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THE BEST STAND AT THE WEDDING FAIR by Angela Dee North PROLOGUE "Listen, Bridie, I said I was sorry! What more can I do?" I was in the doghouse with my wife yet again. I'd completely forgotten to collect a parcel from the Post Office depot. Now it was too late. The depot had closed an hour ago, and Bridie had wanted the parcel today. "For god's sake, Terry!" she fumed. "You know perfectly well how much I needed that mannequin for the show tomorrow! It was going to be the centrepiece of my whole display!" "Well," I said, "couldn't you just swap with another one? Or something?" It sounded like a reasonable solution to me, but Bridie was in no mood to listen. "Swap with what? I don't have another mannequin, you dummy!" And that was the precise moment she had the idea. "Hmm... "What more can I do?", you said. OK, Terry, I'll tell you what you can do. You can replace my mannequin!" "Bridie, where am I going to get a mannequin at this hour on a Friday? It's nine o'clock, for fuck's sake! Hey, which reminds me," I said, switching on the television. "There's a film on the telly I want to watch-" "Oh no you don't!" Bridie switched off the TV again. "You misunderstand me, Terence. When I say you're going to replace my mannequin, I mean exactly that." "Eh?" I said, still not getting it. Bridie smiled thinly. I knew that smile. It was the one she reserved for when she was feeling fiendish. It often spelled trouble for someone. Usually, that someone was me. "Let me rephrase it for you, darling," she said, slowly. "You, Terry, are going to take the place of my missing mannequin. Now do you see?" And then the penny dropped, and my heart with it. Chapter 1: FRIDAY NIGHT I should explain that my wife ran her own business, Bridie's Bridal Boutique, from a tiny shop unit just off High Street. With only enough room in the shop for one mannequin, Bridie had to put all the rest of her display stock on hangers stacked in a row on rails. When the mannequin was accidentally damaged the previous week, Bridie had ordered a new one for the Happiest Day Spring Wedding Fair in the City Exhibition Centre. It was due to arrive just the day before the event, which was today. Bridie had asked me to collect it from the depot, but I, unfortunately, forgot all about it. "You know how much money this fair brings in!" Bridie growled. "Or at least you would if you bothered to take an interest. It sets me up for the rest of the year!" "But Bridie," I said. "Are you seriously asking me to wear a wedding dress for an exhibition? That's just ridiculous! Why not ask one of your friends to do it?" "Partly because I'd feel obliged to pay them," she retorted. "But mainly because I'm already shelling out ?2,000 to take part in the show. And besides, I'm not asking, I'm telling! It was you who messed up by not collecting the mannequin, so it's going to be you who wears the dress!" "What about," I suggested, "if you wear the dress and I do the selling?" "You? You don't know the first thing about the business. No, Terry, my mind's made up. Now, get your clothes off. We don't have much time." My heart sank even further. I loved Bridie dearly, and would do anything for her. When she got into these moods it was always safer to play along. But this was something altogether different. "All right," I said, unbuttoning my shirt. "I'll wear the dress, if that's what you want. But why do we have to start now? The fair's not until tomorrow." Bridie breathed an irritated sigh. "Yes, Terry. The fair's tomorrow. It starts at 10 o'clock in the morning. But all the exhibitor stands have to be set up before the fair opens to the public. And because there are so many exhibitors at this very popular event, we can't all go piling in at once. So the organisers give us fixed time slots to go in for the build-up. And my slot is 7am! And you need to be ready by then!" I was a bit nonplussed. The full implications of what Bridie wanted me to do still hadn't dawned on me. "But, Bridie," I said. "It's just a case of popping on a dress. That won't take three hours." I could see Bridie fighting to control her rising frustration. "Terence," she began. "It is not, as you put it, just a case of popping on a dress. What'd be the point of that? You'd simply look like a bloke in a frock. Oh no, sunshine! By the time I'm finished with you, you're going to look the part. Now, take off your trousers and lie down on the floor." And on that note, Bridie swept out of the living room and ran upstairs. I could have refused, of course. But Bridie was right. It had been my fault. The least I could do was try to make amends. I took off my trousers and lay on the floor. Presently Bridie returned, carrying a towel and a small box. She seemed a little calmer. "First," she said, kneeling beside me, "I'm going to wax your arms and legs." "My legs?" I replied, puzzled. "Why my legs? I'll be in a long dress, won't I? No one will see my legs." Bridie rubbed some cream on my thigh. "It'll help you to feel more womanly," she said, as if that explained everything. "Now, hold still. This won't hurt... much." It did hurt, of course, but soon my arms and legs were silky smooth and completely hairless. "Luckily," Bridie said, "you don't have a hairy chest. But when you shave your face you'll need to get rid of the fluff on the back of your neck. Now, stand up." As soon as I was on my feet, Bridie began to wrap a corset around my middle. "Hey!" I cried. "What's this for?" "Really, Terry!" Bridie admonished. "A corset, as I'm sure you well know, is a garment designed to give you a smaller waist. You are a slim guy, but your unconstrained waist measures 30 inches. The dress you'll be wearing has a 26 inch waist. Hence the corset. Now, hold still!" Good grief! She really did intend to go to town with this. I wondered what else I was in for. Bridie fastened the corset and tightened its laces. I felt my waist suddenly shrink, and I had a little difficulty breathing for a moment. "Bridie," I gasped. "It's only quarter to ten. Surely I don't need to put this on so soon, do I?" "Terence," she replied, tying off the corset. "As it stands, your waist now measures 28 inches, and you're already struggling with it. The remaining two inches are going to be harder to achieve. So, by starting now, you'll have more time to get used to it, and I'll have more time to stop bloody panicking!" After an hour or so, I remarked that the corset felt more comfortable. This was Bridie's cue to tighten it further. "Just under 27 inches," she said. "You're doing well. OK, I think we should have a nap now. It's going to be a long day tomorrow, and I've still got my work cut out getting you ready for 7am." Somehow we managed to catch some sleep, and were woken by Bridie's phone alarm at 1am. Bridie rallied quickly. "We have six hours," she said. "God, we'll never make it in time!" "Yes, we will," I said, taking her hand in mine. "Just keep calm, and do whatever you have to do. I love you." Bridie smiled, and gave me a brief but tender kiss. Then it was back to the business of tightening my corset even more. At last she tied off the laces with a triumphant "Yes!', and collapsed on the sofa. "Have you done it?" I asked, barely able to breathe. "Is it down to 26 inches?" Bridie looked at me, a sheepish expression on her face. "Er... yeah... about that. Umm, actually, Terry, I have a tiny confession to make." "Go on." "OK... You know I said the dress is a 26 inch waist? Well... I lied. It's a 24 inch waist. And now... so are you. That's why it took so long." I suddenly felt very light-headed. 24 inches? That was a whole six inches! How the hell had she managed that? Come to think of it, how the hell had I managed that? The last time my waist measured 24 inches was fifteen years ago, when I was just starting secondary school. "Come on," Bridie said, getting to her feet again. "It's 2am. We've still got lots to do. Sit down." Sitting down was a hell of a lot harder than normal, now that I was wearing the corset. Bridie produced her makeup box. "I haven't shaved yet," I pointed out. "I know," replied Bridie. "I'll do your face later, before we leave for the CEC. What I'm going to do now is your nails." Bridie glued a full set of acrylic nails over the top of my own, and then painted them a bright, shimmery red. "Don't touch them," she warned me. "I'll give them a second coat later on." I looked at my long, elegant fingernails, and wondered how on earth I was going to shave. "The rest of it should be fairly plain sailing," said Bridie, leading me upstairs to our bedroom. "Well," she added, "apart from the makeup, that is." Bridie told me to perch on the edge of the bed, and then produced a roll of extra-strength duct tape. "What's that for?" I asked, dubiously. "I'm going to stick it across your chest," she explained. "It'll hold your pecs together, and make it look like you've got a cleavage. A bit of padding will complete the illusion." She was right. With my pecs forced together and held in place with the duct tape, a reasonably respectable cleavage was formed. As I was admiring this, Bridie held out another white garment. "What's this?" I asked. "It's a corselette. You'll need it to smooth out your bodyshape under the dress. Put it on." The corselette's elasticated panels followed the contours created by the corset underneath perfectly. The addition of a couple of pairs of flesh-coloured tights, balled up in each of the corselette's bra cups, gave me a rather convincing bust. "OK," Bridie said. "Now for down below. Take your underpants off." She opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. "Bloody hell, Bridie!" I yelped in surprise. "Surely you're not going to-" "Calm down and don't be stupid," Bridie replied. "I just need the scissors to open the packet!" From the packet Bridie drew three white garments. "These," she told me, "are body shapers. Perfect for hiding those embarrassing lumps. You need to put them all on. Here, I'll help you." The garments were basically heavily elasticated knickers. And they were eye-wateringly tight. As I wriggled into the second pair, a thought occurred to me. "Hang on, Bridie," I said. "I'll be wearing a long dress. My embarrassing lump, as you call it, will be well hidden. Won't it?" "It's a wedding dress, Terry. Not a burlesque costume. But wearing these pants will make you feel more secure. Now, stop your whinging and put the last pair on." I began to suspect that Bridie's motives for putting me through all this was less to do with making me feel "secure" and "womanly", and more to do with some sort of mischievous malice. But I said nothing. Resistance, as they say, was futile. And the three pairs of pants definitely smoothed out my embarrassing lump. I wondered what I was going to do when I wanted to go to the toilet. On this point Bridie seemed to read my mind. "You're not to eat or drink anything from now on," she told me. "The longer you can go without needed the loo, the better." I groaned. A whole day without anything to eat or drink? I'd faint from hunger. Unless I fainted from being squeezed into this tiny corset, of course. Bridie produced a pair of tan tights. "Do I have to wear those?" I asked. "No, Terry," Bridie snapped back. "Of course you don't have to wear them! You can take the whole lot off, right now, if you wish. I'm not stopping you. And then, tomorrow, when I'm at the wedding fair with no centrepiece to attract buyers, I'll have plenty of time on my hands to think. I'll be able to think about how much longer I've got before the business goes under because of lack of sales. The business I started from nothing after leaving university with a degree in fashion design. The business I've worked so hard to build up. The business I've had sleepless nights for. The business I've loved and devoted myself to for the past five years. The business which supports us because you're out of work. And all because you won't put on a bloody pair of tights!" Bridie slumped down onto the bed, and began to sob. She'd always been good at crying, especially when she desperately wanted to get her own way. Like now. "Hey, love," I said, softly. "Don't cry. Please, don't cry. I'm sorry. Look, we've still got work to do here. You've got just over two hours to transform your doting husband into a blushing bride. So, come on, help me into these tights." Bridie pulled herself together quickly. Rather too quickly, I thought. She resumed her task with renewed vigour. On went the tights. "OK," she said. "I think you should get a shave now. Wear your big dressing gown, in case you spill something." I obeyed, totally resigned to what was expected of me. Taking the utmost care with my razor, I gave my face the closest shave it had ever had. The result was pleasingly smooth. I remembered to shave the back of my neck, as my wife had instructed. "You've done a great job." said Bridie, running her fingers across my chin. "Now come through to the bedroom, and I'll do your eyebrows. You can't be a woman with those great big bushy things!" I sighed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Bridie worked quickly, using scissors and a fine comb to snip away at my eyebrows. "Now to shape them," she said, and produced another little box. "What's in that?" I asked. "Well," Bridie replied. "You remember earlier, when I waxed your arms and legs?" "Er... yes," I replied, already knowing where this was leading. "This is like that," she went on. "Only for your eyebrows. Now, hold still. It won't hurt." "That's what you said the last time," I reminded her, adding quickly, "not that I'm complaining, you understand!" "Good!" Bridie applied the waxing strips, and then pulled. It did hurt. A lot. Soon my eyebrows were mere shadows of their former selves. I scrutinised my reflection in the mirror. "My face looks a little different with those eyebrows," I remarked. Bridie opened a large box. "Your face is going to start looking a hell of a lot different now, Terry," she said. "It's makeup time!" I took a deep gulp. This was the moment of truth. All that I had gone through so far - the leg and arm waxing, the excruciating corset, the lump-flattening knickers, the tights, the eyebrow wax - it all seemed to have been leading up to this. There was no turning back now. I sat while Bridie did her stuff, glancing occasionally at the clock as she worked. There was no mirror in front of me, so I had no way of knowing how successful - or otherwise - Bridie was being in turning me into a woman. Or at any rate, making me look like one. I was, of course, aware of the various cosmetics she was putting onto my face. After she'd applied the moisturiser, concealer and foundation, Bridie stepped back to check her handiwork. She smiled. That smile I took to be a good sign. Next came the artistry, with eye shadow, eyeliner, eyebrow pencil, blusher and lipstick. She glued a pair of false eyelashes over my own, and coated them with a thick layer of mascara. Every so often during the process, Bridie stood back to check the effect, smiling each time. "You know, Terry," she said, "I think this actually might just work." She gave my fingernails a second coat of colour, and added another layer of mascara to my lashes. Then she took yet another box from the top of her wardrobe. "Now for your crowning glory," she said, taking a long auburn wig from the box. "I don't remember seeing that before," I said, fluttering my eyelashes. "Oh," said Bridie, "I bought it a few weeks ago. I thought I might wear it when I felt like a change of image. It's come in handy now, hasn't it!" "Very," I replied. Bridie stretched a tight cap onto my head, then clipped and pinned the wig into place on top. It felt very strange to suddenly have lots of long hair cascading around my shoulders. Bridie deftly made some adjustments to the wig, and then added a few finishing touches to my makeup. "All done," she said, with a sigh of satisfaction. "How... how do I look?" I asked, nervously. "There's the mirror," Bridie replied. "Take a look for yourself." I stood and turned to face my reflection. I could barely recognise myself. My bushy eyebrows were gone, for a start, and in their place were a pair of elegantly shaped, pencil-thin brows. My face had been given a light tan, thanks to the foundation cream. My lips were painted a very sultry crimson, my cheeks contoured with pale pink blusher and highlighter, and my eyes... Bridie had really done a number on them, with gorgeously smoky eye shadow, liner, and the fullest, thickest lashes I had ever seen. "Oh, my god!" I whispered. "Bridie, it's fantastic!" Bridie gave a little laugh. "Don't you dare start crying!" she said, only half-jokingly. "You'll spoil your makeup, and we don't have time to start all over again." She was quite right, of course. The bedside clock said it was now 6:20am. We had to be at the CEC in forty minutes. Fortunately it was only a ten minute drive. "OK," I said. "What next?" "Next is the shoes," replied Bridie. "I think I should have made you put them on sooner, come to think of it. You've never, as far as I know, worn high heels before. They might take some getting used to for you. Sit down and I'll put them on your feet." The shoes were white, with pointed toes and a four inch stiletto heel. They, too, were a perfect fit. Strange... "Bridie," I said. "How is it that you just happen to have these shoes? I'm pretty sure you and I don't take the same size. In fact, I know we don't, so how...?" "God, Terry!" Bridie said, standing up. "You're so suspicious! I store several pairs of wedding shoes at home, of different sizes. I keep them in case of an emergency, or if a customer wants to try a pair outside of shop hours. That's all! Honestly! It's just a good thing you don't have big feet. Now, see if you can stand up without falling over." Bridie took my hands and helped me to a standing position. I felt very unsteady, as though I were about to pitch forward at any moment. My knees were bent forward to compensate for the unaccustomed demands placed on my legs by the high heels. "You need to extend your ankles," Bridie advised. "Lean back with your legs, while keeping the balls of your feet on the floor." I did so, and presently found I was able to stand upright, legs straight. "Good. Now try walking." I took a few careful steps around the bedroom. "Don't worry," said Bridie. "You'll get the hang of it soon." "I hope so," I replied. "I'm going to be standing up all day in these shoes." "Yeah," Bridie responded, enigmatically. I never liked it when she said "yeah" that way. It generally meant there was something she wasn't telling me. I decided not to tempt fate by asking. If there was something else, Bridie would tell me when she was good and ready, and not a moment before. And whatever it was, it could surely be no worse than what she'd already put me through. "OK," she said. "Now for the dress. Ready?" I laughed. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I have to say, this is not the way I expected my Saturday to pan out!" From her wardrobe, Bridie took a large vinyl bag, and laid it carefully on the bed. She unzipped it, and drew out a stunning white wedding dress. I gasped in disbelief. "Do you like it, Terry?" "Bridie, it's... it's..." "It's a bodycon dress," Bridie explained. "It's practically skintight. And the front panel of the skirt is semi-transparent from the crotch downwards. The bodice laces up at the back, and is lightly boned." "Oh, joy," I murmured, humourlessly. "This is why I had to wax your legs and squeeze you into the corset and those tight knickers." She actually sounded apologetic. "And, you seriously want me to wear this?" I asked. "Yes. Please," Bridie replied, adding, "You'll look amazing, Terry." "But isn't there another dress I could have worn, instead of this one? I thought you had a shop full of them." Bridie shook her head. "There are all sorts of rules we have to follow," she explained. "When we apply to exhibit at the show, we have to itemise everything we'll be taking in, for insurance purposes. It's too late to change any of the details now." "I see," I said. "And what if we just used a different dress anyway?" Bridie shook her head again. "No, that wouldn't work," she said. "You see, the organisers come round and do an inventory at the start of the day. If they find anything different to what I listed on the application, they'd say I was in breach of contract. I'd have to withdraw from the show immediately, with no refund." I looked at the impossibly-small dress, then at Bridie. She was standing there with a hopes-fast-fading sort of expression in her eyes. The wedding fair really did mean a huge amount to her business. Could I ever forgive myself if she had to pack it all in on the strength of one failed exhibition? The time was now twenty-five minutes to seven. I took a deep breath, or, at least, as deep a breath as I could in my corset. "OK, Bridie," I said. "Let's do this." Bridie grinned at me. "Thank you so much, Terry. You're wonderful!" Bridie gathered up the dress from the bed, and dropped it down over my head and shoulders. After a few minutes of wriggling and pulling, the dress was in place. Bridie tied the drawstrings at the back, effectively sealing me into the garment. I looked myself up and down in the full-length mirror. Bridie had worked a minor miracle. "I'm absolutely gobsmacked, Bridie," I said. "If I weren't married to you, I think I'd marry myself! Do you think I look like a real woman?" Bridie thought for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "To be perfectly honest, Terry," she replied, "I would have to say no, you don't. You do look very convincing, though, and I'm pretty impressed by what I've done to you, even if I do say so myself. But that's not the point." "It isn't?" I said, confused. "No. The point, as I've already explained, is that now I've a chance of keeping my business afloat by having a good show this weekend. And you have a chance to make up for your blunder." "You make it sound like a punishment," I said, gloomily. "Yes, I do, don't I?" she replied, with a saccharine smile. So I was still in the doghouse. I hung my head, feeling vaguely disappointed. I had hoped Bridie would say I could have fooled anyone with my disguise. Once again, she seemed to read my mind. "Terry, you didn't really believe you would actually pass for a real woman, did you? That sort of thing only happens in crossdresser fiction on the internet. But, OK, if it helps, then yes, I think you do make a pretty good looking girl. Now, just one or two more final touches..." Bridie produced a white wedding veil from yet another bag, and clipped it into place on my wig. "Keep this veil down over your face all the time," she instructed. "It'll help to deflect a few of the more suspicious glances." Then she fastened a silver heart-shaped pendant around my neck. It was the one I had given her for her birthday last year. The chain draped down my chest, and the pendant nestled snugly in my duct tape enhanced cleavage. Next she clasped a pair of bracelets around my wrists. Finally Bridie swapped my wedding ring for an expensive looking diamond engagement ring. As with the shoes, it fitted perfectly. "I keep a few dress rings around of various sizes, just in case," Bridie explained before I could query it. "OK, we're good. It's now just after 6:45am. Time to go." Up until now I hadn't given any consideration to the idea that I would actually be leaving the house dressed like this. When Bridie opened the front door, I hesitated in the hallway. "Come on, Terry!" she hissed. "We haven't got all day!" I summoned up my courage, and stepped outside into the street. I imagined that the eyes of every one of our neighbours were trained on me, and I felt foolish. "Oh, don't worry," Bridie said, doing her mind-reading act once again. "It's Saturday. No one'll be up and about yet." Just then, right on cue, a curtain twitched in the upstairs window of the house opposite. "Well, OK," Bridie conceded. "Almost no one." Bridie helped me into her car, a white Vauxhall Astra Estate which she had bought in her second year of trading. The back of the vehicle was already loaded up with boxes and bags of bridal merchandise, as well as a smart business suit and shoes for Bridie. "I've spent a fortune on this show," said Bridie, as she drove us into the city centre to the CEC. "New leaflets, a revamp for the website, new photographs, printing, laminated posters. And sales haven't been so great over the past year, so... I really, really need this show to generate some new business." We turned off the main road and down the ramp which led into the CEC's underground car park, and then made our way to the main exhibition hall to register our arrival and locate our stand. The time was exactly 7am. All I would have to do was stand still for a few hours. That couldn't be difficult, surely. Could it? Chapter 2: SATURDAY MORNING "OK," said Bridie after we had found our stand; number 13. "You stay here while I go and fetch the stuff from the car. It'll probably take me a couple of trips." "I'll come and help," I offered. But Bridie would have none of that. "Certainly not, Terry! You are not humping boxes around. What if you got the dress dirty, or ripped it on something? It would be a disaster. No, stay here. I can manage by myself." And she was gone. I sat myself down on one of the two chairs Bridie had booked. Presently, some more exhibitors arrived and started to set up shop in adjacent stands. They looked at me curiously for a few moments, then got on with their tasks. Bridie returned a short time later, pulling a large trolley on which was laden most of the boxes and bags from the car. "Terence! What the hell are you doing?" she said, in a quiet rage. "Er... nothing," I replied. "You're sitting down, you idiot! Get up, now! If you've got any dirty marks on that dress, I'll swing for you, so help me!" I stood up, and Bridie inspected the dress from all angles. "OK," she said. "You're clean. But watch what you're doing, for god's sake!" Bridie unloaded the trolley, and returned to the car for the second batch. The people on the nearby stands were still looking at me, and I realised they must have heard my voice and so knew that I was a man. I smiled at them, and gave a pathetic wave. "You look great," one of them said, as she velcro'd a poster to her display stand wall. I guessed she was about twenty years old. She was wearing tatty jeans and a sweat top, and her jet black hair was scraped back in a pony tail. "Thanks," I replied, grateful for the support. "I forgot to collect our mannequin from the depot," I said, feeling that some sort of explanation was necessary. The girl nodded. "Right," she replied. "Only I'm not sure how the organiser'll feel about it. He's a bit of a stickler for the rules. Good luck, anyway." Bridie returned once more, and unloaded our remaining merchandise. "Chatting up the competition, are we?" she said. "She wished me good luck," I replied. "That's nice," said Bridie. She took the trolley away, presumably to the trolley park, and came back a few minutes later. "Right," she said. "Now to set up the stand. You just keep out of the way, OK? Stand over there and look beautiful." I stepped to one side and gave Bridie room to work. Unpacking the boxes and bags, she arranged piles of advertising leaflets on the table, and stuck her newly printed posters on the walls with velcro dots. She had also brought a laptop, on which she was intending to run a loop video of her wedding dress range. As she was setting this up on the table, she was tapped on the shoulder by a tall man with wavy blond hair, sticky-out ears and gold-rimmed spectacles. He was holding a clipboard. "You're Bridie's Bridal Boutique, yes?" he asked. Bridie turned to face the man. "Oh, yes," she said. "That's me." "Right," replied the man, ticking off something on his clipboard. "I'm doing the pre-show inventory. I take it you must be Bridie Greane." He turned to look at me, quizzically "And this is...?" "This is my... mannequin," Bridie offered. I detected a sudden tension in her voice. "Mannequin?" said the man, smiling. "She doesn't look like a mannequin to me, dear." "Well, no," Bridie replied. "She's my husband, Terry." The man blinked. and checked his clipboard again. "Your husband?" The man's eyes widened. He lifted my veil to take a closer look at my face. "Terry?" he said. "Terry Greane? It is you, isn't it? Well, well, well! This is a pleasant surprise!" I was taken aback. This man seemed to know me, but I couldn't place him at all. And yet there was something familiar about him. I just couldn't put my finger on it. "You don't remember me, do you, Terry?" he said. There was suddenly a different tone in his voice. A darker tone. "No," I said. "I'm sorry, I don't." "Duncan," he replied, with a rather arch smile. "Duncan Frobisher. Well, well, well! Look at you, all dolled up and dressed to kill. You do look ravishing, with your skinny waist and your high heeled shoes. You really don't have any idea who I am, do you? We were at junior school together. Such fun times. I recall them with much fondness." And then I remembered who Duncan Frobisher was. Before I could respond, Frobisher had turned back to Bridie. "Mrs Greane," he said, consulting his clipboard. "Your application states that your stand will be operated by just one member of staff from your company. Namely, yourself. I'm afraid the presence of your husband clearly violates the terms of your contract." "But Terry isn't a member of my staff!" Bridie protested. "He's just here to model the dress, nothing more." Frobisher was not to be outmaneouvred on this point, however. "That, too," he said," is against the rules, Mrs Greane, which clearly state that the use of live models is strictly prohibited for reasons of health and safety." "Terry isn't a live model!" Bridie countered, desperately. "He's a mannequin!" Frobisher was flummoxed by this. "I'll have to consider this, Mrs Greane. I'll return shortly with my decision." Frobisher turned on his heel and strode off. Bridie was downcast. "We're buggered," she said, slumping onto the chair. "What was that about you and him being at school together? You never told me that you and him were friends." "We weren't," I replied. "Friends, that is. The fact is, Bridie, I bullied him. I used to poke fun at him incessantly, because of his sticky-out ears. I made his life hell for four years. And I didn't tell you simply because I had no idea he was involved in these shows. I'd forgotten all about him, until now. What does he do, anyway?" "He's the senior marketing manager of Happiest Day, one of the UK's top wedding magazines. He's not just involved in these shows, Terry. He runs them. And he's a stickler for the rules. We're buggered," Bridie repeated. "Sssh," I hissed. "He's coming back." Bridie stood up and prepared herself for the bad news. Frobisher, brandishing his clipboard, looked very satisfied with himself. "Mrs Greane," he said. "This is a highly unusual situation. If I am to accept that your husband is here in the capacity of mannequin, then I must ensure that the relevant rules are observed at all times. Now, your mannequin is currently free-standing. The rules state that all mannequins must be supported by an appropriate means, in order to prevent them falling over and causing injury to a member of the public- " "But-" "Let me finish, Mrs Greane, if you please." Frobisher was warming to his task. "Unless your mannequin is anchored by an appropriate support structure, taking into account its size, height and weight, I'm afraid I will have no alternative but to disqualify you from the show." "But Terry is a human being! He's perfectly capable of standing up for himself!" "No, Mrs Greane. I'm afraid that will not do. You have told me that he is a mannequin, so I will regard him as such. Of course," Frobisher continued, "you can always remove him from your display." "No!" Bridie wailed. "That dress is the centrepiece of my stand. It'll look bare without that dress. What if I borrowed a mannequin from another exhibitor?" Frobisher shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mrs Green," he said. "The rules clearly state that all exhibition materials, equipment and promotional material must be the property of the exhibitor. Borrowing from another stand would leave you in breach of your contract. It is now ten minutes to eight. I will return at 8.30 to see what you propose to do." Frobisher left, chuckling. Bridie sat down again. She was on the verge of tears. I stood beside her. "Bridie," I said. "What does he mean by an "appropriate support structure"?" She looked up at me, a tear rolling down one cheek. "It's just what it sounds like," she said, sadly. "The mannequin has to be secured on a pole attached to a stable base." "OK," I said. "How is the pole fixed to the mannequin?" "It's screwed in," she said, "to a depth of no less than three inches. For stability. We're buggered... buggered... unless-" Bridie stood up quickly. "I've had an idea," she said. There was a newly determined look in her eyes. "Wait here. I won't be long." Bridie returned ten minutes later. She was carrying a two-foot long metal pole, a metal disc about three feet across, and a brown paper bag. "Oh, god, Terry," she said, putting the metal objects on the floor. "I'm so sorry for what I'm about to ask you to do." I looked at the metal pole suspiciously. It appeared to be telescopic, and made of steel. At one end was a ball-and-socket joint, on which was mounted a small square bracket. Bridie clicked the pole firmly into place on the centre of the metal disc, which was clearly quite heavy. "And just what are you about to ask me to do, Bridie?" I asked. "I'm going to make an appropriate support structure for you," she replied, picking up the brown paper bag. "Do you trust me?" I was pretty sure I knew where this was going. Up my arse, in all probability. "What's in the bag, Bridie?" I asked. It was no surprise when Bridie opened the bag and produced a large red dildo, an inch in diameter. I gulped. "There's a sex toy shop here," explained Bridie. "I expect it's meant to appeal to the hen party demographic. Terry, you know I wouldn't ask you to do this if I wasn't desperate. It only needs to go in three inches. You will do it, won't you? Please?" I nodded. I had no choice, really. And besides, it would all be over in a few hours. Bridie set to work once more, fixing the dildo onto the pole's bracket by wrapping it around and around with duct tape. On her instruction I removed my tights and the three pairs of elasticated pants. Bridie snipped a hole in the crotches of the pants, and deftly sewed seams around the holes to prevent them fraying. She contented herself with simply creating a jagged hole in the crotch of the tights. "Let's hope they don't ladder too much," she said, helping me back into the knickers and tights. Bridie checked her watch. "It's 8.30. Frobisher will be back any minute. I just hope this contraption satisfies his precious rules." "Frobisher is back now, Mrs Greane," said Frobisher, bang on cue. "So, have you reached a decision?" Bridie took a breath. "Mr Frobisher," she began. "As I tried to explain earlier, the dress being worn by my mannequin is the centrepiece of my stand. Without it, I might as well pack up and go home. That, in all likelihood, would mean the end of my company." "That would be unfortunate, Mrs Greane," said Frobisher. "However, as I have also already explained, your mannequin does not conform to health and safety rules, since it is not fitted with an appropriate support structure." "Ah, but it is," replied Bridie. "Or at least, it will be in a few minutes. I've made one for it. See?" Bridie indicated the metal disc and pole, on top of which was stuck the red dildo. Quite a few more exhibitors had arrived by this time, and they had all stopped what they were doing to listen to Bridie's negotiations with Frobisher. Frobisher looked at the makeshift support, and raised an eyebrow. "How does it work?" he asked, rather needlessly. "The pole is telescopic," she explained. "My mannequin stands on the metal plate, and the pole is extended upwards so that the, er, internal supporting section is inserted into the, um, the aperture between the mannequin's legs. The pole is then locked using this knob at the base." "Hmm," Frobisher said, thoughtfully. "It's ingenious. And how far into the mannequin does the, ah, internal supporting section go?" "It goes in to the required depth, Mr Frobisher," Bridie replied. "Three inches." I heard a giggle from one of the nearby exhibitors. The whole situation had become surreal. Frobisher prodded at the red dildo. "It's quite stiff, isn't it?" he said. A glimmer of a smirk appeared on his lips. "Tell me, Mrs Greane, does it screw into the mannequin?" Bridie's face fell. "Well, no," she replied, adding, "how could it, realistically?" "Indeed," Frobisher agreed. "So, since it does not screw in, it's a passive connection. Let's call it a passive internal stability substructure. Well, Mrs Greane, I must say I do admire your resourcefulness and determination. Not to mention the commitment of your mannequin-" "Thank you, Mr Frobisher!" began Bridie. But Frobisher had not finished. "However," he continued, holding up one hand for emphasis, "I have some concerns about the stability of your makeshift structure, due to the lack of a screw thread fixing mechanism. So I am willing to permit you to use your mannequin, subject to one condition." "And what condition is that, Mr Frobisher?" Bridie asked. Frobisher looked directly at me, flashed an evil, vengeful smile, and said, "A three inch insertion is, in my view, insufficient to give the required level of stability. I want the passive internal stability substructure - let's shorten that to PISS, shall we? - I want the PISS to be inserted to a depth of no less than six inches." Frobisher drew a thick line on the dildo with a black marker pen to indicate the required depth of penetration. I could feel my eyes beginning to water. There were several "ooh's" from the nearby stands. Bridie gasped. "Mr Frobisher, please..." "Do we have a deal, Mrs Greane?" Frobisher asked stridently, sensing victory. Bridie glanced at me. I weakly nodded consent. Bridie mouthed me an "I love you", and then turned back to Frobisher. "Yes," she said, quietly. "We have a deal." "Splendid!" replied Frobisher, triumph evident in his voice. "In that case, please proceed. I will remain to ensure the fitting meets the agreed standard." "But... it's only 8:45," said Bridie. "The show doesn't start for another hour and a quarter." "That is correct, Mrs Greane. But I have already planned to carry out a final inspection of all the stands between 9am and 10am, to ensure they are complete and ready for the public. And I will be starting with yours. Carry on, please." Bridie turned to me. "Ready?" she asked, placing the pole on its display spot in the stand. I nodded, and stepped onto the metal disc. Bridie knelt beside me, lifted my skirt and gave it to me to hold. Frobisher watched every move, smiling thinly. Bridie produced a tube of lubricating jelly, and smeared a generous layer all over the dildo. Then she rubbed some more jelly into my anus. After wiping her hands with a towel, she extended the pole upwards, guiding the dildo into position. "Bend over a fraction," she told me. "You'll be able to stand up straight once it's in. We just need to find a comfortable angle, and I don't want to hurt you." I leaned forward slightly, and then felt the first touch of the dildo. "Here goes," Bridie said, carefully extending the pole further. The dildo slid into my anus with a squelch. It was actually quite pleasant at first, though I didn't say so out loud, of course. Then it went in a bit further, and felt not quite so pleasant. "Bloody hell," I said. "Bridie!" "It's only in halfway so far," Bridie informed me. "Are you all right?" "Yeah," I replied, pursing my lips against the sensation in my bottom. "Keep going." The dildo slid further in. My eyes felt as though they were bulging. The other exhibitors were now trying very hard not to look at the intimate goings-on in Stand 13. "Nearly there," said Bridie. "Just another inch... there!" She wiped the excess lubricant from my backside, and then turned the locking knobs at the base of the pole to secure it. "OK, Terry," she said. "Straighten up, carefully!" Tell me if you feel any sort of pain." I gingerly raised myself to an upright position. The dildo strained against the change of position. I felt a little discomfort, but nothing more. "I think it's OK," I told her. Bridie nodded, relieved. She locked the ball-and-socket joint, and then turned to speak to Frobisher. "There," she said. "Satisfied? "Not yet," he said. "I need to carry out a quality check." He bent down to peer at my backside, and tutted loudly. "It's not in far enough, Mrs Greane," he announced. "The line I drew is still visible. Another half an inch, if you please." Bridie glowered at Frobisher, and then slackened the lower locking knob. I winced as she extended the pole by the additional half an inch. This drew an approving nod from Frobisher. Then, after tightening the knob once again, Bridie took the wedding dress skirt from my hands and arranged it around my feet, obscuring the metal disc from view. Frobisher rose to his feet. "Thank you, Mrs Green. A very equable solution. And perfectly timed, too. It is now 9am precisely. Your display stand seems to be in order in every respect. Have a good show." Frobisher gave Bridie a curt bow, then turned and walked off to continue his final inspection tour. Bridie turned to me. "Dear god, Terry," she said. "I am so, so sorry for getting you into this. But Frobisher's got me over a barrel." I gave a short, humourless laugh. "He's got you over a barrel? Hey, I'm the one standing here with a dildo shoved up my arse and unable to move. And will be for the rest of today." "Yeah," replied Bridie. I looked around the vast hall. By now all the other stands were occupied, and decorated with a variety of wedding-related paraphernalia. The CEC consisted of three floor levels, two of which were filled with exhibition stands. The stands were made of blue cloth covered panels, slotted together to form rows of three-sided cubicles. Each stand was optionally furnished with a long trestle table and up to three chairs. Bridie's stand was on the ground floor, near to a smal cafe and the toilets. The next level resembled a balcony, from which one could look down onto the ground floor level. I could also see a cafeteria on the top level, next to which was a bar and seating area. A large digital clock on the far wall luminously confirmed that it was just 09:02:27. Music began to play over the speaker system; "Living Doll", by Cliff Richard. Given my present situation, I suspected Duncan Frobisher of having a hand in choosing the track. Bridie picked up the protective bag which contained her business suit and shoes. "I'm going to get changed, Terry. Won't be long." "Don't worry," I answered. "I'm not going anywhere." Bridie raised a sympathetic smile at this, and then disappeared into the ladies toilet. My arse was beginning to protest against its predicament with an ever increasing urgency. I experimented with wriggling my hips to ease the discomfort, but it was useless. The metal plate I was standing on was bearing my full weight, which in turn meant that the steel pole projecting from it was held rigidly vertical. The rubber dildo had been firmly taped in place on the pole's bracket. It was in no danger of prising loose, and, though it was firm but flexible, there was very little sideways movement in it. Shuffling my feet was also pointless. I could raise the toe of one shoe at a time off the surface of the metal disc, but that was it. My only option was to stand as still as possible, and try to think of something to otherwise occupy my mind. I glanced up at the clock. It was now 09:18:44. Bridie had been gone for sixteen minutes. Being able to count the minutes go by was already bad enough, but having to also watch the seconds was an added cruelty. I made up my mind not to look at the clock again if I could help it. Just then, Duncan Frobisher walked onto the stand. He flashed me a broad grin. "Hello, Terry," he said. "Bridie not about?" "She's gone to get changed," I replied. "She'll be back soon." "That's all right," Frobisher said. "Plenty of time. I noticed earlier that you don't appear to be wearing earrings, so I brought you these. Consider them my own little contribution to your noble effort." Frobisher held up a pair of large dangly silver earrings. "Now," he said, "I know you don't have pierced ears, so these are clip-on. Allow me." He lifted my veil and clamped the earrings on, giving each one a hard squeeze as he did so. "They have extra-strong springs," he explained, "so you can be sure they won't fall off. I fully expect them to stay on for the entire show." There was an unmistakeable menace in his voice, and I knew I was being subtly warned of dire consequences if I removed the earrings. Frobisher replaced the veil over my face. "See you later," he said, and strolled away. Bridie returned after a few more minutes. She had changed out of the t-shirt, jeans and trainers she'd arrived in, and was now dressed in a smart cerise jacket and skirt and high heels. She'd also put on some makeup and brushed her hair. And, irritatingly, she was carrying a cup of coffee and a half eaten blueberry muffin. "I brought you some bottled water," she said, sitting down to drink her coffee. "You'll need to keep hydrated. But you can only have a few sips at a time, otherwise you'll need to go for a pee, and you know what that would mean." "We'd be disqualified?" I suggested. "I imagine it'll be against the rules for a mannequin to need a visit to the toilet." Bridie looked concerned. "You don't, do you?" she asked. "Need a pee, I mean." I shook my head, causing the earrings to swing back and forth. "Hey," Bridie said. "Where did those come from?" "Frobisher," I replied. "He told me it was his little contribution. And he made it very plain that I'm not to take them off, or else!" Bridie placed her coffee cup down on the table. "The swine!" she exclaimed. "God, Terry, by the end of the day they'll be nipping your poor ears like mad." "At least they might take my mind off the discomfort of being impaled by your "appropriate support structure". I stood in silence as Bridie drank her coffee and polished off the muffin. Just then the music being played over the speakers stopped, and the voice of Duncan Frobisher echoed around the hall. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is Duncan Frobisher speaking. The show will be opening in precisely thirty minutes time. Please ensure you are at your display stand when the doors open to the public at 10 o'clock. Thank you." The music restarted. "Thirty minutes," said Bridie. "Not long now." "That's easy for you to say," I replied. Bridie picked up her makeup bag and walked over to where I stood. I'm just going to freshen your makeup," she said, lifting my veil and resting it on the top of my head. "Hold still." She touched up my eye shadow and blusher, applied another coat of lipstick to my mouth, and brushed an extra layer of mascara on to my eyelashes. "When the public come in, keep your arms down by your sides. Don't hold your hands in front of you, otherwise you'll be obscuring detail on the dress. If you have to move your arms, wait until no one's around to see." Great. Not only could I not move my legs, now I had to keep my arm still as well. But all I said to Bridie was, "OK. I'll do my best." Bridie smiled. "You know, Terry, she said, "I was being unkind last night, when I told you that you didn't look like a real woman. You look sensational!" Bridie lowered the veil again, and returned to the table. She switched on her laptop, and clicked the mouse a few times to start the slideshow presentation. An endless loop of images of women in wedding dresses filled the screen. Frobisher made another announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, the time is one minute to ten. The show is about to commence. Good luck, everyone!" "This is it," I said. "I wonder what people will say when they see me?" "They'll see exactly what they expect to see, Terry," she replied. "A mannequin in a wedding dress. If you play your part right, no one will ever guess that you're actually a living, breathing man. Oh, and I should warn you, sometimes people will want to lift the skirt of the dress to see the detail. Be prepared for that." "OK," I said. "Any other advice?" "Keep your legs together," she said. "Relax your shoulders and keep them pushed back. And keep your mouth closed. And don't move a muscle." I sighed. It was going to be one hell of a long day. Chapter 3: SATURDAY "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Happiest Day Magazine Spring Wedding Fair. My name is Duncan Frobisher, senior marketing manager for Happiest Day. I can give you my personal assurance that our exhibitors have worked very hard on their presentations and display stands. I sincerely hope you enjoy each and every single, solitary second of the show. Thank you!" Perhaps I was being paranoid, but Frobisher's announcement seemed to be aimed straight at me. His slow and deliberate emphasis of the phrase "each and every single, solitary second" was surely calculated t remind me of what lay ahead. I was in no doubt that Frobisher was taking a great delight in making me suffer. Bridie must have come to the same conclusion. "God, Terry!" she said. "That man must really hate you! His announcement sounded as if he was trying to draw your attention to the time." "I told you, Bridie," I said. "I bullied him mercilessly at junior school. I made his life hell for four years. Now he's out to take his revenge. And I suppose I can't blame him, really." Bridie stood up and paced the floor. "Look, revenge is one thing, but what he's done to you here is a bit extreme, isn't it?" I nodded, sending the silver earrings into a frenzied, earlobe-jangling jiggle. "We did kind of hand the opportunity to him on a plate, though, didn't we? I said. "But this," said Bridie, waving a hand in the general direction of my crotch, "this is ludicrous! Yes, OK, granted it was my idea to dress you up as a bride for forgetting to collect the new mannequin-" "For which I apologised," I reminded her. "-without which," she continued without pause, "this stand would have been dull and unappealing. Customers would have stayed away in droves." "You could have hung a few dresses on the walls," I countered. "Or brought in one of your clothes rails." "Not the same," returned Bridie. "People like to see a dress being worn, to see how it hangs, how it catches the light." "I did suggest you ask one of your friends to wear it," I said. "Sophie, perhaps? She would look incredible in this dress, what with her legs and figure." "And I did tell you," Bridie shot back, "that I would have felt obliged to pay her for doing it. And that would have made her an employee, which, as you well know, is against Frobisher's rules." "You're not paying me," I said. "Terence, I hope you're not suggesting I could have used Sophie as my mannequin?" said Bridie in a shocked tone. "Because you must know where Frobisher would have stuck his appropriate support structure!" "Bridie, he wouldn't have done a thing to her. Or to anyone else, for that matter. This is personal, between him and me. I mean, let's face it, there's no real need to have a metal pole shoved up my jacksie. I am, as you pointed out, quite capable of standing on my own two feet." "But the rules say - " "Be logical, Bridie! Look at me! I'm not actually being supported by the thing! I can move neither forward, backwards, sidewards, or any - wards in between. I can stand on tiptoe..." (I demonstrated this by raising my heels a fraction, causing the dildo to slide down and out by the same fraction.) "...but I can only do that for a few seconds. (I carefully lowered myself back onto the dildo again.) The only direction which remains is straight down-" "Don't say that!" wailed Bridie. "I can't bear the thought of it!" "Believe me," I said, I'm trying very hard to not think of it myself." Bridie went silent for a few moments, then said, "So, what did you do?" "Eh?" "To Frobisher. At school. How did you bully him?" "Oh, all the usual stuff. Pushing him in the playground, hiding his spectacles, drawing obscene pictures in his jotter, that sort of thing. It was the name-calling that really got to him, though. I called him names on account of his sticky-out ears. You must have noticed them, Bridie. Let's see, there was Dumbo, Jug Ears, Noddy, Wingnut, Elephant Boy-" "I get the idea," Bridie interjected quickly. "Which, of course, also explains the earrings he's making you wear." "Exactly. They're just one more way to hurt me. I know I could take them off anytime I want. But if I do, he'll find a "rule" he could use to disqualify you from the show. And that's his ultimate weapon against me. He knows I'll go through all of this, because of what it means to you." Bridie's eyes moistened. "Oh, Terry! You're prepared to endure this nightmare, just for me?" "Of course. I love you, Bridie. I'd do anything for you. As I firmly believe I'm in the process of proving today." "I don't know what to say," Bridie said. "Except I'm sorry. Please forgive me?" "There's nothing to forgive," I said magnanimously. "It'll be all over soon, anyway." "Yeah... Oh, look! Punters! And I think they're heading this way!" Bridie dabbed at her face with a paper hankie, and switched on her professional smile. I remained still, arms by my sides, facing straight forward. I experimented with moving my feet. I found that if I slowly raised the ball of one foot a fraction, I could use the stiletto heel as a pivot to swivel my foot, thereby gaining some slight relief. A movement on the upper level caught my eye. There, leaning nonchalantly on the balcony rail, was Duncan Frobisher. He was looking straight at me, grinning like a Cheshire Cat, evidently enjoying his revenge. On the stand, Bridie had swung into full flow with her sales pitch. "--and if you order within the next two weeks, you also get a mother-of- the-bride hat or facinator, absolutely free!" The customer, a rather large girl in her early twenties, picked up couple of leaflets from the table. Then she turned towards me. Here we go, I thought to myself. "Oooh," she simpered. "Is that a bodycon? Oh, it's gorgeous! Oh, I love it! If only I had the figure for it, eh? Looks great on your dummy, though. I'd give anything to have a figure like hers!" Bridie gave a little chuckle for the benefit of her customer, and a secret thumbs-up sign to me. As soon as the girl wasn't looking, I glanced back up to the balcony. There was no sign of Frobisher. He'd probably gone to dream up another torment for me. I caught sight of the digital clock. It said the time was now 10:42:06. The wedding fair was less than three-quarters of an hour old. Apart from the large girl who would do anything to have a figure like mine, our corner of the ground floor was deserted. The neighbouring exhibitors were trying to keep busy by fiddling with posters, arranging leaflets, and generally prowling around their stand space. Presently the large girl drifted away. Bridie sidestepped her way to me, keeping one eye on the aisles for the first sign of the next potential customer. "See," she whispered. "I told you! She didn't suspect a thing! To her, you're just a dummy!" "And to you?" I asked. "What am I to you?" "You're the dummy who forgot to pick up my mannequin," she tartly replied, adding, "but I love you for having the balls to go through all this." "Oh, it's nothing," I said, airily. "I adore spending my Saturdays squeezed into a corset, perched on high heeled shoes, dressed as a bride and rendered immobile by a steel pole rammed in where the sun don't shine." I glanced at the clock again. "Still," I continued, "only another six hours, seven minutes and thirty-two seconds to go." "Yeah," said Bridie, returning to her seat. The seconds dragged by. Duncan Frobisher's specially selected playlist of suitable songs continued to ring around the hall. There was "Beautiful" (Christina Aguilera); "Who's That Girl" (Madonna); "I'm Every Woman" (Chaka Khan); "Pretty Woman" (Roy Orbison); "She's So Fine" (Jackie Wilson); "Always A Woman" (Billy Joel); "She" (Elvis Costello); and "Man! I Feel Like A Woman" (Shania Twain). To be fair, all the songs were apt choices for an event whose target audience was almost exclusively female. It was entirely likely that the playlist had been assembled weeks ago, or even simply held over from a previous wedding fair. That notion, however, was largely dispelled from my mind at 11:24:39, when Duncan Frobisher reappeared on the upper balcony. I watched him casually amble onto the exact same spot he had earlier occupied. With arms folded, he was happily swaying in time to Doris Day warbling "I Enjoy Being A Girl". He was staring directly at me, and as the song drew to a close, he raised one hand to his lips and blew me a kiss. Then, shoulders heaving with evident laughter, he sauntered out of my sight. By this time the CEC had filled with more people. The large girl had returned to our stand, this time accompanied by an equally large older woman who I guessed was her mother. "See, mum!" she called out, proving my guess was correct. "That's the bodycon I was telling you about! Innit lush?" Her mother looked me up and down. "Ooh, fucking hell, yes!" she enthused. "Oh! It's fucking lovely, Angie! Absolutely fucking lovely!" Angie's foul-mouthed mum took a couple of steps closer, coming within touching distance of me. There had so far been maybe a dozen or so visitors to the stand, but all of them had been sales-pitched by Bridie at the table, content to admire my dress from a distance. At this moment, however, Bridie was already deep in conversation with another potential customer. The laptop was showing pages from Bridie's online catalogue, and I could hear prices and dates being discussed. Bridie, aware of the commotion being caused by Angie and her mum, glanced at me anxiously. Angie's mum leaned forward, and reached out a hand towards my stomach. I held my breath, willing myself not to blink. Though I was glad of the veil over my face, I realised I wasn't sure just how effective it was in obscuring my features. Suddenly a hideous possibility occurred to me. What if Angie's mum was actually an agent of Duncan Frobisher? I had pushed Frobisher dozens of times in the school playground. Was he, by proxy, now about to push back? If the answer was yes, then I was in deep shit. The dildo up my arse wasn't rigid, but neither was it particularly flexible. A fall would almost certainly result in its being forced further up my rectum and through my intestine, causing untold damage. Then I remembered what Bridie had said earlier. People like to touch the dress, she'd told me, in order to examine the detail. Besides, the time was now only 11:48:17. By exposing me now, Frobisher would be robbing himself of another five hours, twenty-one minutes and forty- three seconds of further chances for revenge. Surely it would be in his interests to keep me here, silently suffering, for as long as possible? It would be Frobisher's head on the block with Happiest Day magazine if I was rushed to hospital impaled on a steel pole. Then again, what if Frobisher had now had his fill of revenge? What if he'd sent Angie's mum to finish the job once and for all? All these thought tumbled through my mind in an instant. My heart pounded in my chest as I weighed up the pro's and con's. I came to the conclusion that Angie's mum had to be just an ordinary punter, with no connection to Duncan Frobisher. Hoping and praying I was right, I forced myself to keep still. "Angie," said Angie's mum. "Look at the fucking beading on this fucking bodice. It's fucking lovely!" Angie's mum ran her fingers across the front of the bodice, feeling the texture of the intricate beadwork. I wanted to heave a sigh of relief, and, a few minutes later when Angie and her horrible mother had gone, I did. I cast a quick glance at Bridie, who was still in earnest conversation with the same customer. An order form had appeared on the laptop, which meant we had a sale. One of the other exhibitors crossed the aisle and onto our stand. I recognised her as the pony-tail haired girl who'd spoken to me shortly after we arrived. She was now wearing immaculate makeup, and her black hair fell about her shoulders in gentle curls. She wore a name badge on which the name "Lyndsey" was stencilled. Lyndsey stood directly in front of me, and gave me a warm, friendly smile. "I'm going to adjust your dress, Terry," she whispered. "Don't panic." Lyndsey bobbed down out of my eyeline. I felt the skirt of my dress being rearranged, and then Lynsdsey bobbed back up again. "That woman caught the hem with her foot," she informed me, "but it's OK now. Are you all right? We were all worried about you." "Thank you, Lyndsey," I whispered back. "I'm fine." Lyndsey smiled at me again, and returned to her stand. In truth I was feeling far from fine. I had now been stuck in this position for over two and a half hours all told. My bottom was telling my brain to order my hands to remove the dildo. My brain was doing its best to argue the toss with my bottom, whilst simultaneously dealing with the complaints it was receiving from my ears, toes, scalp, and waist. My hands just stayed out of the argument entirely. My earlobes were throbbing from being pinched by the pair of bulldog clips that were the earrings. My toes, squashed together in the pointed shoes and bearing a lot of my weight due to the four inch heels, were starting to ache. The tight elastic in my wig was digging into my scalp all around my head, causing it, too, to gently throb. The corset, which I had now been wearing for more than fourteen hours, was slicing into my waist as well as restricting my breathing. The corselette and the two pairs of bodyshaping pants were ganging up against the tops of my thighs and cutting into my crotch. In short, I was in complete and utter agony, and there was absolutely nothing I could about any of it. I decided to try blocking out the pain by concentrating on the music being played over the hall's loudspeakers. At that moment it was "Barbie Girl" by Aqua. A song about a female doll. Dear god, Frobisher must be scouring the bottom of the Spotify barrel. The song stopped midway, to allow for another of Frobisher's announcements. "Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned, "I'm sure you'll have been thoroughly impressed with the quality and inventiveness on view at our exhibitors stands today. So I'd just like to remind you that you can vote for the most attractive stand by entering our free prize draw competition. The winning exhibitor will receive a small cash prize, courtesy of Happiest Day magazine. And one lucky customer will receive a deluxe spa pamper day worth ?1000, and a year's subscription to Happiest Day magazine. Full details can be found in the event programme. Thank you." "Barbie Girl" picked up where it left off. There seemed to now be far fewer punters around. Bridie, with no customers, sidled over to me. "How are you doing?" she whispered. "I'm fine," I lied. "What was t