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Authors: Sophie Hope-Walker
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to the girl. ‘George, this is Lesley.’
Lesley came forward with a graciously extended hand. ‘George’ found ‘himself’ awkwardly shaking her hand and not knowing where to look.
Lesley, fortunately, seemed oblivious to anything about her but her own appearance. ‘Darling,’ she said, addressing Jeffrey. ‘Put my music into a suitable slot, would you?’
Jeffrey, who seemed to be enjoying himself enormously, took a cassette from her and went off to place it in its ‘suitable slot’.
Meanwhile Lesley was casting an assessing eye around the apartment, which gave Helen a chance for a good look at her.
The hair looked as if it was fighting for its life under layers of lacquer. The face had been made up by an undertaker and the word ‘glitz’ had been invented to describe the dress. All in all, Lesley was what her mother would have called ‘extravagant’ and she would have called, enamelled.
Jeffrey rejoined them to be received by an anxious enquiry from Lesley. ‘My music, darling! Aren’t you going to play it?’
Showing her a black box he was carrying, he smiled. ‘Remote control,’ he told her. ‘Any time you’re ready.’
Casting another despairing eye about the apartment Lesley spoke again. ‘Yes, darling, but we’ll have to do something about the lighting …’ Lesley moved off around the apartment, turning off this lamp, turning that one on, until she came back murmuring, ‘I suppose that’ll have to do,’ and struck a startling, dramatic pose; standing in profile to them with one hand raised in the air and the other knuckled to her forehead.
Turning to ‘George’, Jeffrey indicated that she should come to sit next to him on the couch, as Lesley hissed: ‘My music, darling!’
Jeffrey hit the play button on the remote and, as the brassy show music filled the apartment, Lesley started making swooping, leg dragging movements about the space before the couches, only occasionally tripping on the hem of her gown in the deep rug piling.
Feeling that things were moving from the surreal to the preposterous Helen realised that Lesley was about to launch into a strip tease of the most excruciatingly embarrassing kind. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Jeffrey – on the other hand, she could barely tear her eyes away from the ludicrous Lesley – but she did begin to wonder when he had decided to turn their ‘affair’, if their relationship could aspire to so grand a status, into farce.
Mouth involuntarily open in stupefaction she watched as Lesley slipped out of the gown to reveal black stockings on a garter belt framing surprisingly good legs, then used the feather boa to play peek-a-boo with her undersized breasts.
Having thought that things couldn’t get worse she was appalled when Lesley started waltzing towards her, flicking the boa into her face. ‘Have you been a
really
good boy? Lesley
loves
really good boys!’
Fortunately, Lesley waltzed off into a series of crotch-probing poses, enabling Helen to stop herself throwing up on the glass table before her.
When was this nightmare to end? She had never felt more shamefully distressed in her life. Distress for the totally untalented Lesley who, somewhere, waited like a taxi to be summoned out to embarrass people.
The music was building to what had once been a show-stopping climax and she could pray that it signalled the end of this torture – a prospect which focused her mind on the horrendous potential the aftermath presented. Suicide would be the only rational response if Lesley were to be included.
Now their ‘dancer’ was dramatically sticking one long leg before the other as she advanced on ‘George’ with fixed gaze and malice aforethought. Then, throwing her arms and boa wide, she exposed her almost non-existent breasts as, looming menacingly closer, Lesley placed one leg on the glass table, threw her thighs wide to expose the diamante G-string, which ‘George’ realised, with horror, was about to come
Lesley came forward with a graciously extended hand. ‘George’ found ‘himself’ awkwardly shaking her hand and not knowing where to look.
Lesley, fortunately, seemed oblivious to anything about her but her own appearance. ‘Darling,’ she said, addressing Jeffrey. ‘Put my music into a suitable slot, would you?’
Jeffrey, who seemed to be enjoying himself enormously, took a cassette from her and went off to place it in its ‘suitable slot’.
Meanwhile Lesley was casting an assessing eye around the apartment, which gave Helen a chance for a good look at her.
The hair looked as if it was fighting for its life under layers of lacquer. The face had been made up by an undertaker and the word ‘glitz’ had been invented to describe the dress. All in all, Lesley was what her mother would have called ‘extravagant’ and she would have called, enamelled.
Jeffrey rejoined them to be received by an anxious enquiry from Lesley. ‘My music, darling! Aren’t you going to play it?’
Showing her a black box he was carrying, he smiled. ‘Remote control,’ he told her. ‘Any time you’re ready.’
Casting another despairing eye about the apartment Lesley spoke again. ‘Yes, darling, but we’ll have to do something about the lighting …’ Lesley moved off around the apartment, turning off this lamp, turning that one on, until she came back murmuring, ‘I suppose that’ll have to do,’ and struck a startling, dramatic pose; standing in profile to them with one hand raised in the air and the other knuckled to her forehead.
Turning to ‘George’, Jeffrey indicated that she should come to sit next to him on the couch, as Lesley hissed: ‘My music, darling!’
Jeffrey hit the play button on the remote and, as the brassy show music filled the apartment, Lesley started making swooping, leg dragging movements about the space before the couches, only occasionally tripping on the hem of her gown in the deep rug piling.
Feeling that things were moving from the surreal to the preposterous Helen realised that Lesley was about to launch into a strip tease of the most excruciatingly embarrassing kind. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Jeffrey – on the other hand, she could barely tear her eyes away from the ludicrous Lesley – but she did begin to wonder when he had decided to turn their ‘affair’, if their relationship could aspire to so grand a status, into farce.
Mouth involuntarily open in stupefaction she watched as Lesley slipped out of the gown to reveal black stockings on a garter belt framing surprisingly good legs, then used the feather boa to play peek-a-boo with her undersized breasts.
Having thought that things couldn’t get worse she was appalled when Lesley started waltzing towards her, flicking the boa into her face. ‘Have you been a
really
good boy? Lesley
loves
really good boys!’
Fortunately, Lesley waltzed off into a series of crotch-probing poses, enabling Helen to stop herself throwing up on the glass table before her.
When was this nightmare to end? She had never felt more shamefully distressed in her life. Distress for the totally untalented Lesley who, somewhere, waited like a taxi to be summoned out to embarrass people.
The music was building to what had once been a show-stopping climax and she could pray that it signalled the end of this torture – a prospect which focused her mind on the horrendous potential the aftermath presented. Suicide would be the only rational response if Lesley were to be included.
Now their ‘dancer’ was dramatically sticking one long leg before the other as she advanced on ‘George’ with fixed gaze and malice aforethought. Then, throwing her arms and boa wide, she exposed her almost non-existent breasts as, looming menacingly closer, Lesley placed one leg on the glass table, threw her thighs wide to expose the diamante G-string, which ‘George’ realised, with horror, was about to come
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