Chapter 36
Gen
Maddy’s words are still rankling when we leave the Connaught.
There’s nothing in life more irritating than not being able to find a flaw in other people’s logic.
Especially when it opposes yours. In my head, Anton Wolff is a dangerous man whose dangerous looks and dangerous appetites could totally derail me and the carefully honed equilibrium of my life.
So her and Belle’s insistence on painting him as this worthy, honorable, eligible suitor pisses me off, frankly.
Matches’ personal shopping services are located in a beautiful redbrick townhouse on Carlos Place, right across from the Connaught. The room we’re in has thick white carpet and sage-green walls. A large brass free-standing clothes rail hangs empty, waiting to be hung with goodies.
My personal shopper, Amandine, has excellent taste and knows me and my style well.
I don’t buy everything from Matches, of course—they don’t carry Chanel, or several of my other favourite labels—but together Amandine and I have created a timeless, elegant capsule wardrobe that showcases my figure and sees me through most of my professional and social engagements.
I have a feeling that’s about to be blown out of the water.
‘The stuff you put her in is stunning,’ Maddy’s telling Amandine now, ‘but she’s off to Cannes, and we think she needs to loosen up a bit.’
‘Structure works best for my figure,’ I warn Maddy, trying not to lose my shit too early. ‘Amandine knows that. Tailoring is my friend.’
‘We can do some hidden tailoring, maybe,’ Amandine muses, looking me up and down. ‘It won’t be too hot yet, so you can stick to structured if you prefer.’
‘Excellent,’ I say at the same time Belle says, ‘Maddy’s right. You should go loose and flowing and sexy.’
An image of myself in Grecian-style drapery, flowing sensually in the breeze, makes me want to giggle.
‘Loose and flowing and sexy is for women like you guys, who have hollow legs and unfairly good figures,’ I retort.
‘Nope,’ Belle says. ‘Uptight is not a good look in the South of France, Gen. Maddy’s right. You need to loosen up. Would you wear a bikini?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I say in horror.
She turns to Amandine. ‘We’re going to need some great one-pieces, then. Sculptural. You know. Maybe some one-shouldered ones, a bit of cutout waist action, maybe a belted one.’
Amandine nods. ‘Completely agree. And some gorgeous cover-ups to match.’
‘Yep.’ Belle nods. ‘Do you know where you’re staying yet?’
I shake my head. ‘Not a clue. I imagine somewhere in the middle of town. The Carlton? The Martinez?’
‘I think we should try some more flowy numbers for evening, too,’ Belle muses. ‘Can you bring out some Zimmerman and some Chloe? What else should she consider?’
Amandine surveys me once again, tapping her chin. ‘Farm Rio?’ she suggests.
Maddy and Belle both oooh in unison. What the actual fuck?
‘What is Farm Rio?’ I demand.
‘Brazilian brand. Highly patterned. Very fun and fabulous,’ Amandine says.
I narrow my eyes. ‘That doesn’t sound like me at all.’
‘Well it needs to sound like you,’ Maddy tells me. ‘We need all the prints, because you are going to be fun and fabulous next week if it kills me.’
Fifteen minutes later I’m standing in my knickers and surrounded by a haze of colours I haven’t worn in years. My palate is usually monochrome, neutrals and blush tones. Two of the dresses on the rail are actually orange, for fuck’s sake.
I try on a glorious Lanvin which is a little too formal for what I imagine we’ll be doing next week, which is hitting up some bars and clubs.
Next up is a Farm Rio maxi-dress in lightweight cotton with a flounced skirt whose fullness is beautifully balanced by a plunging V necklace and subtle cutouts on the waist. The print is large-scale royal blue and green on an off-white background.
It’s like nothing I’d ever choose for myself, but I truly love it. I look like a totally different version of myself.
‘It’s amazing!’ Belle says, clapping her hands together excitedly. ‘You have to get it! God, you have gorgeous skin.’
‘Only one problem,’ I say, tucking my hands under my armpits like a chicken and tugging at the armholes of the sleeveless dress as I survey myself in the mirror with narrowed, critical eyes. ‘I can’t wear a bra with it.’
The concept of going braless is horrifying. I know my body, and it appreciates having some serious architecture underpinning its clothes.
‘With tits like that, you don’t need anything,’ Maddy says. ‘The Big Bad Wolff will go wild for it. Let it all hang out, that’s what I say.’
‘Why does it feel like that’s more of a life philosophy than a boob philosophy for you?’ I grumble.
But I know I’ll take the dress.