Mannequin Madness

Chapter Three

“Penelope!” My mother called. I wanted to  run, but I knew I wouldn’t so instead, I settled for a pessimistic groan as I hauled myself towards her voice. Upon my appearance, she shrieked in a horrific girlish way. “Where were you? I got worried.”

 I was in hell, I replied in my head. “Just looking around, mum. It’s no big deal.”

She ignored me and pulled my by the arm. “C’mon Penelope, hurry up! The audience are already taking their seat and the show starts soon. There’s no time for you to waste.”

 “Mom I don’t want to-"

"Nonsense," she cut my sentence, "you have to do this. I've already told you that you have to make an appearance in tonight’s show. Don't be difficult, Penelope; we can't afford any complications."

My mother pushed me in the makeup room and went to check on other, more important things. Stylists jumped on me, already prepped with the material that came straight off the page of the designs. They were an odd bunch; most of them wore flamboyant clothing and had excess make up on. With instruments probably designed for torture, they started pulling and tugging and prodding me.

I hated being a full sized Barbie doll. I hated modelling for shows. I hated playing mannequin.

"I hate you mum," I muttered, too low for anyone but me to hear. It was a waste of breath- the stylist weren't paying any attention anyway. They were far too busy tutting over the state of my nails as they tried to cover up the terrible manicure with ruby nail varnish. Another two were dedicated to painting my face in god-knows-what and there was a man I recognised but couldn't name, who was tugging the tangles out of my hair.

“I really hate you mum,” I said, though it was no louder than a breath and no one batted an eyelid. I missed my dad all of a sudden- the feeling wracked my insides and ran cold shivers up my arms. He wouldn’t have made me do this. He would have stood up to my mother. He would understand. But he wasn’t here.

"Tilt you head this way for me, dear," he mumbled, a thick accent tainting his words. He cupped my head in his hands and almost broke my neck to get it to the right angle. "Like this. Stay right there- don't move."

The two women who were applying cream to my skin and mascara to my lashes huffed and irritated sound, but didn't argue with him. I wish they had, because my neck felt like it would topple off my shoulders any moment now. But he dove straight to work and started pulling strands, manipulating curls and gluing it all in place with hairspray and some sort of glitter.

The brunette was applying mascara to my left eye and I was struggling to resist the urge to blink when I saw the dress. Ryan had carried it across the bright room and unzipped the bag that had been protecting it. He laid it over the back of a chair and offered me an apologetic look and a small smile before turning and walking away.

It was horrible. Honestly, no matter how often I was around it, I don't think I'd ever understand fashion. The... well, I guess it was a dress, if such little material could warrant such a name. It was bottle green, a colour similar to my eyes, and it was strapless. Those were always the worst. You could fake as much confidence as you wanted, but I'm pretty sure everyone who's ever worn a strapless dress has feared it would fall. I know I did. Every time.

Even with one eye closed, it looked small. It looked short and it looked tight. There was a small bow on the left hip, just big enough to hold up a sash that fell around the narrow waist. And I really didn't want to put it on. But I knew the argument it would cause if I refused. It was an argument I'd never won, and I really didn't want a confrontation, so when the stylists were finally finished with me, I obediently stripped to my underwear and let them dress me like the mannequin I was being reduced to. A living, breathing dress-up doll...

                                                                    ***

I could hear the crowd's applause die as the show started. Ryan was half way through his introductory speech and they were lapping it up.

I quickly glanced around at the other models waiting to go on stage; they were dressed in similar clothing as I was- colourful, bold materials that revealed too much skin. Some were tapping their heels, some were checking their appearances is the mirror, some were holding hands. Most of them looked nervous. At least I wasn't the only one.

It never got better, no matter how many of these shows I did. I threw a cautious look over my shoulder at the stylists who were waiting impatiently at the door of the dressing room. Some were sipping coffee, some looked just as nervous as the models, but most had relaxed and were simply there, just waiting for the moment their work was noticed.

We were waiting in a thin corridor that led from the dressing room to the side of the stage, where the curtains were constantly twitching as excited models wanted to get a peek at the audience. One wall of the corridor was lined with a mirror that showed us just what the audience had paid to see.

I hardly recognised myself- my blonde hair seemed pale in contrast with the bottle green dress, my eyes were framed by thick, sticky mascara lashes that made them seem much bigger than they actually were. The stylists had painted over the few freckles that were scattered over my nose. My skin looked absolutely perfect- not a blemish in sight. Heavy earrings dangled from my ear lobes and tickled the sides of my face.

The man who’d almost broke my neck had done a fantastic job of my hair. He’d pulled it up loosely and let the curls hang in shimmering waves that complimented my bony structure. I looked exactly like the figure my mother had drawn when she designed the dress.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ryan shouted enthusiastically into his microphone. “It is my pleasure to now present to you a magnificent collection designed by… one of the world most famous designers, your favourite, the one and only… Madame Natalie Riorman!”

I heard the audience burst into a wild applause at the mention of my mother’s name. There was a brief pause and then the clapping got louder and I knew that my mum had entered from the other side of the stage.

“I’ll now hand the mic over for a moment as Natalie recalls this collection…” Ryan struggled to make his voice project over the sound of the crowd, even with the speakers.

Mum started talking, and I rolled my eyes. She gave the same speech every time- the names and colours were the only things that really varied at all.

“Blah blah blah,” I muttered and made a face at the speakers that projected her voice to me. A few of the other models scowled and glared at me. Oh, right, my mum is a hero for giving them this opportunity. I forgot.

I pulled my phone out of my ankle boot and entertained myself while I waited for my cue. Eventually, after several games of Angry Birds, Ryan finally saved me from the boredom of waiting and the anxiety that was eating me alive.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I now invite Natalie’s daughter, our very own shining star, Penelope Parker to lead the models to the stage…”

“Oh god,” one of the girls behind me whispered. “What if I trip?”

I felt exactly the same, but I plastered a fake smile on my face and walked on the stage with my chin up. I blew kisses here and there and posed for photographers while the crowd ‘ooh’ed and ‘ahh’ed.

The lights were blinding and left stars and black ink splodges blocking my vision, but I continued walking. The crowd were crazy, I smiled but ignored them as I made my way back up the stage and watched the other models leave from the opposite side we entered on.

I, of course, had been given strict instructions that I was to wait by my mother’s side, on full display for the audience and the critiques and the newspapers. It was hell. I wanted off, but it would cause a confrontation and I wanted to avoid one of those if I could.

After what seemed like an eternity we stepped down the stage but the torture didn’t just end here. My mother forced me to strike poses for newspapers and magazines; each one of them wanted a unique picture for their papers.

I waited impatiently for the dreadful day to be over. I still had homework to do.