someone’s name forward as a suggestion?’
Nobody said anything.
Joan turned to Blair. ‘Blair, honey, for how long are you in town?’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw her aunt shake her head at Joan. She pushed her shoulders back. ‘I’m here for a whole month and I would love to help out.’ She was aware of Glory stiffening and shaking her head again, and of Joan’s gaze flicking to Glory before moving back to Blair. She lifted her chin and smiled brightly. ‘I would love to be the Miss Showgirl mentor for the next month.’
Joan cleared her throat. ‘We should hate to put you out, Blair. We all know what you’ve been through—’
‘Put me out?’ She snorted, and then deliberately beamed at Glory. ‘From memory, I meet with the showgirl entrants for two hours a week, yes? That’s not putting me out at all. It’ll be fun.’
Glory bit her lip. ‘Fun?’
‘You bet.’ While she had control of the floor she glanced to where the entrants sat. ‘Do Thursday nights—six-thirty till eight-thirty—suit everyone?’ Ten hands instantly shot into the air. ‘There—done! And that gives you a whole month to find a replacement for when I go back to the city.’
Joan glanced at Glory again. ‘Well … I …’
Blair smiled at her aunt with deliberate blitheness, as if unaware of her aunt’s objections, effectively preventing Glory from shaking her head at Joan again.
‘Um … thank you, Blair. That will be a great help.’
‘Blair, honey?’ Glory caught up with Blair at the refreshments table after the meeting had ended. ‘I’m going to be held up here for another couple of hours. You must be tired. Why don’t you go on home ahead of me?’
‘I’m not tired.’ The denial sprang from Blair automatically. She immediately tempered it with, ‘But I wouldn’t mind dropping by the newsagent’s and grabbing a couple of fashion magazines. I think I need to swot up.’
Glory huffed out a sigh. ‘I’m vexed with Joan for putting you on the spot like that. Are you sure you really want to take on the role of mentor? I can have a word with her and—’
‘Not at all! I’m looking forward to being involved.’
‘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,
