Some Sort Of Spell

‘Rubbish, you’d look stunning in it,’ Mirry corrected firmly. ‘It looked ridiculous on Lucilla; she’s far too flat-chested.’

‘I can’t wear it. It would mean going without a bra…’

‘So?’ countered Mirry, eyeing her judiciously. ‘Come on, Bea, you’ve got exactly the right sort of figure for it. Catch me hiding away my main assets, if I had a figure like yours!’ she added teasingly, watching the flush of colour come and go in Beatrice’s pale face. ‘Look, it isn’t that shocking once it’s on,’ she told her, taking pity on her. ‘Just try it and see.’

‘I haven’t got anything I could wear with it.’ For which she was eternally grateful, Beatrice thought fervently, recognising the light of determination in her sister’s eyes.

‘Of course you have,’ said Mirry. ‘There’s that black silk skirt.’

Beatrice frowned and then remembered. The skirt belonged to a two-piece she had bought on impulse in the sales, and then discarded, feeling that the vivid cerise and black top really did nothing for her.

The skirt in question was short and fitted her perfectly… too perfectly, she thought despairingly now, knowing that once Mirry got the bit between her teeth, so to speak, she would not let go. One look at her sister’s determined, vivid face told her that as far as Mirry was concerned her elder sister’s transformation into someone fit to be taken out by a man of Elliott’s discrimination was becoming a cross between a challenge and a vocation.

‘Trust me,’ Mirry pleaded now, confirming her thoughts. ‘After all, it is my job, and you can’t possibly go out with Elliott wearing that ghastly velvet rag.’

Somehow or other, mainly due to the threat of Elliott being called upstairs to give his view on Mirry’s chosen outfit, Beatrice allowed herself to be bullied into ‘just trying it on’.

This took some time longer than envisaged, due to the fact that Mirry insisted on running back to her own room to find a pair of sheer black tights, essential with the silk skirt, so she assured Beatrice. Beatrice had never worn black tights in her life; she always stuck to brown.

Rather grudgingly, Mirry agreed that she could wear her faithful black satin pumps, and somehow Beatrice found that she had allowed herself to be chivvied into her sister’s chosen outfit.

Mirry wouldn’t let her look at herself in the mirror until she had everything on. She grinned when Beatrice rather blushingly agreed to remove her bra.

‘Honestly, Bea,’ she teased, ‘I’m your sister, not some rampant male intent on having his wicked way with you! Don’t worry so much. It’s not as though Elliott has designs on you either, but we want him to be proud of you, don’t we? You’re not doing this for yourself,’ she added with mock gravity. ‘Think instead that you’re doing it for the family.’ She assumed a soulful expression, and then spoiled the whole effect by giggling.

‘You know, you do have a really sizzling figure. You shouldn’t cover it up so much with those awful bulky sweatshirts and things.’

She tied the satin blouse in the requisite bow as she finished speaking and then gently turned Bea to face the mirror.

‘There,’ she said softly. ‘Now you can look.’

Bea didn’t know if she dared, but at last she plucked up her courage and studied her reflection.

Her legs in their black tights looked unfamiliarly slender, her ankles almost fragilely narrow. The skirt, rather too faithfully for her taste, followed the curvy outline of her hips, narrowing into her waist. The blouse… She could feel heat scorching her skin as she saw what the blouse did to her body.