The Train

I was draped in the window seat in my parent’s front window, chatting idly with my mum about their neighbor Mister Perry, and his loud dog that Sunday morning. It was an absolutely routine kind of a day, or so I thought. Well, at least it started out that way.

I was wearing long trousers and a beige t-shirt. The sun was getting a bit obnoxious, especially reflecting off my glasses, so I moved and threw myself into an armchair instead.

“Just tell him if he doesn't shut the stupid dog up you'll sell it to the Chinese for dinner,” I said.

“Now really, Hannah,” she said with disapproval. “That would be most unhelpful.”

“And don't let them hear you talking like that in school,” my dad said as he passed through the room.

“You think they'd call me insensitive?” I asked with a smirk.

“I think they'd bloody expel you is what I think.”

I laughed. He wasn't wrong. My college is pretty politically correct.

“Well, speaking of school, I should probably be getting off. I've got to get back to the city early if I'm going to be working tonight.”

My mother frowned in disappointment, but I'd told her I would be working a special this evening because of the FA Cup final, and she understood. I kissed her and dad goodbye, grabbed my bag, and headed up the street to the bus.

It was a short ride to the station, then an hour on the train to London to my little flat there. Living in London is expensive. And living alone is out of the question when you're nineteen and aren't some sort of heiress. I shared a flat with two other girls. Lindsey is a secretary, Caitlin is a student nurse. I'm in my second year of Accounting.

Yes, I'm a boring person, I admit it. Numbers fascinate me, and I love how they can be stacked and divided and organized to show so many, many things! Being a boring numbers person means I fit in well with the other girls.

Our diverse hours means no partying or loud noises, and that we're seldom there at the same time. When we are, chances are at least one of us is asleep, that's especially so of Caitlin, who often works midnights at the hospital.

One of the few respectable ways a girl with little education and no connections can make enough from part time work to share a flat is by being a waitress in a place where she'll get good tips. Unfortunately, that means I have to work in a place like the Blue Kilt, where, as you might expect, I have to wear kilts – sort of.

It's a stylish Irish pub, and the outfit I have to wear is deliberately provocative. The kilt is short, the button-down blouse is too tight, and partly see-through, and the cute little blue and green tartan bra underneath matches the kilt because it's made to be seen, the blouse made to be partly unbuttoned.

I know my friends would be shocked to see me in what I think of as my costume. They'd be even more shocked to see me playing the role that you have to play at the Blue Kilt, which is the sexy, flirty girl who is brazen and unashamed.

Because that is soooo not like me anywhere else! I would never wear a skirt as short in public, not even in a club, nor wear something with as much cleavage as the top. I'm actually quite modest in my clothing and behavior everywhere else.

I wear loose slacks and a blazer at school, or sometimes a long dress. I am generally modest and polite, and not one to rush forward and draw attention onto myself. I wouldn't say I'm shy, but I am quiet and feel a bit uncomfortable if someone makes me the center of attention.

So to work at the Blue Kilt I have to almost put on a new persona, like an actress assuming a role. Fortunately, I'm a big fan of acting, especially the stage, and have read a lot of biographies of actors and actresses. So when I agonized over whether to take the job or not I decided that I had to, for the money, and would pretend I was playing a role.

The wonder was that I slipped into it so easily! Oh sure, I was embarrassed the first night, but not even all of the first night. Within an hour or so I was almost giddy! There was a sense of freedom in playing the role of someone not bound up by all the rules and inhibitions of a 'normal' person.

It's fairly obvious that Al, the owner, doesn't hire girls who are unattractive or flat chested. All the servers are girls, and all are young, slender and at least somewhat generously endowed. The odd thing is none are truly busty.

I think Al is afraid of pushing it too far over the narrow line between sexy and trampy. The bra cups are half cups and push-ups, meant to show generous cleavage. If a girl was really chesty she'd just spill out of them entirely and he'd lose the family crowd entirely. And like me, most of the other girls are not normally very slutty. They just act the part at the Blue Kilt!

I think it’s a kind of infectious mood. If the other girls were restrained and modest when I had gotten here, then I'd have acted the same. But they certainly weren't, and their behavior quickly rubbed off on me until I was being as flirty and brazen as them.

My friends and family would have been stunned, believe me. Even seeing me in that tiny kilt, with my blouse open and the bra showing so much cleavage would have caused their jaws to drop. My behavior would have startled them even more.

I didn't realize I had great legs, for example, until I started working there. Usually, no one saw them much, and certainly not in bright lights. But in the pub, with a very short kilt, well, they got a lot of comments, and not just from the customers. The other girls told me I had fabulous legs, too!

That was... pleasing, a kind of ego trip thing, you know. I had been complimented on other body parts before, on my long brown hair, on my lips and eyes. Being told I have great boobs is kind of embarrassing, though, and being told my arse is lovely is just rude. Well, depending on the context.

But legs? Legs are safe! It felt like a sexual comment, but not really, you know? It was one which was borderline, and which I could embrace and get a little smug about when people mentioned them. Unlike, say, my breasts.

We girls are all, pretty much a type, as I said, medium height, slender, with longish hair, and quite pretty. There's not a girl here with hair that doesn't fall past her shoulders. There's no big-boned girls, no big breasted Swedish farm girl types. We're all lithe and reasonably athletic and toned. We could all be models, except we're most of us not quite that tall, and our boobs are a bit big.