Cloud Nine

It was the sort of blue sky day when anything seemed possible.

The doorbell rang at number 47.

“Only one today, Mrs A, you’ve been slacking! You know the routine - sign here …”

She closed the door and switched her mind to the new arrival. Silk trimmed, scooped, cropped – the clothes all looked fabulous on the virtual model, whose smile when sporting the ‘flattering for any body shape’ outfit was sterling duplicity. Lime, crocus, fuchsia, aquamarine, hibiscus, vanilla – the names were so seductive… She would be one of these women. She would go to the ball and Larry would be proud.

Cuddling the promise held in the parcel, Gail’s excitement gathered. Released from the confines of its packaging the fabric floated, its rich shades vibrating in the sunlight. Gail stroked it, purring with anticipation. Wriggling from her own strictures, she willed herself not to glance in the mirror.

Braced, she stepped into the skirt whose price tag was surely insurance of perfection. Marshmallow thighs exposed she teased the skirt upwards. At least she tried to but it took more than a determined shimmy to get it over her bottom. She hesitated between on and off, not ready to let go of her dream of the perfect outfit. She reached for her glasses, ensuring that the fastenings were unfastened. They were. Gail then checked the size on the packaging - 16 regular – her size – they must have put it in the wrong bag. She coaxed the satin pools of aubergine around her lower body, hoping for the skirt to settle perfectly. She shot a look at the label truly imagining it would reveal a size zero or at least a 14 but no, 16 it was…And she had chosen the relaxed fit, bias cut, dark coloured option suggested for her size.

“I wish I was slim...… if only I was thinner…”

Her hollow entreaty faded and Gail could now barely tell if it was sweat or tears across her ruddy cheeks. It would have to go back. Her eyes skimmed the decimated packaging and a silent maroon howl let rip.

As Gail flung the window open, her jaw tightened sensing not a refreshing breeze but grasping arctic tendrils wrapping themselves around her neck. There was someone else in the house. She warily rose from her summer pudding slump.

“Hello” called Gail “Larry – is that you...Larry?”
“No Gail, it’s not Larry, it’s me”

She scanned the room, seeing nothing.

“Surprise!” squeaked the voice “your wish, my command…you know how it works…don’t you? People generally do. Damsel in distress, I come to the rescue. You are a damsel in distress, right?”

Damsel? – Wish? Command? What was this?” As she moved from the window she saw an unfamiliar reflection. She looked remarkably like the catalogue picture of the model in the mirage flippy skirt. Her shoulders relaxed and she strutted. With a twirl she gave a sultry pout to the imaginary camera.

Good heavens…the perfect fit, THE PERFECT FIT…