French Fling To Forever

Every one of Lola’s fears were realised as the registrar used her as an example to the rest of the group of how not to be a doctor. The nodding dogs were probably grateful they weren’t the ones under the microscope.

Henri Benoit’s hand brushed hers when he took the needle from her and the rolling in Lola’s stomach reached a crescendo. She backed away for some breathing space, praying she wouldn’t embarrass herself any more than she already had by throwing up on his shiny black shoes.

‘All done.’

With an ease that Lola envied he finished the job and bagged up the vials for the lab. Once he’d settled the patient again he returned his attention to the group. Although she got the distinct impression he was mainly addressing her.

‘The best way to learn is on the job. So get acquainted with the Duty Nurse and assign the patients between you. I’ll be around if you need me.’

Lola’s shoulders sagged with relief when he left her and her fellow rookies to go it alone.

Naturally, as soon as Dr Suave was out of the picture, she functioned as well as any other member of staff. All further procedures undertaken after that debacle in the morning went as smoothly as they had done in her training. And in any areas where she did need some assistance she turned to the nurses for guidance. They were more than helpful, given that she showed respect for their position and experience—which she suspected some new doctors failed to recognise as an asset.

However, she couldn’t seem to shake off her disappointment in herself, replaying that monumental cock-up in front of her boss over and over again. At periods during the day she found herself frowning and wincing, which probably looked strange to people not privy to the abject humiliation going on her head.

The end of the day couldn’t come quickly enough, and when her shift was over Lola changed into civilian clothes and headed straight for the exit. Her face turned up to the heavens, she let the rain fall and cleanse her weary skin, as though it would somehow wash away everything that had happened back inside those doors.

The umbrella she was eventually forced to put up proved scant protection from the elements. It blew inside out several times as she joined the throng of people heading towards the city centre. She’d agreed to meet Jules, her flatmate, for a night out, and after today she’d earned it.

Most evenings she preferred to study, but Jules had insisted on helping her celebrate her first shift. As an F2, a Foundation Doctor in her second and final year of the training programme between medical school and specialist training, she’d taken it upon herself to instruct Lola in the ways of hospital life inside and outside of the wards.

‘We’re going to a new place tonight that all the girls in work are talking about. Somewhere you can really let your hair down,’ Jules had told her when she’d given her the address of the venue.

For Lola, that was even more terrifying than facing another shift with her French Fancy.

‘In burlesque, the emphasis is on the tease rather than the strip.’

Miss Angelique’s delicate accent filtered across the dimly lit room to reach the ears of her most reluctant pupil.

In Lola’s imagination the exotic sight and sound of the instructor should have transported her to a fabulous Parisian nightclub, where glamour and sophistication went hand in hand. Unfortunately the rumbling sound of buses outside and the accompanying smell of diesel through the open window were a constant reminder that she was stuck in a dingy dancehall in Belfast’s city centre.

‘When did Northern Ireland become a hotspot for the French populace?’ she muttered to Jules, who she now held entirely responsible for her bad mood. Prancing around as some trussed-up, half-dressed version of herself with one of Benoit’s countrymen bossing her around wasn’t exactly the perfect remedy for all that ailed her. ‘Tell me again—why am I doing this?’

‘To prevent you from ending up as some sad sack with only her books for company,’ Jules said, before her attention wandered back to the stage, where Miss Angelique moved seductively to a teasing big band soundtrack.

‘Maybe I like the sound of that.’ Lola pouted, and watched enviously as the instructor demonstrated a dance with oversized fluttering fans, never giving away more than a glimpse of the ivory silk corset she wore.

The stunning Frenchwoman projected a confidence in her body she could only dream of. Oh, how she longed to experience that freedom of movement, absent of any self-conscious thought, even for a short while. But owning her own sexuality, regardless of other people’s perceptions, was a skill Lola doubted even the fabulous Miss Angelique could teach her.

A pack of savage teenage boys had robbed her of ever having any confidence in her own skin. Their laughter still rang in her ears, and she could still see their sneering faces looming above her as they’d held her down and stripped her of her dignity.

She’d been a late bloomer—not helped by the fact that she’d had to wear her brother’s secondhand clothes and had sported the same short hairstyle her father gave all his offspring. But it hadn’t given anyone the right to call her names, to question her femininity, or demand proof that it existed.

She hated them for the pain they’d caused her—hated the school for not putting an end to the bullying before it had got that far. Most of all she hated herself for letting it happen. A stronger person would have fought them off before they’d exposed and humiliated her. A more attractive girl wouldn’t have had to. In the end she’d let herself down, and she was still fighting to make amends.

‘Now, ladies, we’ve already assigned your stage names for this evening, and we need to bring your alter egos to life. Help yourself to props.’

Angelique clapped her hands to assemble everyone at the front of the stage. The group dived in, and amongst a chorus of whoops and excited chatter they emerged sporting a selection of wigs, top hats and satin gloves.

Lola shuddered. Playing dress-up really wasn’t for her.

‘I have the perfect accessory for you, Luscious Lola.’ Jules approached, sequinned nipple tassels stuck on the outside of her top, and proceeded to hook a shocking pink feather boa around Lola’s neck.

‘Why, thank you, Juicy Jules.’ Lola addressed her friend by her burlesque name, too, and tickled her nose with the end of the fetching neckwear.

As much as she’d prefer to throw on an overcoat and hide from view, she couldn’t flat-out refuse to participate and let her friend down. However, the first sign that she was expected to start stripping and she was out of there. It was one thing pratting around with props, but a whole different trauma if it involved taking her clothes off.

Next time Jules suggested a night out Lola would opt for somewhere dark and quiet—like the cinema.

Angelique glided around the dance floor to round up her protégées like glamorous sheep. ‘I will show you some basics to get started. First we have the milkshake.’

She shimmied her ample cleavage and encouraged them to do the same.

‘I don’t have much to shake,’ Lola grumbled looking down at her chest. This was so not helping her overcome her body issues. Although she didn’t look like a flat-chested ten-year-old boy any more, she definitely couldn’t pull off that move.

‘Flaunt what God gave you.’ Angelique lifted Lola’s arms and shook it for her.

Lola smiled painfully on the outside even as her innards shrivelled up and died of shame. This was her worst nightmare come true. Quite possibly even beating the one about turning up to work naked. At least in that one no one expected her to pay for being publicly disgraced. She closed her eyes and prayed for it to stop.

‘Good.’ The Frenchwoman let her go with a wink. ‘Now, we need to get that booty popping, too. Jiggle that derrière!’

Lola swore revenge on Jules for making her twerk outside the sanctity of her own home. She gritted her teeth and pretended that shaking her ass was a way she liked to pass the time, in case the tactile tutor felt the need to touch her again.

The only thing that stopped her from walking out was the fact that this was an all-female ensemble and not in the least sexually threatening. These women were here for a laugh, and at some point she might actually see the humour, too. Probably when she was at home, safely hidden from grabby French hands.

Interspersed between the tapping of stilettos as the group practised their steps, the scrape of chairs sounded across the wooden floor to put Lola’s teeth even more on edge.

‘Now take a seat,’ Angelique invited them, and tutted when they did. ‘Not like that. Like this.’

She slid a chair through her legs, seat first, in one fluid movement, and sat astride it.

‘With our backsides flush against the back of the chair, we want to pop our legs over the top and lie back, grabbing on to the chair legs. It’s all about balance.’

Lola knew she should have worn trousers.

Angelique demonstrated a variety of provocative grinding moves until she had her followers riding the furniture like dirty cowgirls. Once Lola’s initial discomfort had passed, and she saw that the others were too preoccupied to watch what she was doing, she started to relax into it. This was supposed to be fun—a way to free herself from the tensions of the day, not add to them.

She emptied her mind from all negative thoughts and concentrated on being a good student. After all, this was only a chair, and she was fully dressed. If she stood any chance of moving on from the past she had to stop sweating the small stuff.

Surprisingly, once she let go she found herself enjoying the predatory nature of chair-dancing and the aggressive power it gave her—over the object, over her body. For once she had nothing to prove to anyone, and without the pressure she revelled in her sensuality.

In total abandon, she threw her head back and gave herself over to it—only to lock on to a familiar pair of male chocolate-caramel eyes staring down at her.

‘Well, hello, down there…’ The masculine French accent mocked her.

From her upside down view it seemed a long way up to find the voice. A pair of muscular jean-clad thighs filled her direct line of sight, but as she glanced up along the slim-fitting blue checked shirt emphasising a solid torso, she met the last face on earth she’d wanted to see smirking back at her.

‘Dr Benoit.’ Surprise at seeing the head of her department coupled with her awkward position in the chair turned Lola’s voice into a husky rasp. Clearly there was a two-for-one deal on nightmares coming true that she hadn’t been aware of.