Forgotten Desires: A Short Story in Aid of the Eve Appeal by Jodi Ellen Malpas Page B

obvious.
    ‘It’ll drive him insane! Maybe put them in your bag and give them to him when he arrives.’
    ‘Tasha!’ Oh my God! What is she thinking? That’s not me. I can’t do that!
    She’s falling apart, her laughter crossing the line into hysterics. The minx! ‘Step outside your comfort zone, Kelly.’ she titters, just as I reach for my shortest, tightest little black dress. ‘You might like where you find yourself.’ She hangs up.
    Her words play on repeat in my mind while I look the dress up and down. Or what there is of a dress…which isn’t much. Yes, it’s been a while, but me and this dress are about to be reacquainted.
    I fly into action. I’m suddenly back to where I need to be, and I’m going to continue pretending that the wine hasn’t assisted. Okay, so maybe a little, but Tasha’s words most definitely have. A lot.
    My underwear is racy. My heels are ridiculously high. My make-up is light. My hair is piled up.
    And I’ve taken the plunge.
    My knickers are in my bag. The ones, quite sadly, that I forgot I even had. They’re black, lacy and all kinds of sexy. It seems a shame not to be wearing them.
    I assess myself in the mirror, thinking how…seductive I look. It’s me, just enhanced. Holy shit, if I were a man, I’d fancy me! I just hope he appreciates it. He better appreciate it. I take a quick selfie and send it to Tasha before grabbing my purse and heading out the door, back straight and head held high.
     
    I arrive at the hotel bar, fully aware of the looks I’ve been receiving since I stepped foot out of the house. From the front door to the taxi, I was ogled by too many men. From the taxi to the hotel, I was looked at with raised brows by a group of women. And now I’m crossing the lobby of the hotel to the bar, my path being followed by the posh clientele. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t bothered. I’m not used to the attention. Trousers and a shirt. That’s me six days a week. On the remaining day, I’m all about the sweatpants.
    My mobile pings the arrival of a text and I rummage through my bag, smiling when I open and see a message from Tasha.
    You look fucking gorgeous. And remember, any men who look at you are wishing you were theirs. And any women who look at you are wishing they are you! Have fun! I want to hear the juicy details tomorrow! xxx
    I purse my lips and have a quick peek around as I continue to the bar. As predicted, I’m being observed by quite a few people, and in a moment of pure horror, I wonder whether they’re thinking that maybe I’m a hooker. Oh, hell no! My intended destination changes, and I make a dash for the ladies, feeling like every set of eyes are on me. I arrive, not so lady-like, in the lavatories and stare at myself in the full-length mirror. I’m not sure what I expected to find; I look no different to when I left home, and I felt lovely then – glamourous and chic but not too over-done. And my dress really isn’t that short at all – sitting nicely mid-thigh. I’m being paranoid. Jesus, I used to parade around London most weekends in far less than this. But that was ten years ago, when life was carefree and my only responsibility was myself. I’ve sacrificed self-fulfilment for job-fulfilment. Why can’t I have both?
    My phone interrupts my mental debate with another message from Tasha.
    And above all, remember…never put out on a first date!
    I roll my eyes. This is ridiculous. Giving my lips a top-up of gloss, I strut my way to the bar and perch on a stool, placing my purse on the marble-top. But then I remember something and retrieve my cute leather purse, opening it up and pulling out a red rose, a ridiculous cliché if ever there was one. I should have emailed him back and told him that I’ll be holding my knickers instead. Bet there won’t be any other women in the bar doing the same. It’s not like he would miss me.
    I start to twiddle with it, before forcing myself to stop. Then I start fidgeting on my