The Little Red Kilt (Matryoshka #1) by Elizabeth Woodham

The Little Red
Kilt
31.12.12 -
23:00 hours
    ‘My mother
doesn’t talk to me.’
    ‘Because you
wear short plaid skirts, which barely cover your arse and tight
little red leather jackets snugger than a condom?’
    ‘No. I’ve
always dressed this way. Will you take off the mask?’
    ‘No.’
    New Year’s
Eve. Pressing against me in the throng, he takes my hand, pulls me
closer, and bending me backward in an emulation of an iconic image,
plants a kiss onto my mouth. He keeps his tongue politely
non-invasive; I part my lips anyway and hook him in. He tastes
marvellous. He tastes of vodka and tonic, and of lemons, sharp,
zinging. I fish for more, knowing my own breath echoes Southern
Comfort, sweet and cloying at first, before the burning liquor sear
epiglottis and oesophagus.
     
21.12.12 -
Midday
    I deploy
medical terms in homage of my new obsession. Benjamin O’Carroll, a
surgeon, older than me. Much older actually, but vulnerable, I make
him feel vulnerable, I can tell. He turns my broken hand this way
and that, examining me, using microscopic eyes, beneath brows that
seem to move independently and wishes that my injury was at the
core of me.
    My nails are
blood red, eight fingers, including the broken digit and two
thumbs, thankfully uninjured. An icy fall. A lucky break.
    Eyes, sharp
and shrewd, a lilting voice. An accent. I struggle; my musical ear
is out of tune, and I cannot properly hear his provenance. I lick
my lips, slowly, no makeup. It’s my right hand, application is
tricky, and best left undone. He watches the tip of my perfect pink
tongue travel a circuit. I pause and repeat for effect and
pause...
    ‘At least
another three weeks, Miss Merrywell.’
    Hope
diminishes, shrinks away, and shrivels my expectation of
freedom.
    ‘Three
weeks!’
    ‘I’m afraid
so. A nasty break, as I said when we fixed you up. You may yet need
an operation to straighten the finger.’
    ‘Thank you.’
Plummeting, I grope for reassurance, ‘I hope I won’t need an
operation.’ I fix wide eyes on his mouth, and raise them slowly,
deliberately meeting his. Liquid, dissolving resolve, I make him
water, watch him salivate; waver.
    ‘Make a
follow-up appointment, please. After Christmas, of course.
Meanwhile, if you experience significant pain or the cast becomes
uncomfortable, contact my secretary, she’ll fit you in.’
    Rising,
leaving his chair redundant, no revelation of occupation in his
attire, plain trousers, and pristine shirt, teamed with plaid tie.
His shoes polished, though they are out of sight, hidden, with his
lower half, behind the desk.
    I stand too,
and push my chair back. The nurse is behind me, helps with my coat.
I grab my bag, unnaturally left-handed and check myself.
    ‘Goodbye and
Happy Holiday.’
    ‘Yes, you
too,’ he says, re-seated, moving his next patient’s notes into
position as I leave his office.

29.12.12 -
14:00 hours
    ‘I don’t
really feel like it.’
    ‘It’ll be fun,
Chloe, take your mind off your missed deadlines, and other
crap.’
    ‘What will I
wear?’
    ‘Tartan. Don’t
worry about anything else. Just wear something tartan and a
mask.’
     
31.12.12 –
20:00 hours
    I’m tempted to
wear only the skirt and the mask. I remember my mother telling me
never to give into temptation, so I don’t, not then anyway, before
the party, before midnight.
    Protected with
Clingfilm, I shower.
    Dressing is
difficult wearing the cast, so I take it off, toss it onto the bed,
and make a good fist of getting ready. Makeup as accurate as
possible, my youthful skin needs little embellishment, my long,
caramel hair shines a cascade to the middle of my back. Centre
parting, no fringe, it needs little adornment but looks better
washed. What the hell? It’s impossible one-handed. I leave it
loose.
    Plaid red
velvet barely covers my bottom. Round, juicy, ripe full cheeks, I
know it’s pert, and pretty, I’m blessed. Lucky. Long legs travel
all the way up from feet, sized perfect for my