The Disappointing Truth About Gloria Stunt

Short of skirt, long of leg, heavy on make up, easy on the eye. You stared at her as she sat in that train carriage on the morning of when was it? You know exactly when.

You’ll never forget her. Not after she’d seen that you’d seen her, and she smiled a smile that included her eyes. A pretty woman content to be stared at, it seemed, not going all defensive or sullen. But, trust me, Gloria Stunt wasn’t the woman you thought she was.

You told your work colleagues about her, this stunning smiler who made your morning, made travelling to work that day a pleasure, not the usual chore.

And for the next few days, (let’s face it, it was weeks) you left home at exactly the same time, stood on the same precise slab of platform, boarded the same carriage through the same hieroglyphic graffitied doors and eyed the same seat.

But it was never her seat again. The lightning white of her smile never struck you twice. The flash of thigh never met your eye again. And ever since, on every train journey you’ve looked for her.

Now, as time fades your mind’s eye picture of her, and you wonder less and less how she wears her hair, or where she lives and works, it’s time for me to deliver the promise that’s inherent in the title of this.

Yes, yes, her looks and legs were for real. But not the smile. Not the smiling eyes. That look was perfected in the brief training that followed her ‘discovery’ in Covent Garden’s Plaza. A nineteen-year-old turner of heads, acher of hearts. Independence forced on her broad model’s shoulders early by parents not cut out for the raising of offspring. Not feeling the love they ought to for a child who looked like neither of them. The spawn of an affair the father thought, the stealer of my looks youth freedom the mother (un)reasoned.

Operative 245 on the hunt in the Plaza could tell Gloria was the susceptible type from her sullen gait, and flashed government grade ID before ushering a kerb crawling private hire to take them to a green room in Whitehall. There, Gloria was told in more words than this that she’d be paid handsomely for looking pretty.

At first the virginal feminist in her was offended by this lipsticked perv who no doubt wanted her for porn or, only slightly better, to front a shiny magazine. To be the face of. Gloria had developed an aversion to the world’s fascination with beauty, fuelled in no small part by her mother, who banned any family member from saying how pretty a baby she was, or from venturing suggestions as to whose eyes nose mouth she had. In her mother’s tired eyes, Gloria had been troublesome from conception onwards and was not to be revered.

Back in Whitehall, Gloria wanted out of the green room, her standing up and grabbing her bag said as much. She couldn’t take this Operative seriously, despite the seriousness of her ID, tone and suit. But 245 knew Gloria’s type, knew the best way to handle damaged goods was with cake and compliments.

An hour later, Gloria was chauffeured home with an offer to sleep on and lifelong secrecy to swear upon. The job was a dream one, with hours from seven to nine AM, and an occasional five to seven PM, ‘depending on the prevailing economic conditions’. A maximum of four hours a day for six figures PA, and all travel expenses taken care of.

What girl wouldn’t consider it, seriously? A ticket out of the unloving family home. She could see the dangle and hear the jangle of a set of keys to a London flat. En-suite. Balcony. Central. So she arrived at Whitehall the next day with a yes and left with a detailed job description and a new ID.

She told no one, because she knew everyone would like her less if they knew how easily she made her money. And now I’ve told you, I expect you like her less.

Because the spring she put in your step seems a little flat now. The extra beat she added to your heart rate feels false, the brighter sheen she gave your day merely gloss. She wielded such power, she made you go to work on days you would have otherwise pulled a sickie.

But Gloria and her smile weren’t for real. They were one of the government’s secret weapons in the fight against recession depression aggression. They used her beauty to boost productivity, to keep the workforce going to work when they felt like giving up. To take the toil out of travel, to calm the angriest commuter (there was never any trouble in any carriage she rode).

But don’t feel bad if you’re feeling cheapened, even guilty. You’re not the only one, not the first nor last to fall for her fake smile. How do I know?

I just caught the tube back from Whitehall, decommissioning papers neatly folded in my handbag. Twenty-five and over the hill in their eyes, bitter and spilling the beans and preparing for the consequences. Some of the earnings from my career I saved and invested. Most I frittered away during plentiful spare time. The keys to the flat will be back in the post on Monday, and soon, I’ll be riding the trains like you, bound for a regular Nine AM to Five PM with my old ID back.

If you see me sitting in the carriage, by all means shoot me a smile if my eyes meet yours and you like what you see. But don’t expect one back.