The audience for the Myla Santos appearance was already in position as the limousine turned off the A4 onto the busy Berkely Row. The number plate was named to be recognised, the gaudy, expensive car designed to turn heads; and in the excitement that followed it was forgotten that the ageing, scandal-ridden star had lost much of the innocent, teasing charm through which she had earned her fame. Instead, as in the early days, there was a crush of young, adoring men. Scattered among these, and emitting high-pitched screams were girls of all ages.
These fans, dressed in imitation of Myla’s past, flocked to the car as it slowed its approach to the hotel steps. They risked much to gain a glimpse, competing to be closest and calling their idol’s name, Myla, Myla, Myla, whilst slapping the disguising tint of the darkened windows. Behind the glass, almost as if Myla could be known was the healthy tan of a perfectly groomed face and the lightly smiling pout of ruby lips.
Myla had chosen the expression with assiduous care, the product of many hours of labour. It was complemented by a red, Salvore dress, silk bunched to the knees to form a full, swooshing skirt. Myla showed the design to its best as the car stopped outside the hotel and a minder, dressed in black, handed her to the pavement. The man, bulging precise muscles beneath his uniform, stepped back once she was out. Then it was the opportunity for Myla’s gift, her head a coif of delicious, peroxide bob; and she held it this way and that, angling its effect for the perfect view.
That effect included the dark, brown eyes, warm and glistening with the excitement of the occasion. Myla was at home, in her space; and she did not hurry then as she stepped up the red carpet, making the most of the opportunity to be fully on show. She might have been a cock, preening himself to the worship of his pen, or a goddess living in the adulation of her temple; her every movement said that she revelled in admiration, and she paused repeatedly beneath the chatter and click of flash-bulb and camera.
Like the fans, like Myla herself, the cameramen could see thus that Myla Santos was back. Few women had ever possessed her poise, her quality of sexual tease; and though more conscious now, both studied and trained, there were sufficient hints of that tease remaining to please all. It showed most splendidly as she turned, almost at the revolving doors; her Venetian designer had served her well, strips of silk enshrining her breasts in a low V. These breasts, like the stomach below them, taut in replication of her youth, belied both her age and her two teenage boys.
Once these details were confirmed Myla passed on. Already the focus had shifted, some different car at the pavement, and the chants of Myla’s name had lost their urgency. They chose now a lesser diva, Crystal Favier, a singer known most recently for her marriage to the French Prime Minister. This new position, a celebrity, political wife, meant that Crystal had lost her wild-girl image. She dressed now with the modesty of a tea-party; and the performance she offered had more of the royal, than the sexual. She had almost completed this performance by the time Sophie Gralove flicked the channels to the evening news.
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©2013 Padraig De Brún