THE KATES HILL PRESS, DUDLEY, ENGLAND

STORY OF THE WEEK, #9. AUTHOR; SUE McMULLEN

Invisible

I watch carefully from what, as always, I hope is a discreet distance.

At a glance Lottie is anything but extraordinary; vaguely, intriguingly, eccentric maybe, but essentially just odd enough to be deliberately ignored if noticed at all.

On an otherwise dough-like face her flaccid cheeks are punctuated with florid, cochineal blots. Her puddle-grey eyes, buried in a permanently puzzled frown, seem never to focus properly constantly drifting arbitrarily to the left or right. Occasionally they are obscured by heavy, greasy lids when she closes her eyes and, almost imperceptibly, rocks to and fro whilst, almost inaudibly, humming. The bottom of her face is interrupted by a paper-tin slit of a mouth, too red from the constant worrying by her incongruously perfect teeth.

Her oily hair, the colour of wet sand, hangs in vile thin ribbons, stopping abruptly but unevenly below her ears – the effort to reach her shoulders too great. The shoulders look bony but the body between and below is a shapeless bulk waddling aimlessly through the crowds. Her hands, in bitty old woollen gloves pluck miserably at clothes obviously too expensive (and too small) for Lottie.

I watch her with a morbid fascination though she earns scant attention from fellow shoppers, too ensconced in their own activities to notice the dowdy woman browsing out of her depth. But on her approach to a till, two sales assistants excitedly exchanging whispered gossip about the Christmas party pause briefly, smirking to each other slyly, surprised, as one takes Lottie’s cash and the other dutifully wraps the powder-blue silk dress she’s acquired along the way. Two ingratiating, insincere smiles are forced on her as she ambles away, humming tunelessly; the Barbie girls return to their malicious yuletide anecdotes.

I watch, hanging back as Lottie enters the building through the rear entrance for service workers and deliveries. Now more sprightly than at the mall, she makes her way up the stairs to the sanctuary of her apartment.

I know her routine intimately but watch what I can of her on camera anyway – just to be sure. She tosses the boxed gown onto the bed. The gloves follow then she sits before her dressing table and proceeds to remove the wig, facial prosthetics and contacts before standing to undress and remove the wretched but ultimately indispensable sweaty, foam body suit.

Once showered she skips back into view, energetic and lithe but wearing only underwear so she hurriedly but expertly applies makeup, just enough to accentuate her delicate features, then slips into the soft silk, a shimmering, luminous pool before the mirror. She brushes her luxurious hair and leaves the room with a flourish.

I watch her, quick but elegant, tip-tapping down the stairs where I wait to open the door. Momentarily we are caught in the strobe-like flash of paparazzi cameras before I bustle her protectively but efficiently into the waiting limo.

Charlotte turns to me and flashes a brilliant smile. “Well, off to work we go” tuts, “another damn premier!”

Nervous

Beth sat with the unnatural stillness of someone suffering internal restlessness and torment but who was determined not to allow her body language to betray her. This was quite an accomplishment if for no other reason than the unyielding wooden chair on which she sat was one that commanded repetitive buttock shuffling to prevent at worst, acute sciatica, or at least merciless pins and needles, either of which would render she slender but well muscled legs useless to perform the task ahead. And so she embarked on (what she hoped to Christ were!) a series of undetectable buttock clenching exercises to keep the blood flowing and the muscles fed.

Her hair was tied and pinned so it stood off her head in haphazard pineapple-top tufts, giving an impression of dishevelment. In fact it had taken just short of forty minutes and still more expletives to achieve this ‘casual’ look. The tufted mess was a rich mahogany brown, natural surprisingly, interestingly interspersed with not so natural streaks of blue.

She knew she was pretty and had the sense and confidence (usually) not to bother pretending otherwise. Her face was one that ‘just worked’, without apparent effort – her eyes were large, dark as her hair and twinkled mischievously (when she wasn’t staring straight ahead like a startled rabbit); her nose was… well, what she used for inhalation, not much else to say really, other than to acknowledge that it was nicely proportioned and in the right position. Her mouth was wide and the lips could be made to look plumper, but as she smiled almost constantly, as a rule, it was a moot point really. Her oval smooth skinned face housed these features comfortably and pleasingly, frequently earning her an appreciative second glance from men and women alike.

Now, rigid as she was on her inquisitional perch, she wondered if her naturally cute face looked as pained and as pinched as it (and her bum!) felt. She was horribly conscious of her nipples pressing out against the blue lycra fabric of her leotard and thought again how unreasonably cold the large, dark auditorium was, but she resisted the temptation to fold her arms for either modesty or warmth, agonising instead and forcing her hands to look as if they rested calmly in the lap of her thighs which were now rigidly pressed together. She knew that once she glimpsed her own tantalising fingertips, the neurotic gnawing would begin and instead of the casting director watching her dance, elegant upper limbs moving to complement the lower, he’d be fixated on a display of mangled nails and quicks.

Without moving her head she took a few furtive glances left and right, appraising the others, and although hard to see features in the dim light backstage, she recognised a row of bodies who shared her trepidation; the sense of companionship she felt then took much of the weight threatening to crush her diaphragm.

Her name was called and she stood falteringly, edging out onto the stage, smoothing at her leggings to remove non-existent creases and bits and wipe away the very real sweat from her palms.

The music began and she started to dance.

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