The Strop

“It’s like any other day” is not the vision Mrs Wenchwood shared for the London Fashion Week catwalk. It is the busiest day for her very successful fashion house. At least one hundred of her models have to be sized up, categorised and fitted with outfits for tonight. If she wants to pull it off, she needs all of her team at the ready. However, her best P.A., Barbara, is ill today. The dream Mrs Wenchwood is currently having will, no doubt, be crushed.

An enormous white building with spiral pillars and an extravagant front drive belongs to Mrs Wenchwood, the most famous designer in the history of London’s fashion. At the far right room of the second floor, she is asleep under her Egyptian-Cotton bed sheets. Frilly lace drapes float above her and around her bed. Standing at the head is the infamous “47 White-Rose Headboard” which has featured in magazines far more than its owner.

Appearances from the headboard and her models in Vogue and Cosmo have outshone Mrs Wenchwood by a mile. A vast majority of the models deny working with her, so as not to taint their name with her fierce reputation. It’s the channelled view of her work that is the strong point of helping her stand above the other designers. She wants to be the best, have the best models, attend the best fashion shows, it’s the way she works. And it’s unbelievably successful and no one else has been able to pull it off. And yet, somehow she has risen from nowhere, just plonking directly in the spotlight of one of the fashion capitals of the world.

A light golden glow cascades onto her scruffy bedhead from the open window beside the bed. The sheen from highly polished floor boards twinkles on a golden fruit bowl that is sat on a bedside table, which contains only a single apple. Around twenty framed photographs of Mrs Wenchwood border the walls- all feature her in the ridiculous outfits she’s created. At the left-hand corner of the room is a quivering dresser holding all of Mrs Wenchwood’s makeup and fakery. Perfume, made by Gucci, fills the atmosphere around the dresser in a suffocating cloud. There’s a knock at the door.

“Hello, Mrs Wenchwood?” says a cheery but slightly nervous voice. There’s another knock.

“Who is it?” Mrs Wenchwood murmurs.

“Alison, Mrs Wenchwood, I’m your back-up P.A.” Mrs Wenchwood beckons her inside. Alison’s in a white lacy dress, her blonde hair flows over her shoulders and down her back. She hurries around the room, sweeping the perfume dust off Mrs Wenchwood’s dresser and opening the remaining two curtains. A moment later there is maid skipping into the room with a little teacup. Mrs Wenchwood groans one last time and slowly erects into an uncomfortable slumping shape. She picks up the dainty cup and slurps its contents, wiping her oversized red lips with her forearm. Yawning, Mrs Wenchwood is helped over to the dresser and the maid hurries away. Her hair and makeup stylists arrive and begin their task of sculpting an award-winning fashion designer out of this grumpy mess. Alison is briefing Mrs Wenchwood on the schedule.

Two hours later they are happy- Mrs Wenchwood’s hair is in a sort of beehive shape and she wears purple eye-shadow with gold eyeliner to match the swirly purple and gold Victorian dress she’s squeezed herself into. Now she’s awake you can see her daring green eyes flash behind long fake eyelashes. The same eyes that watch plain designs become famous creations. Finding herself short of breath with the corset on, she manages, “What… Do you… Think?”

“Marvellous,”

“Spectacular,”

“Genius,” say the stylists, clearly holding back their laughter. She takes no notice and lets Alison take her to breakfast.

Down in the kitchen on the oak table is a tiny plate, fork and knife. She struts over and plops her heavily laced backside on a chair in front of a very disappointing salad. Carefully picking up the cutlery, she begins eating. Now fully awake, she realises who Alison is. “Alison dear, where is Barbara?” Mrs Wenchwood asks politely.

“She’s ill Mrs Wenchwood,” Alison’s bottom lip is quivering; the job of P.A. for the most feared and respected fashion designer is hard.

“The most… important day of… my, hers, our lives and… she’s ill, you say?” Mrs Wenchwood pants.

“Yes, Mrs Wenchwood,” Alison, unsuspecting, is astounded when Mrs Wenchwood screams. Mrs Wenchwood heads for the garden for some fresh air. The corset is tight around her chest and it’s a hot, sunny day with few clouds. “Maid… Bring water.” The water is prepared with a half-dozen ice cubes and quickly given to Mrs Wenchwood. She’s sweating profusely from her forehead and neck. The beehive hairstyle provides no cover over these areas, sticky and shiny skin is shown. Her garden is a series of complexly shaped hedges, most of which form towering spirals.

Alison rushes after her, “Mrs Wenchwood, I’m just as good as Barbara!”

Mrs Wenchwood shoots her a look and Alison goes silent. “Are you… now?” She sips the chilling water. “I’m definitely sure… most of my P.A.’s… in the past… aren’t your size,” Mrs Wenchwood laughs, coughing and spluttering afterwards. Alison defends “freaks like models” should eat more. Alison isn’t going to let Mrs Wenchwood trample all over her. Mrs Wenchwood, breathing heavily, protests how important today is to everyone in the fashion industry and that Mrs Wenchwood will be showcasing her new Victorian outfits. She stresses that even if Alison had dieted for months like Barbara had to, she’s still too incompetent to proceed with the schedule.

“Mrs Wenchwood, I’m perfectly sure I can do this job only for one day,”

“The importance… of this day is… astronomical, girly” Mrs Wenchwood’s getting agitated, she can’t breathe and Alison isn’t helping her mood. She asks what size Alison is. The dress for Barbara is a six and there are no alternatives. She’s a ten, four sizes too big. She’s unprepared, uncooperative, too “fat” and, “Not acceptable!” Mrs Wenchwood shrieks, falling short of breath. The bottom of her glass is empty. She feels faint and cannot catch her breath. It’s too hot and there’s so much going wrong. The room begins to swirl, darkening until the last image she sees is Alison tucking her golden locks behind her ear. Mrs Wenchwood falls and there’s a cracking sound where her corset bursts at the sides.

When Mrs Wenchwood awakens, she gulps the air as if she’s never breathed before. “Mrs Wenchwood, you’re alright!” The glee on Alison’s face is unbelievable for a person who basically called her every horrible name that matters in a fashion house. “Yes, what happened?” Alison explains that Mrs Wenchwood passed out because of, “That stupid corset,” and then Alison called an ambulance and has stayed with her all the way to the hospital which is where she is now. “You did all that for me?” Mrs Wenchwood sounds too vulnerable not to empathise with. Alison tells her that she understands the dilemma and no matter what, she would have helped. Not because she liked her but because it was the decent thing to do. That Mrs Wenchwood needed Alison’s helped if she had wanted it or not.

“I wish I was more like you. I shouldn’t be so harsh about people’s size,”

Alison smiles, “Well there is a way to change that…”

“Anything, I’ll try it,”

The next week Mrs Wenchwood starts working on Alison’s fashion designs, keeping her eye off of the newspaper headlines and helping to make them into wonderful outfits for Mrs Wenchwood’s own models. The only problem is that the clothes are all size ten to sixteen. Most of which can be worn by ordinary people.