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“I see your problem,” Rob Janetta
said thoughtfully. “In an ideal world, what would you want me to do
about it?” “I’d like you to make me a
corselette,” Jean said uncomfortably, “which would hold me in at
least three inches—preferably four—but wouldn’t show under a
satin camisole or a negligée.” Rob shook his head slowly. “I don’t
think that can be done, Jean.” “Oh, come on! You’re a genius!” That brought forth a smile, but a
rueful one. “I’m a genius, if you like, but I can’t do the
impossible. The kind of control you need for Circe’s outfits I can
only get with bones and rigid fabrics. It’s one thing if you’re
wearing a tailored suit with a heavy interlining, or a boned evening
gown, but under a scrap of thin satin the bones are going to show
through.” “Then do without the bones! You can
do wonders with this Lycra stuff. Just use enough of that to give me
the control I need.” Rob shook his head again. “It can’t
work, I’m sorry.” “Why not?” “In a word, bulges. It would look all
right as long as you kept your back straight, but if you bend at all,
the Lycra is going to crease over your tummy and the sides of your
waist, and the bulges between the creases are going to show
through.” “That’s not a problem. I never bend
over or lean sideways on the show anyway—I couldn’t do it if I
wanted to, trussed up in those corselettes you make me wear! The
audience are used to seeing Circe straight-backed and upright…” “It won’t work in that
context, Jean. I’m sorry to make trouble for you, but it just won’t.
It’s one thing to be stiff and formal when you’re wearing a
drop-dead evening gown or a formal pencil suit, but if you’re going
to seduce Coleridge in a thin satin slip, you’ve got to be seductive.
If you walk about like a broomstick, it’s not going to fit with the
scene. Anyway, women your age will—” “What do you mean, my age?” “I’m sorry, forget I said it. What
I should have said is, certain women who are old enough to
remember the Fifties and Sixties, the days when girdles and corsetry
were everywhere, will look at you and say ‘Oh, yes, she’s trying
to convince us she’s naked under that satin, but you can tell
there’s a strong corselette under there from the way she moves.’
They’ll show the clip on TV and laugh at you. You can’t pull it
off.” Jean folded her hands in her
tight-skirted lap and looked at him in silence for some time.
Presently she said “Well. So what do you suggest? Turn Joe down and
see myself written out by stages?” “Don’t give up hope, Jean. I’m
thinking.” “Any hopes of an answer this week?” “I think I’ve got an
answer…I’m just not that confident about putting it to you.” “If it isn’t an outright insult,
Rob, please carry on. I’ll try anything within reason.” “Um, OK. How can I put this?” He
stared into space for some time before declaring “Right. Who says
you have to dress like Zibeline did anyway?” “Nobody. But I think that’s
implied—an underwear scene, it’s got to be erotic. I can’t go
out there in one of your satin downstretch rigid front panel semi
stepin lined and boned—” “I’m not suggesting that you do. I
think Joe Grammer’s rather led you astray by showing you that scene:
he’s got you thinking you have to wear the same costume as Zibeline.
Circe wouldn’t do that. Circe would go her own way.” Jean permitted herself a smile. “You
intrigue me. Keep going.” Rob pulled a pad of paper and a felt
pen from the clutter on his desk and began to sketch rapidly.
“Zibeline had a very simple outfit—satin camisole, lacy panties,
high-heeled mules—because she’s a simple character. Circe isn’t
like that. She’s complex and ingenious. Remember, Ashe’s scene was
Coleridge seducing her—she hadn’t dressed herself to look
seductive, or that’s what we’re supposed to believe. Circe, on the
other hand, is deliberately setting out to create an effect, and she
wouldn’t pull any punches. It’s elaborate, it’s calculated,
it’s extraordinary, it’s irresistible, it’s something he’s
never seen before, maybe never even imagined.” He finished his
sketch with a flourish, then turned it round and handed it to his most
famous client. Jean looked at it with something
approaching disgust. “You can’t seriously expect me to wear a corset!” “Why not?” “A corselette’s bad enough, but a corset!…Talk
about losing my self-respect! I can’t go out there and suggest that
Circe needs a corset to keep her figure in shape! It’s even worse
than letting them see my real corsetry! Have you gone raving mad?
I don’t know why I—” “Jean. Please. Listen to me for a
minute. If you don’t like it, you can go away and I’ll never
suggest it again, OK? But please listen. Just for a little while.” “…All right.” “Jean, Circe isn’t wearing that
corset to keep her figure in shape. She has a perfect figure, of
course.” “Of course,” Jean agreed
ungraciously. “She’s wearing it because it’s erotic.
Coleridge has seen Zibeline in her lingerie, all very simple, nothing
to show off. Now he meets Circe, who has plenty to show
off—mature bust, slim waist, curvy hips, sumptuous butt—and
she’s dressed to make the most of it all. He’s going to be
stunned! OK, it’s a little bit kinky, but then that’s very Circe,
isn’t it? She’s always had a sort of fem-dom feel about her. Not
explicitly, of course, you wouldn’t see her going about with a whip,
but the thing is, it would kind of make sense if she did. My point is
that this is much more in character for her than something simple and
unstructured like the satin slips you’ve been worrying about. Circe glories
in all the artifice she can use to make herself more beautiful and
sexy—the false eyelashes, the killer heels, the make-up, the
jewellery, the tight skirts to make her wiggle, the low necklines to
show off her cleavage. Nobody’s suggesting she needs a corset
to look good. The idea is she’s doing it to look her best, to
knock Coleridge’s inhibitions right out of the ballpark. Once he’s
seen Circe looking like this, Zibeline in a peach satin camisole is
never going to seem exciting again—and the same goes for the
audience. The critics won’t laugh at you; they’ll say ‘Only
Circe would have worn this outfit, and only Jean Harper could have got
away with it.’” Jean pursed her lips and examined the
picture carefully. After some thought she said “What fabrics do you
have in mind?” “A corset like that needs a strong
foundation, but we can cover it in something much softer and prettier.
I was thinking red satin as a base, with black detailing, black lace
along the top and bottom, black garters, and of course black silk
stockings.” “That’s nice…do you think you
could make it a little longer over the hips? Not that I have anything
to be ashamed of, naturally, but it would be more flattering if it
didn’t expose everything. I don’t, I mean, Circe doesn’t need to
flash my, her thong at the world the way you’ve drawn it…” “No sooner said than done,” Rob
said, obligingly scribbling over the hemline he had drawn for the
corset and bringing it down to the figure’s upper thighs. “Of
course, that will make it more difficult to sit down.” “How difficult?” “You probably couldn’t sit up on a
chair: you’d have to lean back. On a bed, though, you could sit down
and then lie back in one movement. It’s the sort of thing you’ve
always done very well. And get this—you can wear a black negligée
over it, so at first you’ll just look like a regular seductress in
her boudoir. Coleridge is just about coming to terms with seeing you
undressed when you take it off and wham—hit him with the
corset. It’ll be the event of the season. I can just see the Best
Costume Emmy now!” Jean looked at the drawing in silence
for some further time. She was thinking back to her youth as a Fifties
starlet, in the days when powerful corsetry was vital for any young
woman who wanted to look glamorous, and the studio had enforced a
dress code which the starlets joked amounted to “if you can still
breathe, you aren’t trying hard enough.” She had had some hard
times gasping her way through films and photo-shoots and premieres,
trying not to faint, but they had been good times too. There was no
doubt about it: nothing did more for a lady’s figure than a good
tight corset. Now that, much as she hated to admit it, she was
definitely on the wrong side of voluptuous, it would do more for her
than ever. Way back then she had put all the other Charm School
graduates to shame with her tiny waist: why, there was a Royal Film
Performance when in honour of the queen she had insisted on wearing a
seventeen-inch corset under her gown. She didn’t quite know how she
had survived it, but one thing she was sure about: it had been worth
it. To see the looks on the other girls’ faces, the way the men
couldn’t take their eyes off her, the photographs in the papers and
magazines…that had really made her name. She couldn’t turn her
back on it now… “All right,” she said firmly,
handing the picture back. “Run up a fair copy of this sketch. Send
one to me and one to Joe Grammer. If he agrees, we’ll go ahead.” “You won’t regret it, Jean.” Jean thought of her Royal Film
experience and laughed. “I might regret it while I’m in the
damn thing, but once it’s off and the pictures are in the can, I
won’t regret it ever again!” Susie had closed the back zip on
Jean’s costume corselette and was just forcing the right-hand side
zip to the top when the telephone rang. “Damn it!” Jean panted, as Susie
ran to answer it and the zip whizzed down again. “We should have an
answering machine.” “Jean Harper’s dressing room,”
Susie said. “No, she’s dressing at the moment… How important?…I
don’t believe you, I’m afraid, Mr Janetta. …Well, if you insist,
I’ll ask her, but I don’t think she’ll be pleased.” She
covered the mouthpiece and said “It’s Rob Janetta wanting to talk
to you about the costume he’s designing for your boudoir scene in
show twenty-six.” “I can’t talk about it now,” Jean
said, rolling her eyes. “I’m due on set soon, and it’ll take all
the time we have to get into that death-trap of a mermaid-gown he’s
made for this scene.” “I thought you’d say that, but he
says it’s very important, and that he needs to talk to you now or
you could face a disaster.” “What sort of disaster?” “What sort of disaster?” Susie
repeated into the phone, then listened. “He won’t say,” she
relayed, with a sceptical look. “All right, I’m coming,” Jean
said. “Carry on zipping me while I’m talking. We can’t waste any
more time.” She stalked across the floor in her five-inch
heels—shoes and stockings always had to come first when a lady’s
underwear and skirt made sitting down risky or impossible—and took
the phone from Susie. “Yes, Rob, what is it? Make it quick.” “Listen, Jean. Does Circe wear a
corset?” “What?” “Circe, your character. Does she wear
corsetry all the time?” Jean flushed. “Listen, Rob,” she
said, “if you’re trying to make some point about me being
dishonest—” “Jean, please listen to
me—” “After all I’ve done for your
reputation, and now you just come trying to embarrass me!” “Believe me, Jean, I am not trying
to embarrass you. Quite the opposite. I’m trying to save you from
embarrassment. Now, just listen and try not to get mad. Pretend for a
minute that the real world doesn’t exist and Circe is a real person,
different than you. You know she has a fabulous figure: does she need
corsetry to keep it that way?” “I don’t know what you’re trying
to get at—” “Jean, please. Let me put it
another way. I make all Circe’s costumes to fit a twenty-four inch
waist. If Circe were a real person, would she really have a
twenty-four inch waist, or is it just that she has a twenty-four inch
waisted girdle?” There was a long silence. “Ooh!” Jean exclaimed suddenly. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing…it’s just Susie zipping
up my corselette.” “You see, though, that’s what I was
getting at. If Circe—” “Shut up! Let me think.” Rob
obediently fell silent, until finally Jean said with great reluctance
“If you want my opinion, Circe has a natural hourglass figure.” “She doesn’t need tight underwear
to shape it?” “No. Rob, are you trying to remind me
of how much I have to keep secret? Because if you are—” “I’m not, I promise you. Like I
said, I’ve just seen there’s an awful potential for you to be
embarrassed and I’m trying to look ahead. I designed that satin
corset for you with a twenty-four inch waist, the same as your
costumes. Then it struck me: Circe’s trying to look as sexy as
possible, isn’t she? And she’s not worried about dressing for
comfort. I think, if Circe was going to get her lover horny by wearing
a corset, she’d lace it as tight as possible—certainly tight
enough so her waist looked much smaller than usual.” Jean’s heart sank. She said “And
your point is, if the viewers see Circe in a powerful corset and her
waist is just the usual twenty-four inches, they’re going to suspect
that she needs a powerful corset to get that figure anyway?” “Well…yes.” “So what are you going to do about
it?” “Well, what else can we do? I’ve
taken the waist of your corset in. Nobody’s going to think Circe’s
laced herself up tight just to get her usual figure back. It’s going
to be dramatic.” “How…dramatic?” “You know you told me when you were a
Rank starlet you had to wear tight corsets all the time to keep your
figure in shape for Fifties fashion?” “…Yes?” “Well, I looked up your measurements
in Celebrity Sleuth magazine, and I made it to fit those. Say
‘hello again’ to your eighteen-inch waist, Jean.” Jean was silent for some time. Finally
she exclaimed “Are you mad? I was about eighteen when they
took those measurements! I’m over fif—I mean, I’m in my late
thirties now!” “Jean, it can be done. Trust me.” “What good’s an eighteen-inch waist
to me if I die of suffocation before I reach the set?” “You won’t die. Two things.
Firstly, if you start wearing corsets now, twenty-four hours a day as
tight as possible, it’ll reshape your figure and you’ll find it
easier. Besides, you’ll get used to it. Secondly, in those days you
went to premieres and film festivals and such in your eighteen-inch
corset, and it was hard work—” “You can say that again!” “—but this time all you have to do
is walk from your dressing room, play a scene, and walk back. It’s
only one scene. It’s not even going to be a long scene: that’s in
the contract, remember. You can have your stays half-laced all the
time they’re doing your hair and make-up, and only lace up tight
just before you go on set. Then as soon as you’re finished you can
unlace again. You can do it, Jean. Believe in yourself.” Jean thought for some time before
saying “All right, I’ll try it.” And as Rob began bubbling over
with congratulations she stopped him with “I said I’d try
it. I’m not giving any promises about eighteen-inch waists.” “You’re a real trouper, Jean. I
think you’ll surprise yourself.” “Rob, if I can be laced to eighteen
inches at my age and not pass out cold, no-one will be more surprised
than me.” She hung up without saying goodbye. Susie had managed to zip up the
reluctant corselette while Jean was talking: now she was standing back
with an awed expression. “Are you really going to have an
eighteen-inch corset?” she whispered. “So it seems.” Jean laughed
ruefully. “Actually, I once survived a seventeen-inch corset
for a special occasion. I’m lucky Rob didn’t find out about
that.” Susie struggled visibly with herself
before finally bursting out with “You do realise, Miss Harper,
that’s a twenty-four inch corselette, and—” “I know.” “—it’s hard enough getting you
down four inches to fit into that, you complain—” “I know.” “—enough about it, and now you’re
suggesting getting something six inches tighter—” “I know! Stop bothering me
about it, Susie.” “But…how are you going to do it?” “Rob says I can do it if I wear a
corset all day, and all night, and lace it tighter and tighter
whenever I can. I’ve got, oh, nearly two months to get used to it,
and maybe by the end I’ll be able to stand an eighteen-inch waist
for half an hour’s filming.” Susie digested this idea for some time.
When she had come to terms with it she said “Rather you than me.” “Oh, there’s a positive side to
it.” “What’s that?” “I’ve been complaining about the
twenty-four inch corselettes I need for Circe’s costumes, but when
I’m tight-lacing in a steel-boned corset every day, they’ll be a
relief.” Randy had known Jean since she first
came to Hollywood: he had the lead role in the B-picture where she
first had a speaking part. One thing led to another, and he ended up
responsible for her first abortion, both making it necessary in the
first place and afterwards finding someone who could do the job. They
had even been married once: not for long, but that was in the days
when celebrity marriages were contracted for publicity reasons. As she
was currently between husbands, a handsome older man with a well-known
face was a welcome escort, at least if she couldn’t snag a handsome
younger man instead. Somewhat ruefully, Randy reflected how
their respective careers had taken divergent paths, his never quite
fulfilling the early promise of his portrayal of the young heartthrob
cowpuncher on ‘Trail Boss’ on ’Sixties television, hers following a
carefully agent-plotted line from young ingénue roles – in which
she caused many a major actress to regret her casting by her
extraordinary and exotically distracting good looks – to her early
and image setting break as the heartless home wrecker in ‘Too
Late the Red Sky’. It was a role which at once made and
restricted her career. So
perfectly and convincingly did she portray man-eating sirens and femme
fatales that she was never again offered anything else.
And once the fashion for overblown melodrama in mainstream
cinema passed to be replaced by a critically more admired gritty
realism the supply of and demand for such parts fizzled out.
The overpowering sensuality and glamour of Jean’s screen
presence then became somewhat of a liability in being considered for
fresh screen roles. After all, who would believe this luminous and luscious
creature as a downtrodden single mother fighting against the odds for
justice in a callously commercial society?
So Jean turned, not without some regret mixed with the
gratitude, to the last bastion of high glamour, not to say camp,
melodrama, the television soap opera. Jean had been through a tiresome phase
of pretending to be young and going to the trendiest clubs, but she
had grown out of that. They had arranged an evening of old-fashioned
glamour: meet up in their best clothes, go to a theatre where you
could guarantee a reasonable number of paparazzi, and afterwards a
moderately romantic meal for two. Randy knew Jean’s high standards,
and had dressed in honour of the occasion in an immaculate tuxedo and
his best toupée: he always looked forward to seeing what Jean would
be wearing.
“Jean, honey, you look
magnificent!” Randy exclaimed when he found her in the foyer of the
Dress Circle, and it was the truth. He came up to her and put his
hands wonderingly on the sides of her tiny waist, feeling the hard
curves of it within the tight, rigidly boned bodice of the satin
dress. He kissed her
eminently kissable mouth, breathing in her intoxicating but subtle
perfume and experiencing that old goosepimpling frisson he always felt
in her presence. As
always, she made him feel like an excitable teenager again.
Despite their many years of familiarity friendship and lust, he
had never grown in any way blasé about the honour of being chosen as
her escort. She was forever a warmly shimmering feast for the senses “The perfect gentleman,” Jean
smiled, “always greets his date with a compliment.” “If I’d failed to, honey, I would
have to be insane! I swear you do look better every time I meet
you. I haven’t seen an hourglass figure like that since the
Fifties!” Jean laughed ruefully. “Randy, you
make me feel old!” “If getting older has that effect on
your curves, I’m all for it. I only wish it had the same effect on
me. Shall we go?” “Delighted, darling.” She offered
any of her fans within sight a dazzling smile; then she took Randy’s
arm and undulated away with him. Many of the Dress Circle patrons were
used to seeing her and other, higher-ranking stars there, but
nevertheless plenty of jaws dropped: seen from behind and in motion,
Jean in her red satin gown was even more amazing. The little jacket
ended just above her waist: its incredible constricted curve, and the
luxuriant outward curves straining the red satin beneath it, were
perfectly on show. The long narrow skirt forced her to walk with one
foot exactly in front of the other, and at each step the skirt
strained still tighter over her firm and shapely thighs, emphasising
the glorious roundness of her hips and behind still further. Having Randy’s arm was no mere matter
of form: descending a sloping path, such as that down to the front row
of the dress circle in a theatre, is extremely difficult in very high
heels, and even more so when they are combined with a long tight
skirt. It was obvious to Randy that Jean was holding on very tightly,
and he was proud to be of service to her, but he was also proud of her
ability to conceal how hard she was trying not to fall. It had always
been this way. Lesser women envying her style would try the tight
dresses and high heels for an evening, only to end up complaining that
their feet were killing them, they could hardly walk, they couldn’t
breathe, and all the rest of it. Jean was prepared to take anything
fashion could throw at her in the cause of looking good, and in
outfits that most women would have considered a form of torture she
was as calm, as controlled, as ladylike as ever. It was a discipline
that had been largely lost these days, Randy reflected as he and Jean
edged past the knees of early arrivals to their seats in the middle of
the front row. Back in the Fifties, a girl graduating into adult
fashion had to get used to high heels, pencil skirts, tight bodices
and tighter underwear: it was either that or look frumpy. Nowadays
most women had the choice to dress sloppily most of the time: they
took advantage of it, and when for a special occasion they tried more
demanding clothes, they weren’t up to it. Jean was old enough to
understand that to be truly glamorous, and truly at home in glamorous
clothes, you must never let your standards slip. He noticed something different as soon
as Jean sat down—or tried to. She stood up again awkwardly,
clutching at her exquisitely concave stomach, and looked round behind
herself at the seat. “Randy, darling, would you hold the seat down
for me so I can sit on it without it springing up again?” “Of course, honey.” Randy obliged,
stooping so that he didn’t commit the social error of sitting before
the lady he was escorting, and Jean lowered herself down carefully
onto the edge of the seat. She then slowly leant back until her
shoulder-blades within the little satin jacket touched the back of her
chair, and let out a tense sigh. Randy, astonished, realised she had
been holding her breath. “Are you OK?” he asked. Jean gave her famous smile, the smile
she always offered to reporters, which was so dazzling that you were
inclined to forget it could mean anything—or nothing. “Perfectly,
darling. Let’s enjoy the play.” “Didn’t you enjoy it?” he asked
in surprise. “I’ve heard great things about it on the
grapevine.” “Tiresome,” Jean snapped, as she
sidled along the row to the aisle, holding tightly onto his elbow.
“I couldn’t wait for it to end.” “That’s a shame. I thought you
might want to talk to the cast. Hayley Topilsky, she played Gradiva,
she’s an admirer of yours. I made a few arrangements, and we could
go backstage and have a few words—” “No. I just want to get out of here.
Come on, darling.” And climbing the steep slope to the exit
half-sideways because she could not raise her knees properly in the
long tight skirt, she led him out of the auditorium at surprising
speed. Their progress was hindered however by
the intervention from the crowd outside of a very young teenaged boy. Clad in the seemingly currently de rigueur teenage uniform of
a too-large T-shirt and jeans and unjustifiably expensive designer
name trainers, he seemed very uncertain as he stood there, fidgeting
at his unkempt mop of ginger curls and proffering an autograph book
and pen upward under Jean’s perfectly pancaked nose. Randy marvelled at how quickly Jean’s
starrily charming smile returned.
The boy stood there for a moment, quite obviously dumbstruck
with embarrassment, so Jean, her years of charm school practice
kicking in, took it upon herself to break the silence: “I’m flattered, of course, young
man,” she purred, a sultry smile in her voice, “But are you quite
sure you’ll even recognize my signature should I give it to you?
I know I may have a quite undeserved reputation for liking toy
boys, but you are awfully young, even by my standards…” “Yes – I mean no…” the boy
blushed furiously, “I mean I know who you are,
lady. You’re
Circe from that show my Dad watches all the time, aren’t you?” Randy joined in Jean’s laughter. This happened to her all the time since the show had taken
off with her arrival in it. Thankfully
though, there was more actual acting involved in Jean becoming her
Circe character than the Hollywood gossip columns would have one
believe. “Oh your Dad
watches my show, does he?”
Jean teased gently. “That
wouldn’t happen to be he standing over there inordinately interested
in the pattern of the pavement blocks at his feet, would it?” The boy looked over his shoulder and
gave a small sigh of resignation as he followed the direction of
Jean’s wonderfully mascara accented eyes: “Yep, that’s him alright, I’m
afraid,” he confirmed reluctantly as he saw his father over by the
kerbside in his best Sunday suit trying to blend with the concrete. Jean bent very carefully at the waist,
straining her red gown deliciously in the derriere area, and gently
relieved the boy of pen and autograph book.
She paused for a moment to consider, then with a practiced
flourish scribbled something in the book which evidently greatly
amused her. Then, still
bending with a cleavage flaunting depth which made the boy blushingly
uncertain of where to rest his glance, she smooched her glossily
carmined lips against his cheek.
A near-perfect cupid’s bow had imprinted itself on his cheek
as she withdrew those famously pouting lips. “Now,” she smiled as she handed the
pen and autograph book back into his gauche hands and gave his
smoochily stigmataed cheek a pat, “Bring that back to your
charmingly shy Dad and show him what he’s missed.” In one fell, swoon-inducing swoop she
had made a new fan and firmly confirmed an old one. Randy felt obliged to risk a perhaps
inappropriately affectionate public hug. “You really are a marvel, Jean” he
said. “Even in my
heyday I was never too good at meeting and greeting.
And nowadays sadly the only females who seem to recognise me are rather plain blue-rinsed matrons…” “Oh you poor dear,” Jean soothed. “Now I’m sure that simply isn’t true.” “No, seriously,” Randy insisted.
“You do realise that you’ve made their day, don’t you?
Me, I would have just pushed past.” “Darling, how unkind of you!” Jean
reprimanded him. “I’ve
always found it takes no more effort to be kind than rude – and a
little civility is far more productive P.R.-wise.” Randy squeezed her even tighter:
“Guess that’s why you’re still such a big star, honey,” he
grinned fondly and without a trace of jealousy.
He almost felt like asking her to marry him – again, and this
time without the studio’s prompting, but he knew that deep down her
fans would always be more of a family to her than he could ever
provide. “Ouch!” Jean winced.
“Now I know you’re very fond of me, Randy, but would you
mind loosening that damned trail hand grip of yours a tad around my
waist. My cor–
gown’s already quite gripping enough as it is…” Jean remained, by her standards, surly
the rest of the way out. Even for the opportunistic paparazzi outside
the main entrance she managed only a tight-lipped smile and a small
wave as Randy led her to his car. He held the door for her while she
gracefully lowered herself to the seat and swung her feet in, then
closed the door and went round to the other side. “I’m sorry you didn’t like the
show, honey,” he said, as his driver pulled out into the stream of
traffic. “Of course it’s hard for a young cast to live up to your
standards, but—” Jean dismissed his apologies with a
wave of her hand. “Never mind, darling, it’s not your fault,”
she said tersely. “Where are we going?” “A restaurant I’ve heard of. It’s
just coming into fashion, so we need to get there before it’s
flooded with C-listers. It took a lot of work to wrangle two
reservations at short notice…” “A restaurant! No, thank you!
Not tonight. Oh, I’m sorry, darling, but I’ve never felt less like
eating anything. Just take me home.” Randy was disappointed, to say the
least, but a gentleman never lets a lady feel she has let him down. He
told Jorge the address in the Hollywood Hills, then raised the
partition between the front and back seats so that they could have
some privacy. Jean said nothing else the rest of the
way, but she remained restless and uncomfortable. Only when the
limousine was actually drawing up to the door of her house did she say
rather sheepishly “Randy, I’m sorry I haven’t been very good
company this evening. Would you like to come in, darling?” “I’d love to!” He lowered the
partition and said “Jorge, I may be some time. Wait here,” then
got out and went to help Jean from her seat. Strictly speaking such a
menial task was the job of the chauffeur, but it was more romantic for
the gentleman to do it for his lady—and in any case Randy didn’t
want the pleasure of seeing that stupendous figure surging from the
darkness going to anyone else. He let Jean walk ahead of him up the
broad, shallow steps to the door: that was one pleasure he felt she
owed him. There was no need for her to search her dainty evening bag
for a key: the door opened in advance and the inevitable Mexican face
appeared framed in it. Jean inclined her head with dignity. “This
gentleman will help me, Lupe. You may go to bed.” Lupe curtsied slightly and evaporated:
by the time Randy reached the threshold, it was as if she had never
been there. Jean was already on her way to the stairs, which surprised
him. “Don’t you want to stop for a drink?” “I want to get undressed, darling!
Come and help me.” |
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She
didn’t disappoint him: she had judged it perfectly as ever, just
enough glamour for a trip to the theatre so that she would outshine
everyone else, but not so much that she would look overdressed. Her
famously voluptuous figure was sheathed in a ruched red satin sheath
dress that brought out every curve; the skirt was calf-length but
caught up at the front to above the knee, revealing just enough black-stockinged
leg to be daring. Just as she liked it, the gown was strapless, with a
Fifties-style sweetheart neckline dipping dangerously low between her
ample breasts, which seemed higher and fuller than he had ever seen
them. A little satin shrug jacket gave a completely false impression
of modesty: it covered her arms, but was cut away in front to reveal
everything a man’s eye might want to dwell on. A single but
extremely luxurious diamond bracelet, classic white stilettos and a
typically bouffant wig completed the picture.
