Eileen directed Ethan to go wait in the studio, and then she took AnnieLee by the elbow and steered her into a stark room lined with three large clothing racks, all of them full.
“As you can see, we’ve sourced pieces from a number of designers,” Eileen said. “This is Rachel, who’ll be styling you today.”
Rachel was tall, pretty, and probably deliberately underfed. “Who do you like to wear, AnnieLee?” she asked.
AnnieLee looked down at her outfit: jeans, Fryes, and a T-shirt she’d stolen from Ethan that said CASH NELSON JENNINGS on it. “Don’t you mean what?”
Rachel laughed as if AnnieLee had made a joke. “I meant which designers. Rag & Bone? Burberry? Oscar de la Renta?”
The stylist clearly had no idea what a ridiculous question this was. “Honestly, I don’t give much thought to clothing,” AnnieLee said, “as long as it covers the bits it’s supposed to.”
Rachel gave another bright laugh, although it seemed a bit forced this time. “No worries,” she said. “We’ll just play around, then.” She slid several dresses off the rack to her left and laid them out on a table. “A classic little black number, something with a little flounce—and how about this Monique Lhuillier? Oh, and try this one, too. The garnet works great with your coloring. It’ll make your eyes pop.” She spoke over her shoulder as she kept thumbing through the clothes. “You can just change right here. Try this one, too. And this.” Then she turned around and blinked at AnnieLee and the pile of dresses on the table. “All right, that’s good for now, don’t you think? I’ll go grab shoes.”
Then she was gone, and AnnieLee was alone among a couple hundred thousand dollars’ worth of clothing. After a moment’s hesitation, she undressed. She grabbed the black sheath that Rachel had picked and stepped into it. The fabric felt cool and elegant against her skin. She zipped it up, gathered her hair into a topknot, and stepped barefoot in front of the mirror. She turned this way and that, squinting at this new version of herself.
“You look like Audrey Hepburn!” Rachel exclaimed, coming back in with an armful of heels.
“Really?” AnnieLee said. “I think I look like I should be going to a funeral.”
“Try the garnet Burberry, then,” Rachel suggested. “You want to love what you’re wearing.”
The Burberry was beautiful, but it showed too much cleavage. AnnieLee didn’t like the flouncy Carolina Herrera at all, or the minidress with the eyelet trim. Finally she slithered into the floor-length yellow gown that Rachel had picked out for her, and when she looked in the mirror, she almost gasped. It fit perfectly, from the graceful neckline to the way it skimmed her slim hips. The dress was exquisite, delicate—“totally hand-sewn,” Rachel said proudly.
“Wow,” AnnieLee whispered. “I didn’t know I could look like this.”
Rachel beamed at her. “Just wait until you get out of hair and makeup.”
In another room, sitting before a huge, illuminated mirror, AnnieLee watched as a makeup artist rubbed bronzer and then blush into her cheeks, brushed smoky gray eye shadow onto her lids, and outlined her eyes in black kohl. A neutral lipstick with a touch of gloss made her mouth look lush and pouty. Then a stylist curled and sprayed AnnieLee’s dark locks, arranging them into cascading waves with even more care than Poppy had taken.
Once the makeover process was complete, AnnieLee went out to meet the photographer, Tyson Mitchell, in the studio. He was standing in front of a carefully constructed set that looked like the dark corner of a dive bar, complete with a nicked table, two crooked chairs, and a handful of empty beer cans placed artfully here and there. A guitar leaned against the painted backdrop.
Tyson Mitchell held out his arms in delight as she approached. “You look like an absolute queen,” he said. “I’d fall down at your feet, but my knees don’t allow that kind of thing anymore.”
Eileen giggled girlishly. “Tyson is a relentless flatterer,” she said. “It’s one of the reasons I love working with him.”
But AnnieLee couldn’t help staring at the complicated background and all the equipment necessary to capture it—and her. There were lights, umbrellas, softboxes, cameras, and fans. It almost looked like a movie set. She could feel the adrenaline tingling through her limbs.
“Are you nervous?” Tyson asked. “Don’t be, darling. We’re going to have so much fun.”