Looking the part
‘Oh no. No no no!’ Wyld vigorously protested, storming inside Misu’s carriage. Her hands were flailing in disagreement, very much horrified at the suggestion put to her. When she had paced about enough and had her fill of tutting, the woman loudly exclaimed, ‘I am not wearing a dress!’
Misu closed the door behind her to contain the commotion. Quite ignoring the grumbling, she strolled past and opened up one of the wardrobes revealing a number of her show outfits. Checking each hanger in turn on the rail, she justified her decision.
‘You said it yourself. You’re the best shot on this train, Juniper and his cronies included. If you’re strolling in with me as back-up, then imagine how out of place you’ll be when you’re clad in desert get-up among my showgirls.’ She paused for a moment, pulling out a hanger and hid Wyld’s oil-stained beige top behind a mound of black frills. ‘I’m thinking something with lace.’
‘That’s so not …’
‘I’m right. You know it. We can waste time arguing before coming to the eventual conclusion that I’m right or we can do the smart thing and begin. Now off with all that, and quick with you.’ Misu dangled one of the hangers adorned with clothes from a fingertip.
Wyld reluctantly unbuckled her holster and draped it over the back of a chair. Next, she pulled her singlet top over her head, quite embarrassed at her nakedness, though this was not a concern for Misu.
‘This isn’t part of the deal you know.’
‘You’re agreeing to help us. This is helping. Here, try that one.’
Wyld wrapped a black-boned corset around her waist, unsure if its curves were seated correctly against her flesh. Misu began to tighten up the corset, tugging on the pair of laces in turn from bottom to top. Every pull robbed Wyld of breath. She felt that her insides were being hoisted as high as her cleavage, making her eyes water. Finally, with the lace tied between her shoulder blades Wyld could breathe – figuratively, that is.
‘Next,’ Misu demanded, rummaging at a length of black-ruffled skirt, with each one sporting red chocolate satin highlights. It was held forward.
Wyld unbuttoned her patchy coffee jeans and slipped them down to the floor. ‘I said no skirts.’
‘Everyone is going to be wearing a skirt.’
‘You’re not.’
Wyld took them begrudgingly, stepping into the apparel and lifting it to her hips. The buttons down the side were considerably fiddly to fasten, taking multiple attempts. The rise on the front of the skirt showed much more leg than she was comfortable with. All the while, Misu dug around on a shoe rack, daintily removing a pair of clay and black striped heels and placing them before her.
The work boots that Wyld paraded around in were comfortable but even she knew they were a complete eyesore. She slipped the shoes Misu offered onto her feet and fastened the straps.
‘You’re right,’ Misu continued, ‘I’m not. That’s because I intend to stand out. All eyes will be drawn to me, making sure that our little scheme isn’t rumbled before it’s even begun. Deception, dear. If you can trick anyone in plain sight, you can get away with anything. Why do you think I’ve survived this long? Do it well enough and it’s practically magic.’
Misu flicked her fingers in sequence, a silver coin suddenly appearing after being conjured from the air.
Wyld remained unmoved. ‘I’ve seen real magic. It’s more impressive than that.’
‘Then I have something to aspire to. Head up please.’
Wyld lifted her chin, allowing Misu to fasten a beaded necklace of tiger’s-eye around it. The polished stones caught the light, causing each to sparkle. The clasp was checked with a slight tug. Her fingertips drifted down the nape of her neck and across her shoulder.
‘Do you remember when we first met?’ Misu asked, moving a bale of chestnut hair aside. ‘Or more specifically when you were found?’
‘How could I forget? You said you were going to make a showgirl out of me. It was one big wind-up.’
Misu nodded slowly, gaining a smile. She turned Wyld to the dressing mirror to flaunt the transformation.
‘It may be later than planned but I got my wish. There.’
Wyld stared, slack-jawed. Whoever was staring back was not the woman she knew. All this pomp and glamour as not her; in fact she heartily ridiculed those who decorated themselves like ornaments.
‘I look like a bloody doll,’ she mumbled.
In the reflection, Misu wagged a small metallic cylinder back and forth. When the hint wasn’t taken, its cap was removed, presenting a poppy-red lipstick. It was offered to Wyld.
‘Oh no.’
‘Yes.’
‘I, er … I don’t …’
‘Let me then.’ Misu coaxed a turn, quite unperturbed at the hint of blush filling Wyld’s cheeks. Wyld sheepishly complied, looking about while doing so, quite uncomfortable. Misu expertly ran the lipstick with the natural contours of the flesh, tinting them red. She leant back, admiring her handiwork.
‘Kiss, please.’
Wyld recoiled. ‘Huh?’
‘Pretend that you’re kissing. Purse your lips to even it out a little.’
Wyld did so, looking at herself in the mirror. Misu began to tidy things away, scooping Wyld’s previous outfit into a wash basket.
‘Now you’re ready,’ Misu declared.
* * *
Jacques brushed his teeth over a basin of water, now fresh from the suggested wash-down. He shaved away the tough curls that plagued his face and trimmed away the more uncooperative licks of his hair, begrudgingly recognizing himself once more in a square of mirror fastened to the wall. He ran a cloth over his chest and armpits, scrubbing away the accumulated dirt. Spending nights curled up in alleyways or nestled between stock crates hardly gave one time to be concerned about personal hygiene.
The scars dotted over his body were reminders of his boisterous attitude – stupidity, if he was honest with himself, a lifetime of risk-taking. He slowly dabbed the cloth over the deeper wounds, wearily tossing the rag into the porcelain with a slap. The clothes provided – clearly Franco’s but this was not discussed for obvious reasons – were more in line with what he was suited to before depression had taken him. Before the weight of his decisions fractured his resolve.
The connecting door to the carriage shunted open. A click-clack of heels marched down the hallway. Jacques patted away the water with a fresh towel and leant on the doorframe. Without even paying him a glance, Wyld stared straight onward, clad in showgirl garb that looked both out of place and complimentary. Her expression said it all, a sudden twist of the heel causing a brief slip of step, which was quickly rectified.
Jacques was unable to hold in his smile. He balled up the towel and tossed it behind him. Resting his weight against the frame, he took Wyld’s new appearance in and waited for the inevitable to happen.
‘Don’t say a bloody word,’ Wyld demanded, her stubbornness extending to not even making eye contact.