Free Before and After by Laura Lockington

room, wondering what menial little task I could find for her to do that would appease her neediness. The floor was covered in sheets, the walls stripped and tins of paint were ranged around the room. The task would have to be of a personal nature. The tapping sounded again, and I bounded out of bed to open the door.
    “Bella dear, how nice! A night time visit. Just the person I was hoping to see. Do you have ten minutes spare to assist me in something?” I said, smiling down at her.
    Bella nodded violently and stared at my black and burnt orange devoré velvet dressing gown. I obligingly swirled around the room for her, letting her see the full glory of the master at work. Worth was a master craftsman and a true gentleman , his finest gowns remain wearable to this very day. Indeed, every time I wear this garment I feel like Alice Keppel awaiting the arrival of the portly yet frighteningly bad tempered Prince of Wales. I fancy that the material still holds the whiff of his cigars and the scented violets of her toilette .
    “It’s my toes!” I cried, gaily waggling my feet at her as I bounced back on the bed. “I simply must have a pedicure, and do you know, I find it unaccountably hard to reach them, it must be my age!” I laughed to show that obviously there was no truth in my last statement but that I was willing to be girlish and jolly at the same time.
    Bella blushed and sat at the edge of the bed. I handed her a nail file and a bottle of nail varnish remover.
    She handled my feet with great care. So great that I feared she may have mistaken them for the feet of a saint, treating them as some holy relic. She bowed her head over them as I reclined on the pillows, rubbing away the perfect pearly varnish with a drenched wad of cotton wool.
    I chattered to her, aware that she was expecting some night time confidence from me, or at the very least a pearl or two of wisdom.
    I remembered how she had attached herself to the painter, and guessed that she wished to confide in me her tedious puppy love. Odious though it was, I willed her to begin, so that the boredom could be the sooner swept away. It didn’t take long.
    “You know Fiachra, Flora? The painter, the Irish one, well, I made him some fruit bread today and he liked it and he’s coming back on Monday and I have this enormous spot on my face, still, it might have gone by then, mightn’t it?” she said shyly yet insistently, moving from cotton wool to emery board like a true professional.
    “You know Bella,” I said, stretching my arms luxuriously over my head, “There are two kinds of disasters in this life. Those which are reparable and those which are not. If one of the latter has befallen you, take heart in the thought that this kind is supposed to carry with it its own reward. Whilst trying to discover exactly where the reward lies, relax with this nugget of wisdom. Young Irish painters from the working class of Dublin have no aversion to the slight blemishes of a young, plump rich girl from London. There is also such a thing that you will find in the bottom of my wash bag in a small pink tube. Rub gently on the spot for two nights running and it will have disappeared like the itinerate farm worker who discovers his girlfriend is pregnant.” I gave a jaw-breaking yawn, and smiled at Bella.
    She smiled uncertainly back. I handed her the nail varnish, a particularly luscious shade of pomegranate, and she dutifully started to apply the first coat. I glanced down with justified pride at my feet. I have perfect feet. Long, elegant and with a cruelly high instep. I could have been a ballerina. Each toenail was immaculate. I flexed my toes and gave a groan of contentment. No hardening skin, no ridged nails, no hint of a corn or callous. Simply wonderful. I take great satisfaction in a nicely turned ankle. Legs by Waring and Gillows.
    I was instructing Bella in the art of a foot massage when there was another knock on the door. This time it was loud and