or not.
“There are so many inappropriate responses I can give to that comment and won’t.” He pauses. “I’ve told you before, you’re beautiful.”
I blush like a teenager beneath my mask and heavy make-up. “Thanks.”
“Not just tonight,” he says softly.
I hastily change the subject. “You look very different in a suit.”
“Devastatingly sexy?”
“I was going to go with ‘good’.” Yes, and you know you are.
“‘Good’? Not even hot? Seriously?”
“I’m never sure whether you’re serious and in love with yourself, or if you’re joking.”
“Ah, a bit of both.” He gestures again for me to take his arm.
We touch.
Every day I touch new people. Shake hands with clients, am jostled by people on the way to and from work, but until now I didn’t realise I’ve avoided touching Guy. When we first met, his touch would’ve pulled me away from the edge and taken away control of my body and decisions.
As I link my arm through Guy’s, a finality strikes, too. The distance I’ve tried to maintain, the illusion our only connection is a night of my life I refuse to see as part of myself, retreats as we connect. His arm is warm against my bare skin and the curve of his bicep beneath the expensive suit doesn’t escape my attention either. Caught in the romance of the setting, the nervous fluttering in my stomach switches to desire for Guy’s touch. I resolve to limit the amount of alcohol and physical contact for the evening.
Six glasses of champagne later, this plan fails. We sit at a large, round table covered by a floor length white cloth. In front are nameplates, metal centrepieces of gold painted flowers surrounded by wrapped chocolates. The hundred or so tables are spaced around the huge room and face the stage where a burlesque show plays out.
Everybody at our table keeps their masks on, and this doesn’t encourage conversation. Many tables are groups who’ve come together; the other five people at our table are a party from a legal firm, so our conversation with them barely moves beyond pleasantries.
The food served is curious looking hors d’oeuvre only. I forgot to eat with my focus on getting ready tonight. A decent loading of carbs before I left home would’ve been sensible, because the ability of sparkling wine to enter my bloodstream quickly is apparent by my loosening tongue.
“How do you know so much about Disney princesses?” I ask Guy. “I doubt many men would know the different princess’s colours.”
“My step-sister loved Disney princesses and Belle was her favourite.” He sips his wine.
“I liked Cinderella.”
“Interesting.” I glance at him for a teasing smile, but he’s serious. “Does that mean I get to be Prince Charming after all?”
“I thought you said I was Belle.”
He taps the table and I wait for another Beast comment, but none comes.
The burlesque girls swing across the stage on decorated trapezes, descending from the ceiling in the blue glow of the stage lights. I never understood how burlesque could be any more than arty stripping, but the show refutes that. These women are in control, both of their performance and the crowd. These women don’t subscribe to the crazy fad diets my employers tout; costumed in corsets and lace, they own their sexuality rather than playing to a false ideal.
“Can you dance?” asks Guy.
Our masks remain in situ, the illusion more exciting than I’d imagined. I’m somebody else tonight, disguised and free. There are people here I recognise but the mask allows me to pretend I don’t notice them, further on the edge of the small world of the Perth media and marketing.
“Dancing? Depends what kind,” I reply.
“I suspect something more formal and less Gangnam style.”
An image of Guy dancing that way amuses me and I giggle. “That’s so 2012, Guy.”
He runs a finger around the rim of his wine glass. “Ah, so she does laugh, and such a sound it is too.”
“Of course I
“There are so many inappropriate responses I can give to that comment and won’t.” He pauses. “I’ve told you before, you’re beautiful.”
I blush like a teenager beneath my mask and heavy make-up. “Thanks.”
“Not just tonight,” he says softly.
I hastily change the subject. “You look very different in a suit.”
“Devastatingly sexy?”
“I was going to go with ‘good’.” Yes, and you know you are.
“‘Good’? Not even hot? Seriously?”
“I’m never sure whether you’re serious and in love with yourself, or if you’re joking.”
“Ah, a bit of both.” He gestures again for me to take his arm.
We touch.
Every day I touch new people. Shake hands with clients, am jostled by people on the way to and from work, but until now I didn’t realise I’ve avoided touching Guy. When we first met, his touch would’ve pulled me away from the edge and taken away control of my body and decisions.
As I link my arm through Guy’s, a finality strikes, too. The distance I’ve tried to maintain, the illusion our only connection is a night of my life I refuse to see as part of myself, retreats as we connect. His arm is warm against my bare skin and the curve of his bicep beneath the expensive suit doesn’t escape my attention either. Caught in the romance of the setting, the nervous fluttering in my stomach switches to desire for Guy’s touch. I resolve to limit the amount of alcohol and physical contact for the evening.
Six glasses of champagne later, this plan fails. We sit at a large, round table covered by a floor length white cloth. In front are nameplates, metal centrepieces of gold painted flowers surrounded by wrapped chocolates. The hundred or so tables are spaced around the huge room and face the stage where a burlesque show plays out.
Everybody at our table keeps their masks on, and this doesn’t encourage conversation. Many tables are groups who’ve come together; the other five people at our table are a party from a legal firm, so our conversation with them barely moves beyond pleasantries.
The food served is curious looking hors d’oeuvre only. I forgot to eat with my focus on getting ready tonight. A decent loading of carbs before I left home would’ve been sensible, because the ability of sparkling wine to enter my bloodstream quickly is apparent by my loosening tongue.
“How do you know so much about Disney princesses?” I ask Guy. “I doubt many men would know the different princess’s colours.”
“My step-sister loved Disney princesses and Belle was her favourite.” He sips his wine.
“I liked Cinderella.”
“Interesting.” I glance at him for a teasing smile, but he’s serious. “Does that mean I get to be Prince Charming after all?”
“I thought you said I was Belle.”
He taps the table and I wait for another Beast comment, but none comes.
The burlesque girls swing across the stage on decorated trapezes, descending from the ceiling in the blue glow of the stage lights. I never understood how burlesque could be any more than arty stripping, but the show refutes that. These women are in control, both of their performance and the crowd. These women don’t subscribe to the crazy fad diets my employers tout; costumed in corsets and lace, they own their sexuality rather than playing to a false ideal.
“Can you dance?” asks Guy.
Our masks remain in situ, the illusion more exciting than I’d imagined. I’m somebody else tonight, disguised and free. There are people here I recognise but the mask allows me to pretend I don’t notice them, further on the edge of the small world of the Perth media and marketing.
“Dancing? Depends what kind,” I reply.
“I suspect something more formal and less Gangnam style.”
An image of Guy dancing that way amuses me and I giggle. “That’s so 2012, Guy.”
He runs a finger around the rim of his wine glass. “Ah, so she does laugh, and such a sound it is too.”
“Of course I
Similar Books
