comments about my arse ruining his business. I listened politely to his opinion and then pointed out, equally polite, that any normal woman’s arse would look huge in those panties and that there was better coverage offered by a shoelace.
“My gorgeous lingerie is designed for a particular type of figure,” he sneered, clearly implying that mine wasn’t even close to living up to that level of particularity.
“What? A stick figure?”
We eyed each other off for a few tense ticks of the clock.
He waved his hand at me a few times as if swatting away a particularly persistent mosquito, and looked down his nose at me – which was quite a feat considering I was much taller than him. “I care not for your uneducated, oafish opinions about fashion. What would you know?”
I shrugged. “Well, I am a woman.”
“That’s debatable,” he muttered under his breath.
He made it very difficult for me to remain amiable, so I gave up trying. “And I have to buy and wear these overpriced, uncomfortable little pieces of torture that you design.”
He sniffed with derision. “I doubt the likes of you could afford one of my creations. Now, listen up. I don’t have one second more to waste on you. When it’s your turn to go out, you walk to the end of the catwalk, strike a pose for a few seconds, then turn and walk back,” he barked. “Think you can manage that?”
I nodded brusquely. “Yeah, I think I can manage that. I learned to walk a long time ago.”
He eyeballed me with undisguised loathing, but continued, “Then Jenna will make four walks down the stage by herself, wearing different sets. On her fifth and final walk, she will wear my masterpiece set, Climactic Angel from my Heavenly Hedonist range. She’ll be accompanied by all the ladies, acting as handmaids to her celestial greatness.” I rolled my eyes. “You will be situated in the least conspicuous place – in the middle. Understood?”
I nodded again, but this time kept my smartarse comments to myself, growing increasingly nervous about it all. What if I tumbled in these heels? What if I had a wardrobe malfunction in this tiny lingerie? What if I fell off the stage? What if Mum and Dad saw me? Or even worse, what if Daniel and Niq saw me? They wouldn’t stop laughing for a week.
A blare of raunchy music from the stage area made us all jump.
“It’s time! Mon fucking Dieu! It’s time, ladies,” Jules panicked, clapping his hands. “Get in your places.”
Obediently, the women formed a neat and orderly line in the direction of the stage. I didn’t know where I was supposed to be and frantically tried to join them, pushing in a few places, only to be repeatedly shoved out of the queue with a tart, “Not here!”
Huffing with impatience, Jules grabbed my elbow and forced me between a curvy redhead and a very young, well-endowed blonde, who needlessly jostled me from behind to show her annoyance about her spot in the line-up being stolen. I turned and mouthed “sorry” to her, but her cold, hard, ambitious eyes warned me that she wasn’t overly familiar with that emotion.
One by one, Jules gave the women the go-ahead to launch themselves out onto the stage, watching anxiously from a gap in the curtain. He greeted them each on their return with a backhand compliment – Beautiful posture, my darling, but maybe a little too slow? Wonderful stepping, my lover, but perhaps next time a little more ladylike?
My heart thumped louder as the queue shortened, until it was my turn.
Jules turned to me with a fake smile until he realised it was me. “Oh, you. Get out there! And remember to walk, not lope. You’re a goddess, not a beast!”
People pushed me forwards and suddenly I was launched through the gold curtains onto the catwalk by somebody’s unkind hand in the middle of my back, making an inelegant entrance from which I battled to recover. And that’s when I wished I was fast asleep in my cosy bed dreaming the naked-at-work dream and not experiencing it. Then I remembered my parents’ wise words to always take pride in my work and do the best job I could. So I threw back my shoulders, pushed out my chest, flung my hair with attitude and strutted down that catwalk in those dangerously high heels, swinging my hips as best I could.
But of course I was embarrassingly bad compared to the other women and could hear the cruel sniggers and derisive comments from the audience even from where I perched above them. As I stood at the end of the catwalk, striking a pose that nearly dislocated my hip, troubled about the creeping wedgie that made walking increasingly uncomfortable, I regretted my recent career choice. My amused colleagues, unfortunately able to recognise me under my mask, only confirmed that regret. Life had been so much easier when I was unemployed and starving.
“Turn! For Christ’s sake, turn!” hissed Jules from the gold curtain, loud enough for everyone else in the vicinity of the sta
ge to hear as well.
So I turned and headed back towards the gold curtain, my mind consumed with that wedgie and worried about everyone judging the size of my butt. When I returned to the safety of the dressing room, Jules confronted me.
“I said goddess! Not fucking gorilla!” he bleated. “You are ruining me!”
I wondered briefly if I was wearing enough silver chain to strangle the little jerk, but before I could test that theory, the remaining women awaiting their turn distracted him and the moment passed. I lurked backstage, discreetly remedying my wedgie, until it was time for Jenna’s grand entrance. Applause thundered around the audience at her appearance and continued through her four presentations. Watching from the sidelines, I was impressed at how efficient and well run the backstage area was, and how quickly Jenna was able to change clothes with the help of the minions.
After Jenna’s return from her fourth solo walk, the backstage erupted into a frenzy.
“It’s time for the finale, ladies,” Jules agitated, clapping his hands again. “Places everyone. Quickly!”
We were arranged in two equal straight lines, side-by-side, ready to trail behind Jenna, who was resplendent in an over-the-top red set complete with huge extended red wings fixed to her back. After a mad scramble, I found my place in the middle of the right-hand line. The models standing with me didn’t seem very happy about being relegated to the most inconspicuous place, probably preferring to have been allocated a spot at the beginning or end of the line. But I was grateful to blend in.
A tumultuous roar greeted Jenna’s return and she graciously waved at the crowd to the left and to the right as she strutted down the stage, the rest of us in her wake. The plan was for us to remain in place, either side of the catwalk, to flank Jenna when she pirouetted at the end and returned backstage. We’d been given bags of red rose petals to throw over her when she passed us.
Tony stared at her mesmerised, as if he’d never seen a lingerie-clad climactic angel before. I searched for my other two colleagues and found them in a similar hypnotised state, goggling at the stage, paying no attention to their surroundings.
Men! I smiled to myself. Luckily nothing was happening.
And that was when I noticed the fracas at the door.
Chapter 2
I anxiously craned my neck around the models to see what was going on. It appeared as though someone, a man, was trying to push his way into the show without an invitation, only to be told by one of the store managers to clear off. But the interloper refused to leave, his voice growing louder and louder, becoming increasingly argumentative. The outer layer of the crowd began to notice the disagreement between the two men, their concentration straying from Jenna’s finale to the more heated performance behind them.
My two workmates at the back were much closer to the action than Tony and I, but their eyes were glued to Jenna, oblivious to everything else going on around them. I tried to catch their attention but it was no use from this distance. I centred on Tony instead and as the troupe of models passed by him, I leaned out from my line of women and looked in his direction.
“Psst,” I hissed as quietly as possible. Random members of the audience glanced up at me in surprise, thinking I was summoning them. But unfortunately, not Tony. His focus was one hundred percent on Jenna, not me. I tried again. “Tony.”
Nothing.
I raised my voice a little. “Hey Tony! Psst!”
More nothing from Tony. He wasn’t even looking in my direction, his head tracking Jenna’s progress. The other women in the line with me shot me dirty looks and elbowed me roughly, whispering at me fiercely to shut up.
Shit! From my vantage point on the stage I could see that the fracas threatened to quickly escalate into a full-blown brawl as the insistent, and possibly drunk, interloper tried to force his way into the room. Then I realised that I recognised him – Frankie Hazzard, a former celebrity host whose game show, Rate My Date, was once the most popular program on TV. People had queued for hours to be in the audience during its heyday, and had even held Rate My Date parties at their own homes.
The show threw two contestants, strangers to each other, together for an awkward (and the producers hoped sordid) night, including dinner with much alcohol provided, and then afterwards . . . No one ever knew what would happen between the couples, which lent the show its frisson of anticipation.
Back in the studio the following evening, each of the pair had to rate the other on the prospect of them ever going out together again. That score was then compared with the audience’s judgement of their suitability and probable staying power. It was a cruel premise that could have easily crushed the self-esteem of any number of contestants, particularly as the producers cynically tried to combine the least likely pairs – gym junkies with couch potatoes; devout religious people with ex-porn stars; bohemians with wannabe Gordon Gekkos. But Frankie’s award-winning witty banter and toothpaste-ad smile kept the show the right side of light-hearted and it was a firm family favourite in my house when I was a kid. Especially popular were the scenes where the two contestants entered a hotel room holding hands and the door closed slowly behind them as they both winked boldly at the camera.
What were they doing in there? I’d wondered in my childhood innocence, noticing my parents nudging each other and snortling together during those particular episodes. I didn’t know what the contestants were up to, but I knew it had to be something great, judging by the corresponding audience reaction the next evening and the contestants’ coy glances at each other. I decided then that I wanted my fair share of what I called ‘behind the hotel door’ when I grew up, whatever it was, and strangely enough I’d never changed my mind about that.
But alas, the public is fickle and Rate My Date drew less and less of an audience share each year until it was axed in favour of a home renovation program. These days it was the butt of jokes as a prime example of just how awful TV shows could be. Frankie went on to present a number of other shows, none of which captured the glory of his first, and each of which was eventually, and mercifully, axed as well. He’d dropped off the TV screen and the last I’d read of him in a gossip magazine was that he’d been done for drink-driving and was now singing for a living in RSL clubs up and down the east coast, belting his songs out to pensioners more interested in winning on the pokie machines than listening to corny old show tunes.
I guess like me, Frankie hadn’t received an invitation to the show and that sealed his social kiss-of-death in this city, but the difference between us was that he cared. But as if he hadn’t already realised that his star had not just waned but had self-imploded years ago, I thought as I watched him push the manager aside and barge into the room. And despite the manager’s lack of muscularity, as well as his obvious aversion to both making a fuss in front of the guests and having his hair mussed, he was trying his hardest to deter the unwanted guest with commendable diplomacy.
Time for a professional to step in, I decided. But seeing that my colleagues could not be distracted from their carnal cravings, it was up to me instead.
Not allowing myself a chance to reconsider and attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible, I slipped out of formation at the moment when Jenna slowly spun around in her spectacular costume, captivating everyone. I quickly sidled to the edge of the stage, climbing down carefully in the heels. Once on the ground, I kicked off my shoes thinking that I surely would break both my ankles if I tried to move one more centimetre in them. Skirting the guests and desperate not to draw any attention to myself, I dashed to the door.
Frankie was becoming increasingly obstreperous, shoving against the poor flustered manager who gamely blocked his path. Frankie cursed him in a continuous, slurred stream that only confirmed my suspicions about his advanced state of intoxication. He was totally plastered, unsteady on his feet, his skin suffused with an unappealing mottled red that spoke volumes of his ongoing love affair with the bottle. His face was more lined than I remembered and his hair, although suspicious
ly retaining its boyish brown colour, didn’t look as though it had made any contact with a brush for a few weeks. His shining white teeth were now stained yellow and his jaunty cravat and elegant, expensive pearl cufflinks couldn’t detract from his frayed and stained dress shirt, crumpled trousers and scuffed shoes.
In a discreet but increasingly strained voice, the manager asked him again to leave the premises without causing any further trouble. I had to hand it to him for so far remaining polite, despite the fact that his hands were shaking and a sweat had broken out on his upper lip at the thought of Jenna Mackenzie’s show being disrupted by a pissed has-been. Not to mention a pissed has-been who might possibly still be interesting enough to pique the media’s interest.
On reaching the two men, I stepped up to Frankie and placed a gentle restraining hand on his arm.
“Sir, you heard the gentleman here. This is an invitation-only event and I’m sorry, but if you don’t have an invitation, you can’t enter this room. It’s time for you to move on.”
Both men goggled at the sight of me, more than a touch surprised to be confronted by a masked, lingerie-clad voice of reason. And I guess that I probably did look a little less authoritative than your average security officer. But I couldn’t help that and I had a job to do.
Frankie swayed and blinked bloodshot eyes at me, before rubbing them wearily. “Oh shit, I really gotta give up the booze. These dreams are getting weirder every day.”
“It’s not a dream, sir. I’m real.”
He lifted his head to the heavens. “Well, thank you God for granting me at least one of my fantasies before I die.” I thought about that for a moment and had to concede that being manhandled by a tall, young woman in lingerie might turn some men on. Shame for him then that I had no intention of manhandling anybody, unless it was absolutely necessary.
