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“It’s a Confidentiality Agreement. It was drafted by Mrs Kingswood’s lawyers. Before you meet Alex this evening, she has insisted you sign it so that she can be assured you will not speak a word to anyone about what happens tonight.”
“Sure,” I say. “I have no problem signing it. I mean, who would I want to tell anyway? I’m as keen as she is to keep this thing private. It’s not exactly something I want to broadcast to the world.” Briefly, I scan the legal jargon and then happily put my signature at the bottom. I also fill out a separate form with my bank details so that the money can be transferred accordingly.
“Okay, all set,” I smile, putting down my pen. “What happens now?”
Jane grins mysteriously. Silently, she leaves the room and returns carrying a tight black Versace dress made of silk and lycra with a plunging neckline and a pair of high-heeled Louboutins.
I cover my mouth. I have never seen such beautiful clothing. “Oh my goodness, do you really want me to wear that?”
“Yes, didn’t I tell you I was going to make you the Belle of the Ball?” She points to a vintage tri-folding divider in the corner of the room. “You can get dressed over there. Now hurry, we haven’t got long before Mrs Kingswood gets here. I want everything to be perfect for her arrival.”
Hastily, I gather up the clothes and race behind the divider to get changed. Ten minutes later, I emerge feeling stiff and a little unsure of myself. The Versace dress clings to my curves like a second skin and I’m not used to wearing something so tight and revealing. However, I’ve got to admit the Louboutins are surprisingly comfortable to wear, considering how high the heels are.
“Ravishing, simply ravishing,” Jane gushes. “You look even better than I thought you would. You could pass for a princess. That dress is simply divine on you.”
Lowering my lashes, I bow my head and smile shyly. I find her flattery hard to take but it helps my confidence to grow. Opening her desk drawer, she produces a black jewellery case and walks over to me. I watch with bated breath as she flips open the case to reveal a delicate diamond necklace with a matching pair of earrings inside.
“These are on loan,” she says sternly, “but you can wear them just for tonight. Guard them with your life. They are worth a fortune, and I need you to return them. I’ll send over a courier to pick them up from you tomorrow afternoon.”
I nod dumbly.
Carefully, Jane slips on the necklace and earrings and then gathers my hair into a chignon, securing it with an antique diamond pin. The transformation is complete.
“Are you ready to see yourself now?” she whispers.
“Y-yes,” I reply.
“Close your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you to.” Gently, she takes my hand and leads me over to the full-length mirror propped against the wall. “Okay, you can open them now.”
I gasp when I see my reflection. Wow, I look like a completely different person, so cool, so sophisticated. I can’t believe that’s me. Oh my God, I feel like Audrey Hepburn inMy Fair Lady.
“Do you like what you see?” Jane purrs.
“Yes,” I nod. “I like it very much! These clothes are so lovely, I can’t believe that’s actually me.”
“Good, now put this on, we need to be quick, the car will be here soon.” Carefully, she helps me into a pale pink cape made of finest cashmere and then finally, passes me a pretty black handbag to complete the fabulous ensemble. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. “That will be Hobbs, Mrs Kingswood’s chauffeur. Come on, time to go.”
My pulse is thudding like a machine gun as I follow Jane downstairs to the hall.Jesus Christ, this is it.She unlatches the door, and we are greeted by a tall, sallow-faced man dressed in a black chauffeur’s uniform. His eyes look strangely haunted, like a soldier just returned from war who has witnessed horrendous atrocities on the battlefield. I wonder fleetingly what happened in his past to make him look that way.
“I’m here to collect Miss Gardner,” he says quietly. “Mrs Kingswood is waiting in the car.”
“This is she,” Jane replies, gesturing to me.
“Very good. Walk this way, ma’am.”
“Remember what I said. Be natural.” She gives my arm a little squeeze. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, I think I’ll need it,” I whisper back. Hesitantly, I follow the chauffeur outside to a waiting black Rolls Royce. Politely, he opens the car door for me to get in and I find myself sitting next to an elegantly dressed woman in her mid-fifties. She has short black hair, deathly white skin and a careworn face that looks prematurely aged. Her expensive clothes hang loosely on her body which is so painfully thin I wonder if she is afflicted by some sort of eating disorder.
Forcing a smile, I put out my hand. “Hi, I’m Jessica.”
“How do you do,” she replies, giving me a limp handshake, “I’m Beatrix Kingswood.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
The car starts moving and the sudden jolt reminds me to clip on my seatbelt. For a long time neither of us says anything. Mrs Kingswood remains rigid, staring straight ahead as if in a trance. This, together with the total lack of interaction between her and the driver Hobbs, leaves me feeling nervous. Just what have I gotten myself into?
Gripped with unease, I stare out the window and watch as Kensington’s museums, embassies and elegant Victorian terraces transform into non-descript high rise estates as we move towards the outer London suburbs.
