Chapter 25
Contessa
I run down the steps, ignoring his instruction to have his damn driver take me home. Then I slam the door to the street and march to the subway, fighting back tears.
The night is closing in and there’s a chill in the air as I run underground to get my train.
When I emerge at Grand Central I dig out my phone to call Allegra to see if she can give me a ride.
For once I don’t want someone’s ‘men’ to collect me from the station in Port Washington; I just want people who are real and won’t lie to me because I’m a pawn in some chess game.
I swipe the screen and a half dozen notifications pop up. Text messages, phonecalls and VMs—all from Paige. Instead of reading and listening I hit the green button and wait for her to answer.
“There you are! I’ve been trying to get ahold of you since class.” I thank the good lord she can’t see the blush flood my cheeks at the memory of where I’ve been, or the scowl that chases it.
“Sorry Paige, my cell was at the bottom of my purse and I just got off the subway.”
“I was calling to see if you wanted to come out this evening. My friend has just started working at a cool bar in the city and he can get me and one other onto the guest list. This is your chance to redeem yourself after standing me up the other day.” She finishes on a giggle.
“Okay… Um, maybe.”
“Where are you?” Her voice is threaded with excitement and it’s infectious.
“Grand Central.”
“Shoot. Can you get to Brooklyn College? I could collect you and bring you back here and we can get ready together. What do you think?”
My initial reaction is to say no, because just the thought of socializing with people I barely know tires me out, but the sting of Bernadi’s rejection is still so acute I can feel it across every inch of my flesh.
I want to be rid of it, and what more satisfying a way to do that than by spending a night out dressed in next to nothing—something I now know Bernadi would hate.
“What about my clothes and make-up? I don’t have anything with me.”
Her voice dips. “Babe, I have enough for both of us, and half the street.”
“Then, that sounds amazing,” I reply. “Only if you’re sure, though? I don’t want you to have to go out of your way—I can probably hail a—”
“On my way!” I hear a set of keys jangle and a door bang shut. “I’m not far from that station at all—I’ll see you there.”
I’m practically hopping from foot to foot with nerves when I see Paige parked outside the station. But, as I’m beginning to understand, nerves don’t have to hold me back from doing anything. Look at what I did to Bernadi, and I was crapping myself.
She leans over the seats of her truck and pushes the passenger door. “Get in!”
I slide onto the seat. “Where’s the belt?”
“Isn’t one,” she replies, spinning the car across the street to head in the opposite direction. “So, hang on.”
When we reach her apartment I estimate I’ve lost half a stone in sweat. The girl drives like she has nine lives. Me on the other hand? I think I’m down to seven, and after today, maybe six.
We climb the steps to her place and I ask if I can use her bathroom.
I can still feel Benito’s come across my chest and need to be rid of it.
When I return, Paige immediately furnishes me with a margarita that is so strong it burns my throat.
But after the afternoon I’ve had, I don’t care.
I drink half in one gulp and relish the citrussy zing as it takes a layer off my esophagus.
“I’ve dreamed about this day, you know.” She guides me toward her closet.
“What do you mean?” The fuzziness in my head relaxes me and I take in her apartment. It’s dressed up like an extra from Moulin Rouge. Everywhere I turn there’s a corner filled with bright feather boas, and sequined jackets flung over velvet button-backed chairs.
“I love the whole Wednesday aesthetic you’ve got going on but I would kill to be able to do you over in some color.”
I follow her into the master and the first thing I see, aside from a bed with makeshift four posts embellished with vintage lace piano shawls, is a stunning fifties-style dressing table—all cream and gold and completed with a light bulb studded mirror.
It's decorated with enormous old glass jars filled with golden perfumes and cloud-like cotton balls.
It is far from tidy, but that’s what I love.
It’s messy and lived-in and filled with heart.
There are clothes lines hanging in a crisscross formation below the high ceilings, peppered with lace underwear and chiffon babydoll dresses.
She catches me staring and tips her head to one side.
“I do burlesque,” she says with a shrug. “To pay the rent.”
All I can utter is, “Wow.” Because never in a million years would Allegra or Papa let me step foot inside a burlesque club, never mind on the stage. “I’m kinda envious.”
She grins at me and clamps a hand over a door handle. “If you’re envious of that, just wait till you see this…”
With true dramatic flair she pulls open two doors, revealing what I can only describe as the closet of dreams.
“Pick whatever you like,” she says brightly, then skips past me to refill our glasses. I stare at the one she just took from me. No idea when I’d emptied that.
I gently draw items of clothing along the rails, inspecting each one, then I find the perfect garment.
It’s a short satin babydoll dress in midnight blue that nips in slightly below the bust and flares out just above the knee. The skirt is somehow weighted down and the hem decorated with feathers. I’ve never seen anything like it before, but the shade is just a touch darker than my eyes.
“I would have picked that one out for you too,” Paige says, reappearing with a refilled glass. “I’d love to see you wear it.”
I take a long sip of the margarita then place it on the dressing table. I strip down to my underwear then step into the dress. It fits like a glove.
“Wow,” Paige says, turning me to face a mirror. “You look stunning. And I haven’t even done your hair and makeup yet.”
I wasn’t expecting her to do my hair and makeup but I don’t say anything because I’m speechless. This dress makes my legs go on for days. Normally I’m embarrassed by how pale-skinned I am but this dress is a celebration of my porcelain, almost blue-toned hue.
“Are you sure I can wear this?”
“Wear it? You can have it. Now that I’ve seen what it looks like on you, I’ll never be able to do that thing justice again. It was made for you, Tess.”
“I can’t take this,” I say.
She laughs. “You already did. Now, sit. The least you can do in exchange for that dress is let me give you a makeover.”
I bite my lip and glance at her in the dressing table mirror. I don’t usually wear makeup, and the most I do to my hair is wind it into a ponytail, so the idea of being made over is a little disconcerting.
“You look petrified,” she says, giggling. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m no longer bothering to pick my jaw up off the dressing table.
I have no shame. Paige really does know what she’s doing.
She’s lifted my hair at the roots and curled the ends so that it bounces when I move my head.
She’s put various creams on my face to make my skin appear dewy and fair, and she’s applied make-up so expertly, it looks though I’m hardly wearing any, but my face is flawless, my lashes thick and long, my lips full and moist.
I manage to tear my eyes from my reflection and glance up at her. “Can I keep you?”
She puts her arms around my neck from behind and gives me a light squeeze, being careful not to smudge or ruffle any of her work. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She straightens and I turn my head this way and that, taking in all the details while she changes into a short pinafore dress over a chiffon T-shirt and Mary Janes.
My lips curls. “I only have my sneakers.”
“You can borrow these,” she says, then she reaches into her closet and pulls out a pair of soft brown leather thigh-high boots.
I almost choke.
She senses my trepidation. “You won’t look like a hooker. Trust me. These are Cristian Dior. Got them at a super high-end flea. Researched them and they sold full price for nine hundred dollars.”
I’m in awe as I take them from her.
“You’re a seven, right?”
I nod, bend over and slip my feet into the boots then unfold as I zip them up all the way to my mid-thighs.
Well, Christ on a cracker.
“Come on, a Lyft’s on its way. We should get going.”
I quickly text Allegra to say I’m hanging out with a friend from dance class, so she doesn’t worry that I’m not home for dinner, take one last look at myself in the mirror, then follow Paige out the door.
“What is this place?” I crane my neck to look up at the building. There’s no sign on the walls to tell us what we’re lining up to get into.
“It’s called Arena. It’s kind of exclusive—not many people know about it. Only the ones who matter if you know what I mean?”
“And we matter?” I raise a skeptical eyebrow.
She returns a wink. “We do to my friend who works behind the bar.”
“Good answer.” I grin and pan my gaze along the people in front. I count three Fendis, a real mink and some exceedingly expensive looking shoes. There’s a lot of money in this line.
We reach the front and the guy at the door appraises us. His gaze flicks to me and hovers, making me look back over my shoulder to see the more interesting person behind me. There’s no one.
“It’s Paige Thorp. I’m a friend of Cassian’s.”
The guy’s focus slides down my body then he looks at the list in his hand.
“You can go right on in, Miss Thorp, and Miss…”
His gaze flicks back to me.
“Castellano,” I reply.
“Miss Castellano.” My name rolls approvingly off his tongue and I flush. I don’t have time to become too flustered though because Paige grabs my hand and pulls me through the ropes into the club.