Copyright© 2011 Angharad
All Rights Reserved.
I lay in bed listening to Simon’s heavy breathing—at least he wasn’t snoring yet—reflecting on the day. How had I let myself be talked into reprising my major stage appearance? Was I a secret exhibitionist or just stupid? Was I weak willed or easily led? I wasn’t a Catholic but I seemed to have an inbuilt sense of guilt and the girls had latched on to it very quickly.
The play was a fund raiser for the school, just as my talk had been. They were a registered charity and apart from looking to improve facilities for the children, they also provided bursaries and scholarships for less wealthy families. I had some qualms about any religiously aligned school, but they had been the only place to agree to take Trish, in her fairly newly acquired female role. Now some of that had been confirmed by surgery, she would have little problem fitting in with the other girls, even in the showers—although those were individual cubicles, so it didn’t matter.
The girls had said that Matthew Hines had seen a film of my talk to the students, introducing my clips and so on. He had apparently agreed that he’d play Macbeth if I played his wicked wife. How could he know I’d be any good at it? He’d seen the review in the paper. Did he know of my past? Apparently, Sister Maria had explained that my path to womanhood was a little different, needing an operation to correct a plumbing problem. He apparently shrugged and said I looked and sounded fine, so that was okay as far as he was concerned—apart from that he was happily married to Judy, who was a model—with looks and a figure to die for.
I was relieved at that, and when I showed a picture of the couple to Simon, he stopped talking about Scarlett for a few minutes. With his attention span, such a time frame is very significant. He was suitably impressed. When I said we’d been invited to dinner the following Saturday evening, to meet the celebrity couple, he went and asked Jenny to make sure she was available.
When I told him it was at a big hotel in Southsea, his eyes nearly popped out. He phoned and reserved the family suite, so we wouldn’t have to drive home afterwards and he could have a drink, and so could I if I wanted. I’m not that worried one way or the other—although I do need my tea on a regular basis.
I lay there and Simon started to snore, so I used one of my bony elbows to poke him in the side, he muttered something and rolled over on to his side. The attempt to start a pig with a pull cord sound effect stopped immediately. I continued to try and remember how I’d managed to create a mildly Scottish accent last time I’d done the play, then, I remembered.
The school librarian was Scots and although she found my situation bemusing, she agreed to read all my lines into a recorder and I simply copied it. Somewhere at my parent’s house I still had that tape—I was sure I’d seen it not too long ago, but where?
I tossed and turned as I explored the house in my mind, visualising rooms and even individual pieces of furniture. Of course, under my old bed, I had a small box of tapes of all sorts of things, including my singing when I was a kid in the school choir. I actually felt myself blush at that recollection.
I thought I’d nip home one day soon and collect the tape and copy it to my MP3 player and play it as I slept—should produce some interesting dreams—nah, if I remind myself at the beginning that I want to learn these lines in this accent, I’d be sort of half hypnotising myself and it would make learning them easier—perhaps. Having decided that, at two o’clock, I finally managed to get off to sleep.
It was decided I needed a new outfit for the dinner. Simon agreed, he’d wear his tux and bow tie and I’d wear a smart cocktail type dress or similar. I don’t know why I was worried about impressing Matthew. Compared to his wife, I was going to look like a bag of lard whatever I wore.
After taking the girls to school, I went to Southampton and began my search for a nice outfit. I found one just before lunch—a latte coffee—I was going to lose a pound or two before Saturday.
I found this absolutely delicious dress—a bit more feminine than I usually do—a print of butterflies and roses on a pale-green chiffon, under which was an emerald green bra-slip. It came to above the knee and was definitely cocktail type. It was also under two hundred pounds, so after trying it and liking it, I bought it.
Next was a pair of green panties to match the dress, which took me half an hour to find. In the same shop I purchased a pair of glossy ten denier tights and then went in search of a pair of black sandals and matching evening bag. I finished plundering the shops at two o’clock—twelve hours after I’d managed to get to sleep and had I not had to get back for the girls, I’d have been tempted to take a snooze in the car for half an hour. Instead I had another coffee and an apple. On the way back to the car I saw the perfect necklace and matching bracelet and earrings—all in silver and green, and just the right shade of green. I bought some new metallic green eyeliner and drove back to Portsmouth and the school.
I have green eyes, not the brilliant green of some redheads, but they are green albeit olive green. Usually I use earthy colours for eye makeup, browns and grey-browns, occasionally I work in a bit of green but it is only occasionally. On Saturday, I would emphasise my green peepers—although, they’d be green with envy at Mrs Zero-dress-size Hines.
When I got home from collecting the girls, I showed them the dress and the shoes and bag, and they all really liked it. They urged me to try it on, so without further ado, I did.
Jenny came by as I was emerging from my bedroom and she beamed a smile at me, “That looks absolutely stunning,” she said and I noted she said that not you. Remind me to sack her on Sunday.
She did rectify her previous faux pas by saying to the girls that she thought I looked really beautiful in the dress. I would wear a pashmina with it to walk down from our suite to the dining room, where Simon had organised a relatively private table.
Of course the girls were all green with envy at us meeting a film star and his model wife, and I promised to get both of their autographs. Danny particularly wanted a picture of Judy—I didn’t enquire why.
As I changed back into my jeans and sweater, I smiled to myself—it was going to be fun meeting these people but if he was being nice to me, so he could give me the brush off in order to work with a proper actress, I wasn’t too worried. I’d avoid the publicity, which part of me shunned and I’d still have a pleasant evening out with Simon—something we didn’t do half often enough. I also booked into the hair salon at the hotel for a tidy up on the Saturday afternoon. I spoke to Simon about it and he was quite happy for us to go early, as he’d watch the rugby in the hotel. “Scotland are playing Italy, and they might actually win.”
The girls weren’t quite so happy, until I told them I’d got them a film to watch and would organise a pizza for their tea on Saturday. I was disappointed they were so easily bought off. I also decided I’d make it up to them when we had Trish’s birthday party the following week.
If you liked this post, you can leave a comment and/or a kudo!
Click the Good Story! button above to leave the author a kudo:
And please, remember to comment, too! Thanks.