Writing for Fun
Dressing To Kill - Diane Silverston
May 2014
Margarita needed to look her best if she really wanted to impress them. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity that had come her way. She had to make the most of this chance. It needed something special, something unique, so she could make her mark and stand out from all the others. She needed them to notice her.
She had been born Margaret Woodfield, but had changed her name to Margarita Boisfeld to make herself more of a mystery, and memorable. Now she needed to change her outward appearance, to be more elegant and unforgettable.
She had gone to an expensive salon to have her hair cut and styled in a more striking style, and as she looked in the mirror she was pleased with her new look. She had been careful with her make up; just right.
Margarita turned and took the hanger from the hook on the door, slid the sleek black dress on, smoothed it down, checked again in the mirror, just the right length, size 8 and it fitted absolutely right, elegant and stylish. Next she slipped on her new coat, bright red and beautifully tailored. How could she fail to impress them? Black patent shoes and clutch bag finished her outfit. It had cost a lot, used up most of her savings, but surely it would be worth it if it helped her gain a contract?
Margarita left her room and used the communal telephone to get a taxi, it would use up more of her savings but she didn't want to arrive looking ruffled or mark her new clothes.
She arrived at the agent's office, neat and calm. Opened the door to the outer office, had a brief word with the secretary there, giving her name and details. She then turned, carefully took off her coat and hung it on the coat rack. As she sat down she glanced at the other girls sitting there, several of them looked very young and nervous, dress as if they had tried too hard . . . short skirts and too much make up. A few looked about her age and some gave her a weak smile.
The girls were called in to see the agent alphabetically, most went in all smiles but came out weeping or head down. Slowly the number diminished and after about an hour and a half only Margarita was left.
'Mr Chiltern will see you now Miss Boisfeld,' the secretary's bored voice said.
Margarita stood and walked calmly and carefully into the agent's office.
'Good morning,' she said.
'Hi, stand there.'
Margarita put her clutch bag on the desk, stood where he had pointed, stood erect, head up.
Mr Chiltern walked around her, looking her up and down, poking at her, 'No, no, no.'
'You'll have to lose two sizes at least, and do something with your hair. Perhaps some work on your face would help, if you want to get anywhere in this business. You're not what we are looking for at all. Get out!'
'How dare he speak to her like that! Not even looking at her, but with his back to her.'
Margarita was furious as she moved to the desk. She picked up a small phial of tablets as she grabbed her black clutch bag. Although she was so angry she wasn't going to let him see that. So with her head held high, and a steady pace she walked out of the room, closed the door behind her. She had a brief conversation with Janice, Mr Chiltern's secretary. Margarita then took her bright red coat off the hook and left the agent's office.
Several hours later Janice had told the police that at about four she had put a call through to Mr Chiltern, she had heard him shouting for a while then a click as the conversation ended. At quarter to six she had taken letters in for Mr. Chiltern to sign and had found him slumped over his desk. She had phoned for an ambulance but the paramedics had declared Mr Chiltern dead.
As she sat drinking her coffee and watching the ten o'clock news reporter stating that Mr Chiltern was thought to have died between four thirty and five thirty, and that his heart pills had been found in the pocket of his coat hanging on the hook in the outer office, Margarita looked up at her sleek black dress and tailored red coat hanging on the bed-sit door, and a wry smile appeared on her face.