LordPeter List Literary Contest

I had, with the usual difficulty, persuaded my husband into the evening dress required for the function at the Resplendent. I had allowed sufficient time for the customary distractions that arise during these preparations--his swearing at the stiffness of the shirt. . .the exigency of replacing his jacket upon discovery of a previous-undetected pipe burn. . .the delectable delay induced by the many hooks and clasps of my new frock. . .but perhaps I had better say no more. Suffice it to say that we arrived at the Resplendent a trifle later than I had anticipated, though well within the socially-correct span of arrival.

We made our way into the dancing lounge, occupied by a small orchestra and many small tables at which visitors could indulge in liquid refreshment while observing the dancing. Thwarted in his attempt to join the exhibition waltz (by my reasonable refusal to partner him), my husband snatched up his whiskey the instant it arrived and stormed off towards the patio, ostensibly in search of sensible conversation, even though we were both aware that I was in all probability his only hope of intelligent discourse until our man arrived.

Thus left alone to myself, I glanced the professional dancers as they revolved near my table. The man was tall and fair, with sleek hair plastered closely to his head, and--

"Good Gad!" I exclaimed. To the casual observer, the cause of my interjection would have been the shower of champagne flutes that suddenly crashed but a whisker away from my table. However, my consternation had been aroused by my glimpse of the female dancer, who had been languidly cruising by in an enormous (and tasteless) confection of petunia satin.

In the minor pandemonium that ensued, the female dancer whisked me away to a side-room, on the pretext of minimizing the damage done to my frock.

When I recovered my breath, I gave her--no, HIM--a hard stare. Not daring to use his name aloud, I merely croaked, "What--"

"--in the world am I doing in Wilvercombe instead of Palestine? An excellent question, Mother. Perhaps I might ask what you are doing here instead of in Kent? I assure you that you would not have penetrated this disguise if I had not been thrown by your unexpected appearance."

"Glass houses," I replied tartly. "What possessed you to don this outrageous costume? Do you realize how much unhealthy that outfit is? When I think of how many women would have killed to be rid of corsets--"

"Mother, there isn't a single corset out there except for some of the ladies of,er, mature persuasion. I imagine that it is the shock of seeing me that has temporarily unhinged you, since you would otherwise be the first to realize that there is no illusion that cannot be manufactured with sufficiently-funded dressmaking."

As he spoke, my son had unlocked and rummaged through one of the trunks in the sideroom, eventually extricating a plastic bottle of clear liquid. "Water," he replied. I noted with distaste the lipstick stains around the rim. "Sorry, Mother," he added, "but I can assure you that they are all mine."

"There are lipsticks with more staying power--"

"But well beyond the means of a professional dancer, you see. The pounds needed to produce this" (he gestured at his gown and gloved arms) "are whittled out from the pennies saved by liberal applications of cheap maquillage. Confound it, Mother, don't look like that. Surely you would realize that I am not the only illusionist here? These are not the meek, submissive women you were always rescuing in your old adventures. Most of them earn their own money and they are terrors on the tennis-court, I assure you."

-- Sylvia Marriott

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