A Stocking Full of Romance

“This is a disaster!” I sloshed wine out of my glass as I gesticulated to make my point to Ailsa. It was Saturday afternoon and I had one week before the office party. I needed the alcohol.

“Being Secret Santa of your crush should be an opportunity,” she said whilst mopping up the spillage.

“He is the most gorgeous man in the office, all the PAs are after him. And what am I supposed to get him for a tenner that will make him look at me? It’s pointless, completely pointless.”

I slumped back onto the sofa of our shared flat. The Christmas tree in the corner listed to the left and was smothered in gold tinsel. The lights flashed at me. I felt about as festive as an Easter egg.

“If you want him to notice you then you’re going to have to invest some time and money…” Ailsa raised her eyebrows at me.

Not this again.

“I don’t need a makeover.” I grumbled pulling my baggy grey cardigan around me.

“Sweetie, I love you. And any man would love your wonderful personality, but they are visual creatures. Sometimes you’ve got to give them something to look at first.”

“But…” I wanted to say she was wrong. But there was a reason that I dressed like a nun. My first year out of university, I’d visited a construction site as part of my job as a project manager. Two hours of leering, being called ‘darling’ and then ignored in meetings meant that in my career I had ‘manned up’ and ‘sexed down’.

“But nothing.” Ailsa said.

“Do you think this will work?” I hugged a cushion to my chest, anything to feel more secure.

“Matt Allan will drop his sporran when he sees you.” She ripped the cushion from my arms and dragged me up. “Let’s get shopping.”

The day of the Christmas party dawned.

“Up and at ‘em.” Ailsa shouted in my ear like a drill sergeant.

I burrowed my head under my pillow. I couldn’t do this.

“Look, I’ve laid it out as a project schedule so your project management mind can get round it. Manicure and pedicure at nine thirty am, fake tan at midday, hairdressers at two pm and then back here for dressing and make up. Seven pm leave here, seven thirty pm Matt sees you. Seven thirty one he falls in love. I reckon you’ll be back here by midnight. Twelve oh five you’ll find out what the Scotsman has under his kilt and you’ll be being shagged senseless around twelve ten.”

“I don’t want to.”

It all seemed too much. I was going to do all this and he was going to laugh at me.

“Yes, you do.”

And with Ailsa’s retort, I was unceremoniously pushed off my bed onto the floor.

At 5pm, I was buffed and shined and blow-dried into another person. I stood in the living room, my arms held away from my body. not daring to move in case I chipped something.

“Ok.” Ailsa clapped her hands and shoved me onto a chair by the table. “Now the war paint.”

She wielded a mean make up brush and attacked my eyelashes with an instrument of torture.

“No point using fake lashes on you, you’re a novice and we don’t want them decorating your cheeks. We’ll curl them and mascara them up.”

About half an hour later, she declared herself happy and ushered me to the bedroom without allowing me to see a mirror.

“With a figure like yours you can just go with bra, knickers and hold ups. Lucky cow. Now get into these undies.”

She waved some candyfloss lingerie at me.

I thought about protesting, but to be honest she looked so fierce that I took them meekly, and when she left me alone to change, I slipped them on. They felt a tad airy compared to my comfy boy shorts. The bra hitched everything up and when I looked down my cleavage was like the Grand Canyon.

Maybe this would work…

Ailsa came back to help with the dress. It was black lace over a nude satin sheath, with a plunging neckline. Then she allowed me to look in the mirror. I looked almost naked. The satin sheath glimmered like it was my own skin. And my face! I pouted at the image.

I was moving into the fast lane.

The Christmas party started at seven thirty in a huge marquee in Embankment Gardens. Every night in the run up to Christmas some company or other would hire it to entertain their workers. This Saturday it was our turn.

With shaking hands I took off my coat and handed it to the cloakroom attendant.

“Emma?”

My boss stood in front of me, his glass of champagne drooping and spilling liquid whilst he stared at me wide eyed.

“Freddie.” I replied.

With a not quite steady finger, I pushed his glass vertical and sucked my finger to get rid of the champagne.

He gulped, made a strange coughing sound, while turning red.

I was accelerating in the fast lane.

I patted my overlarge handbag to check that part of my Secret Santa gift was still there, and strode into the party making sure to put a wiggle in my walk as Alisa had instructed me.

Shining through the lights of the bar was hair the colour of copper. His back was towards me, and he wore a short black Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket which clung to his back. A kilt hugged his behind and flowed to show a fine pair of legs.

I wanted to know what this Scotsman wore under his kilt.

I walked towards the bar. People who had usually ignored me or treated me like one of the boys were double taking and rubber necking me the whole way. But I only had eyes for one.

I leant on the bar next to him.

“Matt.” I said as I picked up a glass of champagne by his elbow.