The Man Who Saw Her Beauty

‘But you’re on holiday! I don’t want you overdoing things.’

Like she had when she’d gone back to work too early? She seized a plate and loaded it with a couple of small triangle sandwiches and piece of sultana cake. ‘Aunt Glory, I’ve learned my lesson. I promise. Besides, two hours a week is hardly going to be overdoing anything.’

‘Well … I guess not.’

‘And you’re more than welcome to join in the fun as assistant mentor.’

‘Me?’ Glory blinked. ‘What on earth do I know about fashion? You know I never understood it. I sent you to school either with skirts too long or too short. And if ankle socks were in I’d buy you knee-high or vice versa.’

Blair laughed. Really laughed. And she couldn’t remember the last time in three or four months when that had happened. ‘I loved growing up with you, Aunt Glory. You know that.’

‘Yes, I do. But a fashion expert …’

‘You’re not,’ Blair finished for her.

‘Those girls are lucky to have you. Promise me you won’t overdo it.’

‘I promise. Now, I don’t want you overdoing things either. You’ve hardly eaten a thing all day. I’m not leaving until you’ve had a cup of tea and eaten that.’

She handed her surprised aunt the plate, poured her a cup of tea and proceeded to outline her plans for the Miss Showgirl meetings. ‘We’ll talk hair and make-up and clothes and deportment and all good things—what could be more fun than that?’

Fun? She had to bite back hysterical laughter. Hair and make-up weren’t fun for her any more. They were essential tools that stopped people staring at her, pitying her. Hair and make-up stopped her looking like a freak.

‘You always did have a knack for those things,’ Glory allowed. She eyed her niece, setting down her now empty plate. ‘Fun, you say?’

She pasted on her brightest smile. ‘Absolutely.’ She hugged her aunt and then wished she hadn’t as the prosthesis that was now masquerading as her right breast pressed again the scar tissue of her chest, reminding her afresh of all the ways she’d changed. ‘It looks like your next meeting is about to start. I’ll leave you to it and see you back home.’

She set off towards the back entrance of the showground office building, reminding herself that Rome hadn’t been built in a day. It would take more than a day to quieten all of Glory’s fears.

As she neared the door voices drifted in from outside. Her steps slowed. She obviously wasn’t the only one using this particular shortcut to access the nearest side street. She hesitated, but only for a moment. She might be all socialised out and ready—make that more than ready—for some downtime, but she hadn’t come back to Dungog to go into hibernation. She forced her feet towards the wide double doors—one of which was closed.

‘You are going to make such a fool of yourself, Stevie Conway, so don’t say you weren’t warned! You know you’re not pretty enough to be Miss Showgirl. Our advice …’ A collection of titters salted the air and brought Blair up short. ‘Quit now while you still can, before you become a laughing stock!’

Blair saw red. In an instant. And the red of anger felt fantastic after the blacks and greys of fear.

With a flash of strength she thrust the heavy wooden door open so hard that it banged against the wall behind. Four girls at the bottom of the stairs spun to face her.

‘I want each and every one of you girls to listen to me very carefully.’

She strode down the steps, there were eleven of them, and used her catwalk stride—a high lift of her knees, a sway of her hips, and a haughty angle to her chin—to ensure that she had their complete attention. She stopped one step short to maintain the height advantage. She deliberately placed her hands on her hips to look as big as she could; she leant forward so it would appear to them as if she loomed.

‘Miss Showgirl is not some trifling beauty pageant. It’s about learning life-enhancing skills that will take you forward in life while raising money for a worthwhile cause. It’s about learning to make the most of yourselves—physically, spiritually, and intellectually.’

Nobody said anything. Instead of feeling helpless and feeble, just for a moment Blair felt powerful again. And that was beyond fantastic.

‘I wasn’t the prettiest entrant the year I won. Go back and look at the photographs. Monica Dalwood was.’ Monica had been a gorgeous redhead with a crippling shyness she hadn’t been able to master.

She met and held each girl’s gaze. It took her less than five seconds to work out which of them was Stevie Conway, and it wasn’t because Stevie wasn’t pretty. She was. She was lovely. She was also an archetypal tomboy—jeans, short-cropped hair, not a scrap of make-up or a single item of jewellery in sight. She made a complete contrast to her three rivals.

Blair pushed her shoulders back. ‘If the only thing you girls are interested in is who’s the fairest in all the land, then I’ll give you a score out of ten now.’

She’d give each of them ten out of ten. She could see, though, that her assertion disconcerted them. They didn’t like being judged on their looks alone and the discovery pleased her.

‘But if you choose to know the score then know this—I will not accept you into my Thursday evening meetings. So, girls, what’s it to be?’

There was a round of murmured ‘Thursday evenings, miss.’

‘Good. Now, one final thing. If I ever hear any of you make a comment like the one I heard as I was coming out through that door then we will have serious words—understand?’

Nods all around.

‘Excellent.’ She dusted off her hands. ‘Now, I’m sure you ladies have much better things to do than hang around here all day.’

They didn’t need any further encouragement. Three of the girls shot off in one direction. Stevie took off in the other.

‘Stevie, wait.’

Stevie stopped, stiffened, and then whirled around. ‘You heard it all, didn’t you? And you know I’m Stevie because I’m not as pretty as they are.’ She waved a hand in the direction the three other girls had gone.

‘I didn’t hear it all,’ Blair countered, ‘but I certainly heard enough. And I know you’re Stevie because you’re walking on your own while the others took off together.’

The younger girl’s shoulders unhitched a fraction.

‘I really hope you didn’t pay any attention to what those girls said. You have as good a chance of being Miss Showgirl as they have.’

‘It’s not true, though, is it? Not even my dad thinks I have a fighting chance of winning!’

It took all of Blair’s strength to prevent her jaw from dropping. Any father worth his salt would be trying to build his daughter’s confidence, not undermining it.

Stevie flung an arm in the air. ‘No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to look like those other girls.’

‘Good Lord, why would you want to?’

She was rewarded when Stevie’s chin shot up. ‘What?’

She held up a finger. ‘When you are speaking in public or being interviewed it’s always: I beg your pardon. Not, What. And, sure, those girls who were teasing you are pretty, but they’re blonde clones. It’s hard to tell them apart.’

Stevie choked. ‘You’re not allowed to say that.’

‘Why not?’ Blair steered them towards the gate in the fence. ‘I’m blonde, and some would say pretty, but believe me, if you saw me first thing in the morning before I’d had a chance to fix my hair and make-up you’d get a right fright.’

Wasn’t that the truth!

Exactly how true it was had nausea rising up through her. She swallowed it back. ‘You work with what you have, and, Stevie, you have a lot—the most wonderful olive skin and gorgeous hair.’ Stevie’s hair might be short, but it was shiny and dark, and full and thick. ‘Your eyes are the most amazing colour.’ Blue-grey. ‘Miss Showgirl will be awarded to the contestant who stands out, who proves herself. It won’t go to blonde clones the judges can’t tell apart.’

Stevie thought about that for a moment. ‘But if one of the blonde clones can make herself stand out, if she proves herself …’

‘If she’s worked that hard,’ Blair said gently, ushering Stevie through the gate, ‘then she might deserve to win.’