Midsummer Madness by Stella Whitelaw Read Free Book Online Page A

tied back with an elastic band, the red ones that postmen drop in the street.
    ‘Is this your idea of party gear?’
    ‘No, work gear,’ I said, numbness creeping sideways. ‘This isn’t my show. I didn’t know if I was invited.’
    Joe pulled me up off the stool and began to march me towards the basement of the theatre. His grip on my arm was tightened in case I was going to scarper. We went down the rickety stairs and along the dimly lit corridor that lead to Wardrobe and Costume storage. It was a cavern of racks of packed clothes, many in polythene bags or swathed in muslin. I’d been there many times, helping Hilda, the wardrobe mistress, to find something or change something. It was another of my Sophie do this, Sophie do that,areas. I can thread a needle.
    ‘We’re going to find you something to wear. Something feminine. Take that clobber off,’ he said.
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not taking anything off. I’m all right as I am.’
    ‘Do as you are told,’ he growled, flicking along the rails. ‘Or I’ll rip it off.’
    There was a faded screen about two feet wide in the corner. It would hardly screen Kate Moss standing sideways. Joe was roaming the racks, pulling out frothy dresses and long skirts and pushing them back. He was trawling the modern section. I was wearing clean underwear but they were for paramedics’ eyes only.
    ‘What size are you?’ he said.
    ‘Dunno. I always buy One Size clothes.’
    ‘No wonder you always look like a bundle of washing. One size is admitting defeat. Try this on.’ He had an eye for harmony of colour but not this time.
    I heard a grunt of approval. Ared dress was flung over the top of the screen. It was a mass of shimmering fringes. It would fold away into a jiffy bag.
    ‘It’s not Twelfth Night ,’ I objected.
    ‘I didn’t say everyone has to wear Elizabethan period. Fran will be in a boob tube. Elinor will be entirely in black. Jessica will come Italian. Put that on and let’s see what you look like. And be quick about it. They will be queuing at the door soon. The Press are always early for drinks.’
    It was a 1920’s flapper dress in geranium red silk, fringes all the way down to the knee. The neckline was scooped out but I had good shoulders to show, and my arms were equal to exposure. But this red, with my hair?
    I twirled round. ‘I look like a lampshade,’ I cried. ‘Don’t turn me on.’
    ‘Quit the Goldie Hawn. Try the shoes.’
    They didn’t quite fit but as they were high-heeled, cross-barred sandals, I could tighten the straps enough to keep them in place. Joe was standing behind me, grinning. He pulled off the elastic band and flung it into a bin.
    ‘And do something with your hair. You’re the first companyperson they’ll see so you must make a good impression.’
    I took off the sandals and ran back upstairs to find an empty dressing room. I brushed out my mass of hair and pinned it up with anything handy. A couple of combs, some pins and a peg clip. Hit and miss but it looked fashionable in a weird and wild, abandoned way. Then I flicked on some blusher, outlined my eyes with black khol and my lips with red. Lashings of mascara. I’d probably catch some ghastly eye disease, using a borrowed mascara.
    The result was surprising. No one would recognize me at fifty yards. The prompt had transformed into a butterfly. A shimmering red one, with wings.
     
    ‘Good evening,’ I said, standing in the foyer of the theatre as if I was the Front of House manager. ‘May I see your invitation.’ I wasn’t having gatecrashers. ‘Please go through the theatre. Food and drink on stage. Enjoy yourself.’
    The strolling players were in full swing. I vaguely recognized a few tunes but they were doing their own thing. The beat was not medieval. It was rock and roll. ‘I don’t need an invitation,’ said Fran, sweeping by. She was in a tight silver lamé dress, obviously nothing on underneath. It had tiny shoulder straps twinkling with fake