Although George Orwell is one of my writing heroes, I generally avoid politics in my own stories. I’m not naturally a political campaigner, I don’t enjoy political debate, and I seldom watch the news on television or read a newspaper. However, this morning a strange thing happened: as I sat down for my allocated morning writing hour, intending to write the next chapter of my work-in-progress novel (Murder in the Manger, #3 in the Sophie Sayers Village Mystery series that will be launched in April), I found a different story taking shape on the page…
All the President’s Clothes
As his wife emerged from the dressing room, a shimmering olive green coatdress over her arm, his commanding voice boomed across the silk sheets on their emperor-size bed. “Blue, you have to wear blue today, dear.”
She held the garment up against her body, gazing at just one of the many mirrors that covered the walls and ceiling. “But, darling, my colourist told me that this shade is my best.” Her long, slender fingers fluttered over her well-sculpted cheekbones, already glimmering with highlighter. “And not a week ago you told me you hate blue. Red is the colour of your party.”
“To hell with the party, sweetheart. I’m in charge now. And your damn advisor also told me that as blue’s the opposite of orange, it’s the obvious complementary colour for me. Whatever the hell that means. Still, I never met a compliment I didn’t like.” He hauled himself into a sitting position against sumptuous pillows and pointed his index finger in the air. “And it’s my big day today, honey, not yours. It’s a big, big day. There will be more people looking at me than ever before at an inauguration, and, you know, whatever I wear, they’re gonna love what they see. Bigly.”
He swung his naked legs out of the bed. The thickly carpeted floor embraced his bare feet as he strolled to the centre of the room. He stopped at the precise spot where he’d calculated he could get the most views of himself – reflections of reflections of reflections. He struck what he deemed a presidential pose, brow serious, jutting jaw. This was his intended image when they added him to Mount Rushmore.
Satisfied, he ambled to the gold-plated shower room, emerging damp and fluffy-haired just as his wife was slipping something under the bed. He took a seat at her dressing table and, as he did every morning, allowed her to marshall his hair into service with the aid of the supermodel’s best friend, a giant can of Elnett hairspray. To her surprise, the minute she set the can back down, he immediately made for the door to the hall. “Okay, let’s go, let’s go.”
She stepped back, her hand over her mouth. She’d adopted this gesture to to help her consider what to say before speaking, so as not to upset him. If she did it enough, she figured, maybe he’d start to do it too. “Honey, I know you’re keen to go out there and take office, but I think you may have forgotten something.”
He glanced down at his shower-fresh body, then raised his index finger. “Don’t trouble your silly head, honey. Listen, leave the thinking to the big guy. Just smile and wave and look beautiful. It’s what you’re there for, just like Jackie O.” His finger met his thumb to make an O. “A beautiful, beautiful girl, great class, great style. And what a fantastic life she had, didn’t she? Thanks to her great, great husband, a fantastic guy.” His hand was on the door handle now.
“But honey -” she gulped – “you aren’t wearing any clothes. You are naked as the day God made you.”
“Yes, and what a great, great job the guy did, huh?” Then as he realised she might actually be criticising him, his face turned a few shades redder. “But listen to me, dear. I have millions of followers out there waiting to see me pass by – no, billions, more than any other president. And they think I am the best dressed president in history. That I have the best clothes in history. And damn it, I have plenty of clothes. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise. They’re just fake news guys, fake news, that’s all they are. Just watch me now.”
He flung open the bedroom door, strode out onto the landing, and leaned over the banister to address his assembled family and staff duly waiting in the rose-tinted marble lobby below.
“So, people, how is your new commander-in-chief looking today? Are we ready to kick ass?” He flung out his arms in the manner of an ancient Roman emperor acknowledging the crowd’s cheers in the Colosseum, just before he settles down to enjoy a day of gladiatorial bloodshed.
“Just beautiful, sir, just beautiful.”
“And my outfit?”
“It’s the best, sir. A truly great, great outfit.”
He turned smiling, to his wife, who still lingered in the bedroom, despite having been ready to leave for hours. “What did I tell ya? You should know by now just to listen to me.” That pointing finger again.
Not waiting for her reply, he strutted down the vast curving staircase, feeling like the leading man in a Busby Berkeley musical. He reckoned he could have taught that Fred Astaire a thing or two.
Back in their bedroom, his wife sighed and sat down on her side of the bed, cautiously so as not to crease her outfit, to avoid repercussions later. Slowly she reached down to retrieve the secret basket that had been keeping her sane the last few turbulent days. From it she retrieved two chunky steel knitting needles and a ball of thick pink yarn. These cute little hats seemed to be all the rage, so she’d thought she’d better make herself one. After all, hadn’t he told her that the First Lady’s prime duty was to be a fashion icon?
Beginning to work the final row to calm her nerves, she wondered for the first time whether the recent rise in demand for knitting needles might revive the national steel industry. He hadn’t yet worked out how else to do it, so she should remember to share the good news with him later. He was sure to be pleased. She just had time to cast off and sew up the sides before the procession of bulletproof cars would arrive to whisk them on their way.
She didn’t dare try the finished hat on just now, for fear of spoiling her coiffure. She just rolled it up and tucked it in her clutchbag to take along on the ride. After all, her husband might be glad of it later. When realising the error of his ways, he might be desperate for something to keep himself warm.
This story is dedicated to Aaren Purcell and Karen Lotter, who first brought the pussyhat project (www.pussyhatproject.com) to my attention, and to everyone who has made one, worn one, marched in one, or admires the women who did so.
And hats off to the Pantone Color Institute for their thoughtful classification work, described by Diana Budds here: What Pantone colour is Donald Trump?
© Debbie Young 2017
