The Robing Room, by Peter Morford

My friend Petronella’s two marriages had been conventional enough.  Number one was in the village church, 20 guests, reception in the pub.  Number two was a bit more lavish, reflecting her social promotion.  A marquee on a National Trust estate, 200 guests, honeymoon in Kenya. And now, number three, on her new man’s yacht moored in Cardiff Docks, crewed and provisioned for the long haul.

            I, as one of her special friends were to, officiate in costumes which she would provide.  She fixed the appointment with the costumiers for me.

**

            I rang the bell twice before anyone came. A tall rather imposing woman opened the door.             “Yes?”

            “I’m Martin Black, guest of Petronella Parker’s wedding.”

            “You’d better come in.  If you sit here I’ll bring you a coffee. Then you will proceed to the robing room,” she said.

            I sat down. She returned with coffee and biscuits for two, put them on the little table and sat opposite me.

            I looked her. Perhaps fifty or even sixty. Slim in her ankle-length black dress with dozens of buttons from neck to the floor.   Greying hair piled high on her head.  Long nose, thin lips. Veined hands. Wedding ring. An imperious rather impressive Victorian lady. I supposed that I would impersonate a 19^th century gentleman. She had the look of someone who didn’t want conversation so I said nothing.

            Suddenly she stood up. “I’ll fetch your costume. You may go into the robing room now.”

            I’m not sure what I expected but it certainly wasn’t what I saw.  The room was about 15ft square.  The only furniture was a pair of bentwood chairs, a hat-stand and a cheval mirror covered by a velvet cloth. 

            The walls were papered with flock and the room smelt of dust.

            She returned with a small case. “I’ll leave you to change.  Call me when you’re ready.”

I opened the case.  Inside was a striped bathing costume, a neck to knee woollen thing vintage 1920s. Feeling silly I changed and uncovered the mirror. What I saw shocked me. I looked aghast.  I’m not a vain man but this kit was ridiculous.

            I called.  She came.  Said, “Are you sure that Petronella wants me to attend her wedding in this?”

            “Those are her instructions Mr Black.”.

            “And will the other ushers be dressed the same way?”

            “I’m not at liberty to discuss the others.”

            I turned back to the mirror. It had changed.  I saw my ungainly striped figure and behind me, an automated  car assembly line.  Orange robots were assembling Range Rovers. I looked round but the wall behind me was just a wall covered in flock wallpaper.   I looked back at my reflection.  Cars were slowly progressing. Robots were delivering bonnet tops and fitting the doors.  I turned round very fast again.  Flock wallpaper.

            “How’s it done?”

            “What are you talking about Mr Black?”

            “Look at the mirror,” I said

            “I see myself.”

            “But the background looks wrong.”

            “Have you been drinking Mr Black?”

            “Only your coffee.”

            “That would account for it.  I think you’d better leave.”

            Back on the A5 I was stopped by the Police. They didn’t believe a word of it either

A Fine Romance, by Martin White

I always suspected it might end in tears. 
My friend had such high hopes: a new relationship!
   Her name is Hannah. He tells me she is American, probably from the east coast, mid-50s. She has a no-nonsense style that he finds very alluring. A bit domineering for my taste, but it takes all sorts. If she has any children I think she must be estranged from them, since her career takes her away from home for weeks on end. That, of course, is what brought them together: their love of travel.
    He'd been feeling lost for quite some time; not sure what direction to take; feeling lonely. So when he was introduced to Hannah he thought life was really going to take a turn for the better. And so it did, for a while. Lots of new places, new adventures. Everyone remarked how much happier he looked, with a new spring in his step. He was always saying, "We went there; we saw that". He was never at home. You should have seen his garden!
  Then .... it was bound to happen. He started to notice that she had quiet spells, not saying anything. He wondered if he had done something to annoy her: forgotten her birthday perhaps. He began to suspect she had moods. Then one day as they were driving around she said, "Turn right", and he found they had turned onto a dirt track, and after a mile or so of increasing anxiety on his part they entered a farmyard. Well, my friend was naturally very upset, and he stopped listening to anything she said. 
   He soon became very depressed. I wondered about suggesting he wrote to Marinella Forstrup in the "Guardian": perhaps she could give advice? But who knows where that might lead?
   So I've given him a new road atlas for his birthday. He'll be better off with that.


In the car
a new voice
she who must be obeyed