Lucy
But now that she was here, she felt completely out of her depth.
She hadn’t a clue what to expect. No one she knew had ever been in a competition like this.
Not that she’d asked.
She hadn’t wanted to tell her colleagues in the palace.
With their suspicions about Richard and doubts about her new blonde hair, she’d decided not to share this new adventure.
Shirley and the others would never understand how much it meant to her to be onstage.
It was up to her and her alone to forge ahead.
In the end, it was Miranda who had given her the money for the hairdresser, although she’d had to go to the cheap place on the corner.
It hadn’t turned out how she’d expected, brighter and more garish.
She’d pay Miranda back as soon as she could, which would hopefully be once she’d collected the thousand-pound first prize.
The possibility that she might not win had been all too casually swept aside.
But now it seemed possible, if not probable.
Balancing in the squashed changing room, she slithered into her blue silk gown.
It was nicer than the other girls’ dresses, some of which were homemade, the new nylons in gauche pinks and yellows.
The room stank of cheap perfume and face powder, and from the stage area, a band played ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business’ with building excitement.
Nervously, Lucy opened her compact and added more lipstick and mascara. She didn’t want to look childish or out of place, the na?ve country girl she now felt.
And what about Richard? She hadn’t seen him on her way inside – yet another reason for her growing anxiety.
She’d thought about him a great deal since their last meeting.
Once she received the prize money, she’d be able to buy better clothes, maybe take elocution lessons, become the kind of woman he wanted.
But where was he?
Could her friends be right about him?
Shirley’s wedding was only a week away now, and Lucy was hoping to show her old neighbour how well she was getting on without her, how she was a beauty queen with a rich and handsome man on her arm.
Had she been wrong?
‘Nice dress. Lucky you’ve got the cleavage for it.’ The girl beside her had a thick Cockney accent, her hair a dazzling orange red, as if she’d poured neat dye over it.
Lucy nodded. ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever done anything like this. Have you done it before?’
The girl let out a short laugh. ‘It’s my fourth, and I’m still only seventeen. Need the winnings to make ends meet. I’m hoping to win the thousand pounds tonight, or there’ll be hell to pay with Mum.’
Lucy was about to reply, but a balding man with a cigarette glued to his lips ordered them to line up. As they went, he patted their shoulders and hips to slide them into place, like cattle going into a milking shed.
‘Follow the girl in front of you, and absolutely no lingering. Anyone hogging the stage will be disqualified. Collect your paddle before you go onstage.’ On her way past him, he whispered, ‘Let me know if you want a bit of extra luck, love,’ into her ear, making her jump as his practised hand gave her bottom a squeeze. Frantically, she leapt into line.
Before she had time to see what she was supposed to do, a paddle with the number eleven was shoved into her hand, and out they paraded onto the stage, the spotlights glaring into her eyes, the shadowy audience applauding and cheering from afar.
As instructed, she followed the girl in front, walking across to the middle of the stage, posing momentarily like a model, before turning and joining the row along the back.
As her eyes began to adjust to the lights, she scanned the audience, surprised to see so many men. There were a number of older women, too, probably mothers of other contestants like the poor redhead.
The presenter was walking down the queue of girls, having a brief chat with each, things like, ‘What kind of job is lucky enough to have a looker like you?’ or ‘Do you have any hobbies, like dancing or tennis – we’d love to see you in one of those short skirts, wouldn’t we? ’ to the audience’s delight.
When he got to Lucy, he took an admiring step back. ‘Look at that! You must have the perfect figure – let me guess.’ He made a low whistle as he gazed at her bust: ‘Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six?’
‘I don’t really know.’ She giggled nervously.
‘Just go with it, love,’ he said, looking at the audience in a way that made them laugh. ‘Take it when it’s given.’
And then he moved on, and it was the next girl’s turn. When she said that she worked in a post office, he made some kind of joke about licking more than just the stamps.
At the end of the questions, the contestants paraded around for another lap. That’s when Lucy spotted the four middle-aged men behind a desk at the front of the audience – one of them was the balding man from backstage, the one who’d squeezed her behind. Was he one of the judges?
‘Take a good look, everyone,’ the presenter announced. ‘We’ll be down to the top six for the next round. Make the most of the limelight, girls,’ he called, and Lucy stood up straighter, posing with one hand on her hip, and then followed the others off the stage.
Immediately, everyone began chattering as they changed into their swimwear. Squashed among the half-naked girls, Lucy felt exposed and self-conscious.
Was she good enough?
They clamoured around the stage entrance, eagerly awaiting their fate. ‘And the first contestant to make it to the final six is . . .’ The presenter paused for effect, then called, ‘number nine.’
And with a shriek of excitement, a tall brunette fluffed her hair, gave her breasts a final push up, and barged past the girls in front of her to strut out onto the stage, her naked midriff sucked in beneath her ribs to accentuate her hourglass figure.
Cheers and whistles accompanied the applause, a man calling, ‘What a looker!’
Was that what the men in the audience were there to see, beautiful young women almost naked?
Lucy pulled her top closer around her.
As the presenter read out the numbers, the girls paraded onto the stage: number twelve, number twenty-two, number fifteen and number eight were all called, Lucy’s heart pounding more anxiously with each one.
Had she misjudged this?
If she didn’t win or even place, the theatre owner wouldn’t give two hoots about her. And what would Richard say? How would she ever pay him back for the expensive gown? Would he ever want to see her again?
The girls crammed beside the entrance looked at one another, the redhead almost in tears. ‘Mum will kill me,’ she whispered.
Then the last finalist was announced: ‘And number eleven.’
With a whoosh of relief, Lucy leapt through the doorway and onto the stage, grinning in delight. More walking around the stage ensued, along with more salacious questioning from the vile presenter.
After holding their poses for the judges to make their final decisions, the throne was brought out, along with a sash and the all-important crown.
As the balding judge stepped forward with an envelope, the audience hushed.
‘And the winner, taking home one thousand pounds, is . . .’
The drums began to roll, and Lucy held her breath – so much counted on this.
‘Number nine, a sewing machinist from Poplar.’
Lucy’s whole body seemed to slump.
Yet here she was, weakly clapping along with the other girls as the brunette let out an excited scream. The judge hugged her, whispering something in her ear as he put a sash across her, letting his hands linger while he adjusted it over her body.
A jangled laugh emerged from her as she thrust her breasts toward him in encouragement, and Lucy wondered if they might have met before.
Then, oozing with smugness, the brunette took her seat on the throne, and the crown was lowered onto her head.
After the applause had quietened down, the presenter went on to announce the runners-up. But Lucy barely heard as the shouts from the secondand then third-place girls echoed around her.
No prize or envelope was given to her, and she was directed to stand at the side of the winners, trying to keep her smile for the final photograph.
The rest of the award ceremony was a blur, and when finally she filed offstage, she was numb.
How could she have been so stupid as to think she would win?
Would she ever make anything of herself in London?
Maybe her mother was right all along, that she was just a nobody.
Backstage, the chaos of the changing area was now intensified by girls crying, others shouting at one another, emotions running high. Lucy quickly changed out of the two-piece, shoved it into the bag with the gown, and wove through to the stage door that led into the theatre foyer.
As she opened it, newspaper photographers surged forward to snap pictures of her.
‘Third place?’ one of them asked.
‘No,’ she croaked, trying to hold in her tears. ‘No place at all.’
She gazed around for Richard, desperate to see him.
And there, by the exit, half hidden by the crowds, he stood, giving her his handsome smile. Without being able to stop herself, she ran straight into his arms.
‘Congratulations, darling. The final six!’ He pulled away from her to take her in. ‘You should have won – you were absolutely the most beautiful girl there.’
Normality began to seep back into her. ‘Do you think so?’
‘The girl in first place was dreadful. It was probably rigged – you know how these things work.’
She looked around him. ‘Did you see the theatre owner? Can I meet him?’
‘He couldn’t make it tonight, but he told me that he would look at the event photographs and give you a call.’ It was said easily, as if it hadn’t been important.
‘But he needs to meet me, to hear me sing. That’s what I’m here to do, to show him how good I am.’ Frustration welled up in her. ‘And I don’t have a telephone.’