AFTER DARK DIARIES | ROMANCE

The Art of Undressing

The Art of Undressing is a cheeky romantic comedy about the unexpected surprises life has in store. At fifty-two, Eleanor thought she’d seen it all. As it turns out, she was very much mistaken.

At fifty-two, Eleanor believed she’d mastered most of life’s little embarrassments. Then a handsome man from her past, an Edwardian corset and twenty-seven years of unfinished business proved otherwise.

A Woman of Considerable Experience

There are certain things a woman of fifty-two ought to know. How to recognise a decent bottle of wine, when to stop arguing with her mother and why a man who describes himself as ‘complicated’ should generally be avoided.

And, most importantly, how to get out of a dress without requiring assistance from the emergency services.

Unfortunately, I was about to fail spectacularly at the last one.

It began with a telephone call from my friend Patricia, who possessed three extraordinary talents: organising charity events, interfering in other people’s love lives and making absolutely disastrous ideas sound perfectly reasonable.

“Darling, we’re desperate.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“One of our models has dropped out.”

“Models?”

“The vintage fashion show. Saturday evening. Remember?”

I remembered perfectly well. I’d bought a ticket, largely because there was complimentary champagne, although I was beginning to suspect that Patricia had rather different plans for my evening.

“We need somebody to wear the evening gowns.”

“Patricia, I’m fifty-two.”

“Precisely. We’re celebrating fashion through the decades, not auditioning for a toothpaste advert.”

“I’m also a size fourteen.”

“And?”

“And I haven’t walked down a catwalk since I was seventeen, when I tripped over a cable at the school Christmas concert.”

“Wonderful. You have experience.”

Before I could object, she’d promised me champagne, a complimentary makeover and the opportunity to wear a collection of beautiful vintage dresses. Somehow, by the end of the conversation, I’d agreed to spend my Saturday evening parading around a theatre in somebody else’s clothes.

What Patricia neglected to mention was the man responsible for coordinating the costumes backstage.

Had she mentioned him, I would have developed a sudden and entirely convincing case of influenza.

The Man Behind the Curtain

His name was Daniel Whitmore, and at fifty-five he was still tall, broad-shouldered and infuriatingly handsome, with dark hair beginning to silver at the temples.

He also possessed a smile that had once persuaded me to remove a perfectly respectable blouse in the back seat of an Aston Martin DB7.

That had been twenty-seven years earlier, and I hadn’t seen him since. Not because we’d had some terrible falling-out, but because our one romantic evening had ended with me accidentally setting off his car alarm while attempting to retrieve my underwear from beneath the front passenger seat.

At two in the morning, outside his mother’s house, where he was temporarily living.

His mother had appeared at the upstairs window wearing a floral nightdress and holding a rolling pin. I’d never moved so quickly in my life, and I’d certainly never imagined that would be the last time I saw Daniel.

Now, almost three decades later, he stood in the theatre’s backstage dressing room holding a clipboard. He looked up as I entered, and for a moment we simply stared at one another before a slow, devastating smile spread across his face.

“Eleanor?”

I considered pretending to be somebody else, but Patricia chose that precise moment to shout, “Ellie! Darling! Come and meet Daniel!”

Of course. Of bloody course.

“Hello, Daniel.”

His gaze travelled over me, not rudely, but slowly enough to remind me that certain men should come with a government health warning.

“Good heavens,” he said. “You look wonderful.”

“So do you.”

“It’s been a while.”

“Twenty-seven years.”

“You’ve been counting?”

“Only because I was waiting for the police to finish investigating the Aston Martin.”

He laughed, and I felt an unexpected rush of recognition. I remembered that laugh so clearly: low, warm and horribly familiar. It had once made me forget several very sensible rules about men, and judging by the ridiculous flutter in my stomach, it was apparently still capable of doing so.

Patricia looked between us with growing interest.

“You two know each other?”

“Briefly,” I said.

“Memorably,” Daniel corrected, giving me a smile that suggested he remembered rather more than was appropriate for a charity fashion show.

I gave him a warning look, which he ignored completely.

Patricia’s eyes lit up, and I could practically hear the wheels turning in her head.

Oh, wonderful. She’d found something else to organise.

The Corset Problem

The first two outfits were relatively straightforward: a pretty 1950s floral tea dress with a full skirt, followed by a rather glamorous 1960s cocktail dress. I managed both without incident, although Daniel’s habit of appearing beside me to straighten a collar or adjust a sleeve was becoming increasingly distracting.

“Hold still,” he murmured, fastening a tiny clasp at the back of my neck.

His fingers brushed my skin, producing a completely unnecessary flutter somewhere beneath my ribs.

“I’m perfectly capable of fastening a necklace.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because you haven’t stopped talking long enough to find the clasp.”

I turned to find him smiling at me. I hated that smile, mostly because I liked it so much.

Then came the third outfit.

It was a magnificent Edwardian evening gown in deep burgundy silk, with a fitted bodice, elaborate lace sleeves and a corset that appeared to have been designed by somebody with a personal grudge against the female respiratory system.

Patricia held it up with the reverence normally reserved for religious relics.

“Isn’t it exquisite?”

“Does it come with oxygen?”

“Nonsense. It’ll look fabulous.”

Ten minutes later, I was standing behind a changing screen while Patricia pulled the corset laces with the determination of a woman starting a lawnmower.

“Breathe in!”

“I am breathing in.”

“More!”

“Patricia, my lungs are currently negotiating with my kidneys.”

She gave one final tug, and the corset tightened so abruptly that I made a noise normally associated with a punctured accordion.

“Perfect!” she announced.

I looked in the mirror and, annoyingly, discovered that she was right.

The dress was spectacular. My waist looked positively scandalous, my cleavage had achieved a level of prominence not seen since my honeymoon, and the burgundy silk skimmed my hips beautifully.

I turned sideways to admire the effect. Good heavens. If I’d known I could look like this, I’d have spent the last twenty years attending dinner parties dressed as an Edwardian widow.

Daniel appeared beside the screen.

“Ready?”

I stepped out, smoothing the silk over my hips, and watched his expression change. He stopped in his tracks, his clipboard slowly lowering as he took in the sight of me. For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten what he was about to say.

“Well,” he said quietly.

I smiled. “Well, what?”

“You look extraordinary.”

For once, I believed him.

Unfortunately, my attempt to take a suitably pleased breath resulted in an alarming creak from somewhere around my ribs.

Daniel raised an eyebrow.

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly.”

“You’ve gone rather red.”

“It’s the lighting.”

“Eleanor, we’re backstage.”

“Then it’s the excitement.”

He leaned closer, amusement giving way to genuine concern.

“Can you breathe?”

“Not extravagantly.”

He laughed, then studied my face more carefully.

“Seriously. Are you comfortable?”

I glanced down at the dress, wondering whether it was possible to develop a permanent indentation around one’s waist.

“Comfortable is a rather ambitious word, but I can manage one walk.”

“Then we’ll get you out of it afterwards.”

I raised an eyebrow, and he paused as the implication of his words caught up with him.

“Professionally speaking,” he added.

“Of course.”

“Although I seem to remember you were quite good at getting yourself out of things.”

“Daniel, the last time you helped me undress, your mother threatened me with a rolling pin.”

He smiled. “And yet here you are.”

Yes, here I was, standing in front of a man I hadn’t seen for twenty-seven years, wearing a dress that threatened to rearrange my internal organs.

And the really worrying thing was that I was beginning to enjoy myself.

A Little Too Much Attention

The fashion show began at seven thirty, and my first two appearances had gone surprisingly well. By eight fifteen, I’d completed my third walk in the magnificent burgundy gown, received several compliments and developed an entirely unreasonable sense of confidence.

Daniel was waiting beside the curtain when I returned from the catwalk.

“Beautifully done.”

“Thank you.”

“Although you nearly walked off the wrong side.”

“I was improvising.”

“Of course. I particularly admired the moment you frightened the photographer.”

“He was standing in my way.”

“He was sitting down.”

“Then he should have been sitting somewhere else.”

Daniel laughed and offered his hand as I stepped down from the little platform beside the curtain. I took it, grateful for the support, but once my feet were safely on the floor, neither of us seemed particularly eager to let go.

It was such a small thing, his fingers resting against mine, yet the sensation brought back a memory so vividly that I could almost smell the leather interior of his ridiculous Aston Martin. I remembered sitting beside him at twenty-five, laughing as he tried to convince me that the seats were genuinely comfortable.

They hadn’t been, certainly not for what we’d been attempting.

“You’re staring,” I said.

“So are you.”

“I was looking at your clipboard.”

“Fascinating object.”

“Very.”

He moved a little closer, still holding my hand.

“Eleanor, would you have dinner with me sometime?”

I blinked. “Dinner?”

“Yes. You know. Food. Wine. Conversation.”

“I’m familiar with the concept.”

“Good. I was beginning to worry.”

I smiled, enjoying the unusual pleasure of making him work for an answer.

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“Depends whether your mother still keeps a rolling pin beside her bed.”

Daniel threw back his head and laughed.

“My mother adored you.”

“Your mother threatened to flatten me.”

“She thought you were stealing the car.”

“I was trying to retrieve my knickers.”

“I remember.”

“I’m sure you do.”

His expression softened, and when he spoke again, the teasing had faded from his voice.

“I remember rather a lot about that evening.”

For a moment, the noise of the theatre seemed to recede. I could hear people moving costumes and calling instructions somewhere behind us, but Daniel’s attention was entirely on me.

Then he said something I wasn’t expecting.

“I also remember calling you the following week.”

I stared at him. “You called?”

“Twice.”

“I never received a message.”

“I left one with your flatmate. The second time, she said you’d gone away.”

My flatmate. Amanda.

Amanda, who had been convinced Daniel was a dreadful influence because he drove an expensive car and wore shirts with the top two buttons undone. I remembered her disapproving expression whenever his name came up, and suddenly a rather unpleasant possibility occurred to me.

For twenty-seven years, I’d assumed he’d simply lost interest. I’d been hurt at the time, although naturally I’d told Amanda I couldn’t care less. I’d even spent an entire Sunday declaring that men with expensive cars were invariably unreliable.

And now, standing backstage in a borrowed Edwardian gown, I discovered that the man I’d dismissed as a charming disappointment had actually tried to find me.

“You really called?” I asked, still struggling to take it in.

“Twice. I thought you’d decided our evening was best forgotten.”

I shook my head. “I thought exactly the same about you.”

Daniel regarded me for a moment, and then a rueful smile appeared.

“Well, we’ve been a pair of idiots, haven’t we?”

“Speak for yourself. I’ve been an idiot with excellent taste in men.”

He laughed, although there was something rather tender in the way he looked at me.

“Then perhaps we ought to stop wasting time.”

“That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all evening.”

I was considering an appropriately improper reply when Patricia appeared beside us, waving a garment bag.

“Ellie! Final change! Quickly!”

I sighed as Daniel reluctantly released my hand.

Romance, apparently, was going to have to wait.

The Art of Undressing

With my third appearance complete, I had just minutes to change before the final walk. The last outfit was a stunning 1930s satin evening gown, champagne-coloured, bias-cut and wonderfully elegant.

Unfortunately, getting out of the Edwardian gown and its accompanying corset was proving considerably more complicated than getting into them.

Patricia had disappeared to deal with a lighting problem, the other models were already changing, and I was standing behind the screen attempting to locate a knot somewhere between my shoulder blades.

I pulled one lace, then another, but instead of loosening, the corset tightened.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

I twisted awkwardly, trying to reach farther down my back. Something dug into my ribs, and my shoulder began to object to the entire enterprise.

Then I heard Daniel’s voice from the other side of the screen.

“Everything all right?”

“Absolutely.”

There was a pause.

“Eleanor?”

“Yes?”

“You sound as though you’re wrestling a wardrobe.”

“I’m having a private disagreement with some historical underwear.”

“Need a hand?”

“No.”

I tried the knot again, only to make matters worse.

“Possibly.”

“May I come behind the screen?”

I looked at my reflection, then at the elaborate lacing that had apparently become a permanent architectural feature of my torso.

“Yes. But no laughing.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Daniel stepped behind me, and I caught his reflection in the mirror. He was standing close enough for me to notice the fine silver threads in his hair and the faint smile playing around his mouth.

Dangerously close, in fact.

His fingers found the knot.

“Good heavens. Who tied this?”

“Patricia.”

“Was she angry with you?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

He began working carefully at the laces while I watched him in the mirror. There was something unexpectedly intimate about standing there while a man I’d once kissed rather enthusiastically untied a corset around my waist.

It wasn’t that he was doing anything improper. Quite the opposite. He was being maddeningly gentlemanly, concentrating on the knot with such care that I found myself wishing he would look at me instead.

His fingers brushed the bare skin at the top of my back, and a shiver travelled through me before I could stop it.

Daniel noticed immediately.

“Cold?”

“Not remotely.”

Our eyes met in the mirror, and his hands paused.

“Would you like me to stop?”

I held his gaze for a moment, aware that my answer had very little to do with the corset.

“No.”

He returned to the knot, his movements slower now, careful and deliberate. As the laces gradually loosened, I could finally breathe properly, although the sudden freedom did absolutely nothing to steady my heartbeat.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much.”

He loosened the final lace and stepped back slightly.

“There.”

I turned towards him, holding the bodice securely against myself. He gave me room, but remained close enough that I could see the warmth in his expression.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. Twenty-seven years seemed suddenly rather insignificant, and I wondered how something that had once felt so unfinished could return with such extraordinary ease.

Daniel reached up and gently brushed a loose strand of hair away from my cheek.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve wondered about you occasionally.”

“Have you?”

“Quite often, actually.”

I smiled. “Mostly when car alarms go off?”

“Not exclusively.”

His hand lingered near my face, and I became acutely aware of the warmth of him, the familiar scent of his aftershave and the ridiculous anticipation of being kissed by somebody I’d wanted to kiss for almost three decades.

“Daniel?”

“Yes?”

“If you’re going to kiss me, you’d better do it before Patricia comes back.”

He smiled, but there was a question in his eyes.

“Are you quite sure?”

I slipped my free hand around the back of his neck and drew him a little closer.

“Daniel Whitmore, I have waited twenty-seven years. Don’t make me wait another twenty-seven seconds.”

His lips met mine gently at first, a warm, tentative kiss that seemed to ask whether we really remembered each other. Then I drew him closer, and the second kiss was longer and deeper, filled with all the things neither of us had managed to say.

His arm settled around my waist, and I could feel his heartbeat beneath my palm as his hand moved slowly up my back. When I tilted my face towards him, he kissed the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, before returning to my lips.

It was wonderful, not because it made me feel twenty-five again, but because I was fifty-two, knew exactly what I wanted and had absolutely no intention of pretending otherwise.

When we finally drew apart, Daniel rested his forehead lightly against mine.

“Well,” he murmured.

“Well, indeed.”

“I’d forgotten how distracting you are.”

“I haven’t even started.”

He laughed softly, and I was about to demonstrate that I meant every word when somebody shouted from the other side of the dressing room.

“DANIEL! WE NEED THE CHAMPAGNE GOWN!”

We sprang apart and stared at one another before dissolving into laughter.

“Dinner?” he asked.

“Definitely.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

He kissed me once more, briefly but deliciously, before reluctantly stepping away.

“Better get changed.”

I smiled. “Excellent advice.”

Once he’d disappeared behind the screen, I turned back towards the mirror. My lipstick was slightly smudged, several carefully arranged curls had escaped their pins, and I was grinning like an idiot.

Good heavens. I hadn’t felt this gloriously foolish in years.

The Final Appearance

The champagne gown slipped over my body beautifully, its soft satin falling against my skin without the assistance of a corset, complicated laces or anything likely to displace an internal organ.

I admired my reflection for a moment and smiled. Perhaps there was something to be said for second chances after all.

My final walk was supposed to be elegant, sophisticated and effortless, and to my considerable surprise, it was.

I stepped onto the catwalk beneath the warm theatre lights, the champagne satin flowing around my legs as the audience applauded. I smiled, made my turn and began walking back towards the curtain.

That was when I spotted Daniel standing just beyond the stage, watching me with an expression that made my stomach flutter. He gave me the smallest wink, and I raised an eyebrow in response.

Then, feeling considerably braver than I had any right to, I stopped at the end of the catwalk, turned towards the audience and blew a kiss.

The audience cheered, somebody whistled, and Patricia, who had been watching from the wings, nearly swallowed her headset microphone.

When I stepped backstage, Daniel was laughing.

“Very professional.”

“Thank you.”

“Was that in the choreography?”

“I was improvising.”

“Again?”

“I’m a natural.”

He leaned closer, his smile widening.

“I noticed.”

Before I could answer, Patricia appeared beside us, looking positively delighted.

“Ellie! Darling! You were magnificent!”

“Thank you.”

“And that kiss at the end! Such confidence!”

Daniel and I exchanged a glance, neither of us saying a word.

Patricia narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me.”

“Tell you what?” I asked innocently.

Her gaze moved from my slightly smudged lipstick to Daniel’s rather satisfied expression, and she sighed with the resignation of a woman who had just discovered that her carefully organised evening had acquired an unexpected subplot.

“I leave you two alone for ten minutes and suddenly we’re staging Gone with the Wind.”

“Hardly,” Daniel said.

Patricia folded her arms.

“Daniel, you’ve got lipstick on your collar.”

He looked down, and I closed my eyes.

Oh, wonderful. She’d found something else to organise.

After the Applause

By ten thirty, the theatre was almost empty. I’d changed back into my own black wrap dress, released my hair from its pins and finally recovered the feeling in my ribs.

I was collecting my handbag when Daniel appeared in the doorway. He’d removed his jacket and rolled his shirt sleeves to his forearms, a simple change that I found entirely unfair.

“Everyone’s gone,” he said.

“Even Patricia?”

“She’s still arguing with the lighting technician.”

“Then we’ve probably got another hour.”

He smiled and stepped inside.

“May I?”

I set my handbag down, amused by the way he always seemed to ask permission before coming closer.

“You seem to be developing a habit of asking that.”

“I’ve always been polite.”

“Daniel, you once tried to persuade me that the back seat of an Aston Martin was suitable for romance.”

“It was suitable.”

“It was approximately the size of a biscuit tin.”

“A very expensive biscuit tin.”

I laughed, remembering just how uncomfortable that particular adventure had been. Daniel came closer, and the amusement in his expression softened into something warmer.

“I’ve been wanting to do this again all evening,” he said.

I looked up at him, enjoying the fact that he seemed almost as nervous as I felt.

“Then perhaps you should stop talking.”

His hands settled gently at my waist as I slipped my arms around his neck and kissed him.

This time there was no corset between us, no clipboard and no audience waiting beyond the curtain. There was simply the quiet dressing room and the surprising familiarity of being held by a man I hadn’t seen for twenty-seven years.

Daniel drew me closer, his hand resting securely at the small of my back. I could feel the warmth of his chest against mine as his lips moved from my mouth to my cheek, lingering for a moment beside my ear.

“You’re still beautiful, Eleanor.”

I closed my eyes, touched by the quiet sincerity in his voice. At twenty-five, I might have worried whether he meant it, but at fifty-two I knew the difference between flattery and genuine affection.

I pulled back just enough to look at him.

“And you’re still rather good at this.”

He smiled. “I’ve had some practice.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Have you indeed?”

“Not nearly enough, apparently.”

Laughing, I reached for the open collar of his shirt.

“You always did leave these buttons undone.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Terribly.”

I fastened the top button and stepped back to inspect my handiwork. Daniel glanced down at his collar, then back at me.

“Better?”

“Much.”

I considered him for another moment before reaching up and undoing the button again.

“Although perhaps not.”

Daniel laughed, caught my hand and kissed my fingers.

“You haven’t changed.”

“Oh, I have.”

“In what way?”

I smiled, letting my fingers rest lightly against his chest.

“I’ve become considerably less patient.”

He kissed me again, slowly this time, and when his hand moved to my cheek, I turned my face into his palm and held it there for a moment.

There was something unexpectedly moving about being touched with such tenderness. He wasn’t rushing me or trying to turn the moment into something it wasn’t. He simply seemed content to stand there with me, as though we had all the time in the world.

When we finally separated, Daniel looked slightly dazed, which pleased me enormously.

“Eleanor?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to come back to my place?”

I smiled, considering the invitation and the rather appealing possibilities it suggested.

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, I was tempted. Very tempted, in fact. But there was something rather lovely about the thought of a proper evening together, with dinner and conversation before we discovered what else twenty-seven years might have changed.

“Tomorrow,” I said.

He nodded. “Tomorrow.”

“Dinner first.”

“Absolutely.”

“Somewhere nice.”

“Of course.”

I slipped my arms around his neck once more.

“And Daniel?”

“Yes?”

“If you still live with your mother, I’m going home.”

He laughed so loudly that somebody in the corridor shouted for us to keep the noise down.

Better with Age

We left the theatre together just before eleven. The November air was cold, and Daniel slipped his jacket around my shoulders as we walked towards the car park.

He stopped beside a dark blue Volvo and opened the passenger door with an exaggerated flourish.

“Your carriage, madam.”

I looked inside, taking in the immaculate leather seats and the reassuring absence of anything resembling a rolling pin.

“Very respectable,” I said.

“I’ve matured.”

“Have you?”

“Enormously.”

I leaned against the open door, pretending to consider this information.

“That’s a shame.”

He smiled. “Why?”

“Because I rather liked you when you were badly behaved.”

Daniel stepped closer, his expression turning deliciously mischievous.

“Eleanor, I assure you, maturity and good behaviour are not necessarily the same thing.”

I laughed, and he kissed me once more beneath the car park lights. It was a lovely, lingering kiss that left us both smiling when he finally stepped back and opened the door wider.

“Shall we?”

I glanced at the rear seats and raised an appreciative eyebrow.

“Good heavens,” I said. “You really have improved your taste in cars.”

He followed my gaze before slowly turning back towards me.

“Eleanor.”

“Yes?”

“Are you inspecting my upholstery?”

“Merely conducting a preliminary assessment.”

“And?”

I smiled.

“Promising. Very promising.”

He shook his head, laughing, as I climbed into the passenger seat.

While he walked around the car, I caught sight of myself in the rear-view mirror. Fifty-two, with a few lines around my eyes, a little more softness around my waist and a smile I hadn’t seen in a very long time.

I thought about the corset, the champagne gown and Daniel’s hands gently loosening those ridiculous laces. Then I thought about tomorrow evening, with dinner, wine, a handsome man whose smile I remembered far too well, and absolutely no Patricia.

I settled back against the leather seat, feeling rather pleased with myself.

Before Daniel returned, I glanced towards the back seat once more. Proper legroom, beautiful leather upholstery and considerably more space than that ridiculous Aston Martin.

Twenty-seven years had certainly improved his taste in cars.

Whether it had improved his technique remained to be seen.

But this time, I was making absolutely certain I knew where the car alarm button was.

The End.

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