BEAUTY PARADE
It was early. Claudia vibrated with excess energy, her stomach alternately flipping and seizing in a painful clench. To settle her nerves, she stood in front of the sideboard that bore the photographs and pride of the Whittaker family. It had worked before, a superstitious but soothing ritual.
The men were there but minimally cited – Bruce, her dad, standing firm, arms crossed, grinning broadly in a mud-spattered rugby strip and Bradley, her brother, laughing as a silvery fish wriggled in his frantic grasp. But the majority were of Beverley and Claudia, mum and daughter respectively, at various ages and in comparable poses, the stars of the beauty queen circuit. When Claudia was small she would gape at the images that charted her mother’s rise to fame. The cute snapshots at age eight and ten with the dimpled smile, soft curls and frilly everything; skirts, blouses and ankle socks. Then, the later professional portraits that made her mum look like a Hollywood idol. As the years passed and her career began, Claudia’s photos appeared alongside, matched in age and degrees of candour. She studied the most recent pair – her mum’s win at Colchester as Teen Beauty Queen and her own recent success at the Miss Pageant Girl final. For the first time, she noticed artlessness had transitioned into something less innocent, for them both. It discomforted her to see the edge of affectation. Ever sensitive to the arrangement of her facial muscles, she consciously relaxed the knotted muscles that had formed between her eyebrows.
Her mother’s career had ended with the Teen Beauty Queen title. The story, only ever told when Grandma was not present, spoke of a row between the two and the sudden insistence that the pageants had to stop. She had been heartbroken, bitterly rejecting the logic of an education over – in Grandma’s words - ‘showing off’. Claudia understood. Having spent countless hours playing dress up with the sashes and crowns, before gracing the catwalk in her own lavish costumes and winning the same trophies and trinkets, she couldn’t imagine anyone being so cruel. Denied the chance to fulfil her own passion, her mum had sunk her ambitions into her daughter. Claudia had been indulged and encouraged, and had willingly strived to continue her legacy.
And there had been a lot to like for a little girl; the dresses, make-up and hair do’s. All the attention and fuss. There were times when she begrudged the restrictions, craving the swings and playground, only to be told they would ruin her nails or risk an ugly bruise. It was a sacrifice, but one that was required, Claudia accepted, to be perfect in every way. And when disaster inevitably struck, ending up in plaster for six weeks, wasn’t she the one to bawl and pummel her one good hand on the bed?
Claudia checked her watch. Today was going to be a big day: the regional heats of Miss Australia 1988. The bustle and upheaval had been ratcheting skywards all morning. Fortunately, they had all been spared a long journey because, for once, the parade was taking place in their hometown. Her mum’s furrowed brow and snappy orders had sent all the family scurrying, including the dog. He’d slunk through the flap and taken refuge under the house. Her dad and brother were instructed to seek their entertainment and sustenance at the local shopping mall with a warning to be in the front row of the theatre by eleven, sharp.
At nine forty-five, Beverley put down the brush and the last of the rollers and gazed at her protégé’s reflection in the huge, tri-fold mirror.
‘You look gorgeous, love,’ she said. ‘Knock ‘em dead.’
Once Claudia arrived backstage, the nerves kicked back in. Her heart hammered as she judged herself against the other flawless and tanned beauties. The confidence she’d felt at home began to evaporate. Only the proud smile and thumbs up from her mum, lifted her spirits. Through the loudspeaker, names and numbers were called. She and the other contestants formed a line and stepped out onto the stage. Conjuring her brightest smile, Claudia placed her hand on her waist and sashayed forward.
The judges sat in a line, watching and taking notes, as they all paraded in front of the long table. The routine was second nature, as was the need to brazen out the leering stares from the crowd. She had the experience to know what sort of audience attended such events – faithful families and the rest. With a burst of applause from the second row, her name was read out loud. She’d made it through to the final round. There would now follow the embarrassment of an interview with one of the panel members. It was the part she hated the most.
A middle-aged man stepped up to the microphone and called her over. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, number 23, Claudia Whittaker. So, how are you, my beauty?’ He smiled at the audience, then turned back towards her, pupils flared, his smile dangerous.
‘Come closer, my love. Don’t be shy. The audience want to get the full gander.’ He placed an arm around her waist, drew her in, and turned her so she was facing the crowd with him tight by her side. She swallowed, her mum and dad smiling up at her, their gazes expectant and charmed.
‘So, Claudia, what do you hope to achieve by winning this title?’
Words refused to form as she became aware of his hand slowly sliding around her back and dropping downwards. She drew in a breath, her head dipping in shame as her buttock was squeezed. She could feel his fingers playing with the elastic edge of her too small swimsuit, running his hand back and forth, probing for entry. Her throat spasmed. Hot tears pricked the corners of her eyes.
‘Dear, dear. Come on, now, love. We all want to hear about your grand plans.’
‘I … I … ‘ She leapt forward, batting his hand away and scurried off stage. The interviewer joked about nerves getting the better of a lovely, young filly, promising to give her another chance later, if she wished to return. His self-assured demeanour never faltered. Claudia never reported him. No-one ever knew what he’d done.
Much later, in the Whittaker household, another set of photographs, trophies and crowns came to a sudden halt. Grandma pursed her lips and shook her head, wishing her granddaughter had never found out why Beverley had been snatched away before any real harm was done.