Writing for Fun
October 2020
Behind Closed Doors - Lynn Gale
It had arrived, the package with its distinctive pink and white packaging. I could hardly contain my excitement and reached out to take it. But before the delivery driver would relinquish the parcel, he insisted on photographing it from several angles, then patting his pockets for a pen added to my impatience. 'I’ll find you one,' I offered.
'Oh no, that’s not allowed,' he told me in his self-important voice. 'Company policy states that we must use our pens at all times. Finally, after what seemed like an age, he found one, filled the information he needed, tucked the pen into his top pocket, walked off down the front path, climbed into his white van, and drove away.
I grabbed the box and raced upstairs two at a time, straight into the bedroom, kicked the door shut, took a quick peek out of the window to the street below, and pulled the curtains tight.
I ripped open the outer box, then carefully removed a layer of tissue paper to reveal the pink mini dress with a white low cut feather neckline; it was beautiful; I purred in delight at the feel of the silky smooth fabric.
'First things first,' I declared, 'must put my face on.'
A jumble of make-up, along with several bottles of perfume, covered the surface of the small white dressing table. I tutted at the mess but rummaged through a box of eye shadows, picking out a pale blue with gold flecks, then the exotically named crimson kiss red lipstick to add class to my final look.
The delicate pink dress was a little snug, showing off every bulge and crevice. False eyelashes, a long red curly wig, then, the piece de resistance, nine-inch gold stiletto shoes, with lacing that went right up over the ankle, which I kept hidden in the bottom of my wardrobe. Two hours later, the transformation was complete.
'You rock this look, girl,' I pouted and preened in front of the full-length mirror.
The sound of a key in the lock downstairs caused me to freeze in horror.
'Hi, honey, I’m home,' a voice called out. 'The boss called the meeting off.'
I began to panic; I can’t let George see me in this.
The bottom stair creaked as George began to ascend. 'Are you in the bedroom, love?'
Oh Jeez, think, think, think … ‘I’m in the shower, won’t be too long.’ I shouted.
I listened, heart thumping as George turned around and headed into the kitchen.
Blowing out a sigh of relief, I scooped up discarded clothes and tip-toed out of the bedroom. Creeping along the landing, I wobbled precariously on those thin heels.
Disaster stuck inches from the safety of the bathroom, my stiletto caught in a loose floorboard that we had been meaning to fix for months. I pulled and pulled, trying to release the shoe which has wedged tightly between the wooden slats. I could hear George humming downstairs.
In desperation, I made one last concentrated effort, the offending heel broke off with a loud snap, forcing me too topple towards the stairs. I made a grab for the rail but missed and knew instantly that this would not end well.
Bouncing down every step, I ended up in an ungainly heap at the bottom. My wig flew off and landed on top of Mr. Tibbs, our cat, snoozing on the hallway chair; he must have thought he was being attacked and raced up the curtain like Usain Bolt. As he clung, shaking at the top, the curtain rod held on precariously by two screws started to pull away from the wall; I watched in horror as it finally gave way and crashed down, bringing rod and curtains on top of my head.
'What happened …?' George rushed from the kitchen on hearing the commotion, grabbed the curtain and pulled it away. I must have looked a sight, sitting spread-eagled on the floor, the expensive pink dress now looked cheap and tacky, the collar ripped and hanging down with half of the feathers missing. I watched mesmerised as one of my false eyelashes was being batted around the hallway by Mr. Tibbs, who seemed to have recovered from the indignity of being terrified by a hairpiece.
'Michael, what on earth are you wearing?' my wife asked. 'And is that my new perfume I can smell?
‘Ah George, Georgina darling, let me explain.’
How was I going to tell my wife of forty years about my secret habit?