The Halloween Special

 

Though still shy of his thirty-fifth birthday, Roger Bentley's career felt like it was on the ropes. A stand-up comedian by trade, he had been scouted by a network executive and thrust into the public eye as host of a popular television sketch show. The ratings came and brought with it the fame and within six months Roger had become a bona fide star of Saturday Night TV. That was years ago now. Time had passed, tastes had changed, and Roger was a budget cut away from being unemployed.

It wasn't clear whether the stunt for the Halloween special of 'Saturday Night Car Crash' was a genuine Hail Mary to grab ratings or an engineered farce to create an excuse to fire Roger. What was clear was that the network's producers had decided they wanted to create a spectacle and the down on his luck presenter would be their marionette. The setup was that Roger would present the Halloween edition of the show as Bridgette Rivers, a well-loved, and long dead, star of the seventies cabaret circuit. Someone in wardrobe had claimed to have found one of her old dresses and this would form the basis of the costume.

Though Roger had little leverage to refuse direction, he had expected the gown to be an old ratty thing that he could play for laughs. He wasn't expecting the elegant jewel encrusted garment that had been expertly altered to fit his dimensions. Instead of an over-the-job drag transformation, he was subjected to a team of beauticians painting his face and scraping back his hair. As he checked his appearance before taking the stage in front of the television audience, he pondered whether he really had brought Bridgette Rivers back to life.

“Good evening and welcome to Saturday Night Car Crash! And what a spectacular evening we have in store for you, darlings!” Roger's opening line earned a generous round of applause. He flashed the camera a theatrical smile, then paused. Something was wrong. His voice had sounded nothing like his own. It was higher, smoother, with a curious musical lilt. He cleared his throat. “Well, that's bloody weird,” he muttered, only to hear Bridgette's unmistakable voice again. He glanced down at his hands. The fingers seemed longer. A peculiar sensation crept across his shoulders. His jacketless arms narrowed, his wrists became slender, and the bodice of the dress suddenly felt considerably tighter. He instinctively reached for his chest. The shape beneath the gown was changing, filling out the carefully fitted cups. His waist pulled inward, his hips pushing outward until the dress hugged a distinctly feminine silhouette. He stumbled, catching himself on the presenter's desk. His face began to tingle. His jaw softened, his nose narrowed, and the carefully applied makeup seemed to settle into a completely different face. He wanted to scream. Instead, what emerged was a breathless giggle. The audience applauded, apparently delighted by his commitment to the character. Roger looked down at his transformed body, then towards the camera, where the monitor showed a woman he recognised from the photographs in his dressing room. Roger felt a cold sensation creep down his spine. The studio lights flickered. For an instant, Roger saw something quite different in the monitor: an old black-and-white photograph of Bridgette in the very same dress, standing on a stage beneath a glittering chandelier. She was smiling, but her eyes were fixed on him. A voice whispered inside his head. Thank you, darling. I've missed this.