New York

The marching band played Yankee Doodle and the Battle Hymn of the Republic as the grand patriotic parade wound its way through the streets of downtown New York. Red, white and blue banners hung from every window. Confetti and streamers rained down uniformed soldiers, girls in red and white-striped skirts, clowns on stilts dressed as Uncle Sam.

Fiona, dressed as the Statue of Liberty, in green gown, crown and torch, stood high atop her pedestal, smiling at the crowd. It was a very great honour to be the first Englishwoman ever elected, by popular acclaim, to stand atop the Liberty Float. Four white horses drew her steadily onward, down Broadway, past the joyful faces of thousands of New Yorkers, who’d all turned out to bear witness to this historic occasion.

She clutched her tablet in her left hand, determined not to drop it, and thrust the flaming torch high towards the heavens. She’d been discreetly informed by the British Ambassador that fumbling either object, or altering her pose in any way, would be taken as a very grave insult to the people of the United States, and quite possibly lead to war. Fiona had not the least intention of disrupting international relations in such a fashion. She intended to hold the pose of freedom, come what may.

As her imperfectly pinned gown began to slip free from her shoulders, however, this determination was very seriously tested.

With both her arms occupied, Fiona had no ability at all to prevent the intricate, classical, green-painted gown from slowly sliding down and off her left shoulder, the elaborate wrappings unwinding themselves one loop at a time. An expanse of pale arm and neck was revealed to the suddenly very attentive New Yorkers, looking up from the pavement and down from rooftops and high windows. Fiona, face beginning to flush pink as she realised the predicament she was in, squirmed in place, doing her best to hold her outfit together. But she couldn’t stop it from slipping down a few inches further, revealing a very un-statue-like expanse of cleavage.

One breast bounced free. Then, the other. Fiona perhaps could have gotten away with that, as a nod to Marianne, the traditional personification of French liberty, frequently depicted with her bosoms bare. But all her wiggling, hip tilts and subtle shifts of weight did absolutely nothing to prevent the **** of gravity from doing its evil work, dragging the poorly-constructed drapery down over her round hips. Before the eager eyes of thousands of patriotic Yankees, in shirtsleeves and straw hats, all whistling their lungs out and cheering her on.

She brought up the rear of the parade, invisible to the drivers of the floats ahead, who naturally would have sprung to the rescue of a dishevelled maiden. Far below, a squad of Irish policemen marched in formation, twirling their nightsticks. Fiona tried to call out to them, but her voice came out as a hopeless little squeak that was instantly lost in the crowd.

Her face burned bright red, knowing what was coming. She could feel the gown slipping… slipping… slipping…

And the crowd roared with laughter, then burst into a spontaneous rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner as Fiona’s green gown puddled around her feet, exposing the hotly blushing Englishwoman to the streets of New York in all her naked glory. Torch held high, radiant crown perched on her head, tablet clutched to her side. The pedestal atop the float elevated her high above the sea of faces, making her the centre of attention, leaving the poor mortified naked girl with nowhere to run.

Fiona bit her lip, trembling with utter embarrassment as she was literally paraded down the middle of Broadway in her birthday suit. Pert round breasts, pink nipples, peachy bottom, golden bush, long legs and adorably rosy-red face all displayed for the whole city’s entertainment, with dozens of cameras flashing to document the whole incident for New York’s official archives and the international press. A bare-naked, blushing Lady Liberty, in the midst of a storm of confetti, her crown and torch only accentuating her shamefully nude condition. She couldn’t help but feel like this was all, somehow, her own fault.

She had no way of knowing that one of the parade organisers, boiling over with revolutionary spirit, had quietly decided this would be a good day to play a little joke on the British. What method of celebrating American independence could be more satisfying than to parade a lovely English rose, the very flower of Anglo-Saxon womanhood, naked, blushing and defeated through the streets of New York, before all the cheering citizens of a free republic? Impersonating the British Ambassador, in order to convince the unlucky victim of the prank that she wasn’t allowed to run away, had been the easiest part of the whole job.

Yes, Fiona knew none of this. Hadn’t the slightest idea.

Perhaps if she had been able to figure it out, from the sniggering of the girls who’d helped her into her costume, or the British Ambassador’s conspicuous Brooklyn accent and obvious false moustache, she wouldn’t have spent the next two mortifying hours standing naked on top of a parade float, dressed as a nude Lady Liberty, being systematically cat-called, mocked, teased, wolf-whistled and bombarded with patriotic cries of “Down the Brits!” and “Let’s hear it for freedom!”, while the parade chugged slowly down Broadway and across the heart of Lower Manhattan.

But she didn’t. So she did.

The President smiled and tipped his hat as Fiona, by now so hot and red with shame that she felt she ought to melt into a little puddle, rode on by the booth where he sat watching the show. “I tell ya, darlin’,” he said to his wife, approvingly, “this is why we’re the greatest country in the world.”