THE FLAPPER'S FAN

Chapter 2 - April Fools Day

I awoke some time later. You know those times you wake and it seems like it is hours since you fell asleep, but you glance at the clock and it's been mere minutes? This was one of those times. I felt disoriented, and fuzzy. The seal on the bottled water I had with dinner had been unbroken otherwise I might suspect I had been drugged. The light in the room seemed dimmer and more yellow than it usually was; everything seemed a little out of focus, not quite right. The knock on the door sounded distorted, like a tape recording caught in the spools, and it seemed to take me an inordinate amount of time to reach the door. When I opened it, a young man stood there, dressed in some kind of fancy uniform. Is that what staff wore here? It hurt my head to think, so I wasn't sure, but I was fairly certain he was telling me the big white box was for me so I took it inside and placed it on the bed. I peered inside after lifting the lid, trying to focus on the contents. Inside was what looked like a black beaded dress, beautifully crafted, and strangely it seemed to be in my size, unusual, because I was definitely not the size de jour for that era, having breasts, hips and a butt, which were not popular in a time when the fashions were designed to flatter those bright young things who were bereft of such impediments.

A note fluttered to the floor as I lifted the dress out of the box and I almost fell face first into the carpet when I bent to pick it up. The writing was calligraphic, as if written with an old fashioned fountain pen and there was my name on the outside of the folded sheet of thick cream paper, so it was definitely for me. I opened it and tried to read the words, but they swam before me like so many fish in a pond and I had to squint until they made sense.

"Put these on when you awaken and follow the clues. Remember, you cannot go home until your quest is complete, and you must not tell anyone where you are from."

What else was in the box? Pretty t-strap black shoes with gold and onyx buckles, silky all-in-one cami-knickers and what appeared to be some sort of corset that I imagined was supposed to create that boyish, tubular shape synonymous with the 20s. The weight of the beaded evening bag enticed me to open it and find inside a vintage compact and lipstick, some strange looking cash and a thick cream hand written envelope. Inside was an invitation to the Trocadero night club.

The intention seemed clear. I was to head off to this nightclub to begin my "journey", and it was obviously a fancy dress affair, hence the costume. My head was so fuzzy, but the premise seemed clear and logical. Of course, that was what I had to do, there was no question about it. As I placed the bag onto the bed another piece of card slipped out and I grabbed clumsily at it before it could slide to the floor. It was the black and white photo of the glamourous blonde woman from the store, no longer in its frame. The face moved in and out of focus, and I placed it back in the bag, knowing I should be wondering how it fit into this mysterious situation, but too befuddled to decipher the puzzle right now.

I staggered into the bathroom, but everything seemed to be in a new position and it took me a while to find the sink and turn on the strange taps. I splashed my face, and found my eyesight was getting better, even if my head was still full of cotton wool. I began to dress in the new outfit, but decided to forgo the corset. It had taken a long time, a failed marriage and a lost child to come to terms with my curves and I wasn't about to hide them now, even for some fancy dress party. I was assuming it was that, or maybe even one of those "Murder Mystery Parties"? I had been to a few the last time I was in London, but I wasn't aware they were still popular. Besides which, in my present state, getting into complicated underwear was not an option. I managed to pull a comb through my hair, grateful I had washed and dried it before bed so it sat in the sharp bob the hairdresser had trimmed it into only a few days before. I was sure it would look fantastic with the feathered headband I managed to slip on at the third attempt, if only I could actually see myself clearly in the mirror. The stockings were too difficult to consider, but my bare legs were smooth from yesterday's visit to the beautician, and still tan from the Australian summer followed by the recent unseasonably warm London days of walking about in shorts and skirts, so they would have to do.