“Can I help you?” The salesperson who’d been watching us since we’d arrived on the floor must have decided it was time to stop the lowly masses from pawing through the five-digit dresses. She was dressed in head-to-toe pink Chanel and her black-and-gold name tag read clare.
“I’m looking for a dress for a charity ball,” I said. “But I think these are outside my budget.”
“Yes, of course.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We have more affordable dresses down on the second floor.”
Chloe bristled beside me. “Tell her.”
“No.” I turned to go. “We shouldn’t have come up here. Let’s go back down to the swamp, where we belong.”
“She has this.” Chloe produced Jack’s card with a flourish. “Jack sent her and told her to ask for Clare. I assume that’s you and you’re a personal shopper.”
“Where did you get that?” I reached over to grab the card and she went up on her tiptoes to keep it away.
“I stole it from your purse because I knew you wouldn’t use it. You’re not good at accepting help.” Chloe handed it to the salesperson. “You’ve made a big mistake,” she said to the woman. “Massive.”
“Mom,” Olivia groaned. “You’re embarrassing me.” She bent over, hiding her face in her hands.
“Me too.” I would have hidden my face, but the salesperson was staring right at me.
“Jack sent you?” Clare said his name as if it were a religious experience.
“You know him?”
“We knew each other when I worked in New York,” she said. “It was such a surprise when he showed up at my door the other night.”
Nice. He’d sent me to one of his old girlfriends. Or maybe she was a current girlfriend. Of course she was stunning—long dark hair, perfectly oval face, big dark eyes with impossibly long lashes, and a body made to model the designer dress that clung to her curves the way Cristian had clung to his inner tube at the lake.
“Same.” I gave her a tight smile. It’s not like I hadn’t had regular hookups, or even the occasional relationship. Last year, I’d spent two whole weeks dating an accountant who suffered from both allergic rhinitis and an obsession with cycling. Chloe almost choked to death on a chicken wing when I invited him to my favorite bar to meet her. It had been a hot day. He’d just come back from a long, sweaty ride in his body-hugging white spandex onesie that left nothing to the imagination. He sneezed. Chloe gagged. I like a little mystery in my men, so I ended it the next day.
“We’re going to the Summer Garden Charity Ball on Thursday.” I plastered a fake smile over the glare I was saving for Chloe. “He said you’d be able to help me with a dress.”
She gave me a quick once-over and lifted a perfectly manicured brow. “You’ll need more than a dress. You’ll need shoes, a bag, accessories, and jewelry. And your hair . . .”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Sure, it had a tendency to frizz when it rained, but it was thick and shiny and tended to stay put if I threw in a few handfuls of product on my way out the door.
“I know someone.” She gestured to the fitting room. “I’ll make a few calls. We’d better get started. We have a lot of work to do. And don’t worry about the cost. Jack has it covered.”
“Makeovers are one of my favorite tropes in rom-com movies,” Chloe said to Olivia. “Especially when someone else is paying.”
“I’m not getting made over,” I shouted from a dressing room that was almost the same size as my basement suite but much more lavishly decorated. “I’m perfect just the way I am.”
“Okay, babe. Whatever you say.”
Twelve
Chloe and Olivia showed up at Rose’s house on Thursday night just as Rose was putting the finishing touches on my makeup.
“Are you here to drive my pumpkin coach to the ball?” I called out from the kitchen. “My fairy godmother is almost done.”
“We’ll do you one better than a pumpkin,” Chloe said. “There’s a limo outside and a man in a uniform waiting by the door.”
“Showtime.” Rose draped my new black cashmere wrap around my shoulders. Chicago weather being unpredictable, Clare had been concerned I would get cold in my one-shoulder hot pink evening gown. Made from gazar fabric from some obscure designer, the dress featured ruching along the bodice and a cape skirt overlay. It was smooth and sleek, hugging all my curves to perfection. The bill for my outfit—dress, shoes, bag, wrap, and jewelry—had been more than three months’ rent. There was no way I could pay Jack back unless we were able to retrieve the necklace and claim the reward.
“Oh. My. God.” Chloe slapped a hand over her heart. “You look incredible.”
“You look amazing,” Olivia said. “And I say this despite the fact you have dressed for the patriarchy you have internalized since birth. I personally choose to reject the restrictive fashions that are designed for the male gaze and are rooted in socially constructed gender norms. When I’m not vibing with the Goth look, I wear gender-free lingerie, pro-women sweatshirts, elastic-waist pants with functional pockets, giant glasses, padded running shoes, and blanket scarves to keep me warm. I dress for comfort, protection, convenience, and ease of movement, and not as a sexualized, idealized object of heteronormative desire.”
“Um . . . thank you. I think.” I shot a questioning glance at Chloe and she grinned.
“I couldn’t be more proud.”
“I’ve never been to anything like this,” I said to Rose for the fourth or fifth time that evening. “I don’t know how to act.”
“Act rich.”
“How do rich people act?”
“Like they don’t give a damn about what people think about them, although secretly they do. And say ‘darling’ a lot but pronounce it ‘dahling.’？”
“She should have a cigarette,” Olivia called out from the couch. “It looks cool.”
Chloe’s head whipped around. “Only if she wants lung cancer. Is that what you want? Lung cancer? You’d better not be smoking.”
“Mom. Seriously. Chill. Gen Z’s don’t smoke cigarettes. It’s so old-school.”
“That’s good to hear,” Chloe said. “I thought—”
“We vape.”
“What?” Chloe’s voice rose a few decibels.
“You’re so easy to wind up, Mom. It’s not even fun anymore.” Olivia gave an exaggerated sigh and went back to staring at her phone. “Have a good time, Simi!”
“Thanks, dahling!”
Jack’s driver didn’t talk except to call me ma’am, which made me feel like I was past my prime. After a few fruitless attempts at conversation, I helped myself to the mini bottles of champagne in the ice bucket beside me then moved on to the free snacks in case platters of hors d’oeuvres weren’t enough to sustain me. By the time we reached the InterContinental Chicago, my tension had ebbed, and I was buzzing and ready to party.
Jack was waiting at the curb. He opened the door and helped me out of the car. Then he stared at me like I’d grown a second head.