This will be a bit of harmless fun, I thought, as I climbed three flights of stairs to the top of a building in theatreland in search of a fancy-dress costume. I found myself in a room full of rails crammed tight with bright costumes. And there, standing in front of them, was the strangest person I have ever seen. She was wearing a lacy Dangerous Liaisons number with bursting décolletage and enormous side hoops, and she was smiling a disconcertingly wide smile.
When I told her I had come to hire a fancy-dress costume she shrieked as if someone had stuck a cattle prod up her bottom. ‘Oh, how exciting!’ Barely had I started to explain that I wanted a tasteful costume for a small house party than she shrieked again. ‘Yes, yes! A dancer from the Moulin Rouge!’ and dived into the rails of ruffles and satin.
‘No, please, come back,’ I implored her. ‘It’s a black-and-white party…’
She stopped riffling through fluffy dresses and gasped again. ‘Yes, yes! A lovely courtesan from the Moulin Rouge with black and white feathers in your hair!’ And she disappeared into the clothes rails again by squeezing her absurdly wide dress sideways into the aisles.
She was gone so long I had to go in after her. I crept slowly into the strangely frightening rows of musty old velvet. The outfits hanging limply on hangers reminded me of nothing so much as dead bodies. I called after her as I wandered deeper into the faded finery. Suddenly the costumes parted and she stuck her head through, grinning from ear to ear like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. I don’t know how I didn’t let out a bloodcurdling scream.
I told her as firmly as I could that I really did not want the Moulin Rouge outfit.
She gasped. ‘Ah! You could go as Cruella de Vil! Yes, yes! A lovely Cruella de Vil with a huge hat and long red nails!’ I had to disavow her of that notion, too, but she was not a bit put off.
‘The evil Snow Queen!’ she shrieked, grabbing a white dress dripping in sequins. ‘The white witch from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe! Isn’t it lovely? Yes, yes, a lovely white witch…’ And she shook the wretched thing in my face.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ I said, now seriously considering the possibility that this really was the Marquise de Merteuil and that I had stumbled through some worm hole into a mad dreamscape where characters from Choderlos de Laclos had taken over large sections of British retail.
I tried to assert myself. ‘I’ve already given it some thought and I’ve decided I want to go as a cat.’
‘A cat?’
‘Yes, a cat.’
‘Not the Snow Queen? It is a lovely Snow Queen outfit, look at all those sequins…’
I shook my head.
‘Do you want to see the Moulin Rouge costume? It’s really lovely.’
‘Could I look at some catsuits, please? I’m a bit pushed for time.’
She poked around in the rack and thrust a black PVC number at me, complete with a horrible-looking hood.
I took it to the changing room and sheltered inside assessing the situation. I now doubted I would get out of here alive. Any minute now the Vicomte de Valmont was going to emerge from behind a rail and the pair of them were going to force me to do awful things.
I didn’t dare to attempt an exit without putting on the catsuit first, so I squeezed into it and poked my head through the curtain. After barely a minute, I was sweating so profusely I feared I was going to need solvent to peel it off. ‘Do you have anything in a more breathable material?’
She gasped her approval. ‘Oh, but it’s perfect! Do you like the little mask?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s the thing. I don’t think I do, actually.’
‘It’s the mask Michelle Pfeiffer wore in Batman…’
‘That may be so, but I really don’t want to wear it.’
‘Why?’ She was bearing down on me, her manipulative 18th-century pout becoming positively murderous.
I’m going to have to wear this, I thought. If I don’t get out of here now, I’m going to have to… ‘Because it’s a gimp mask. And I’m going to a house party in Wandsworth Common with people who aren’t swingers.’ She pursed her lips even tighter and put her hands on her waist with terrifying intent.
I ripped off the catsuit amid much squeaking, threw my clothes back on and hurtled down the stairs. I passed an innocent-looking group of teenagers making their way up. What they are doing now, and in what manner of can-can outfit, I shudder to think.
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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