16. Octavia
Chapter 16
Octavia
M y mom loves me.
I really believe that.
She was never a bad mother, she just didn’t like doing it very much.
That’s why, in spite of my begging and pleas, and in spite of my dad’s longing for more children, I remained an only child. Sometimes I overhead her telling people that she wished she hadn’t had a kid. It hurt back then, but as an adult, I’ve come to understand a little more.
Some women shouldn’t have kids.
Society tells us that we all should. It says without having children, we aren’t complete. There’s something wrong with us. We’ll be sad when we’re older. For a lot of women, having kids helps them step back from selfishness and learn to care about other people more than they do themselves.
But some people, some people don’t want kids. They don’t want to let go of their own desires. They can be good people, but they just don’t want what they were stuck with. For them, kids are like an anchor dragging them down and drowning them.
My mom’s like that.
Knowing you’re an anchor isn’t really very fun.
When my mother calls, I groan a little, but it’s early enough that we haven’t even reached the store to shop yet—we still need an outfit for the album cover, because so far Bea has hated everything I like—so I answer. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“When are you coming back?” she asks.
I haven’t talked to her in weeks, but there’s no lead-in, no niceties. That’s just how she is. “Good to hear from you,” I say with a half-smile. “Yes, I’m loving being in LA, especially as New York’s probably getting colder and colder.”
“Well of course it’s nice in LA,” she says. “That would be like saying it’s cold in the North Pole, or it’s sunny in Iraq.”
“I have two more weeks here,” I say, even though it’s technically just one day more than a week. When I get back, it’ll be nice to have a few days that she’s not sure I’m home yet. My mom tends to ask for a lot of favors when I’m around. “We’ve recorded the songs, but we have some promotional stuff to do, we’ll have some edits to make, and we’ve got album cover photos to take.”
“Can’t they just do a little icon or something?” She coos. “A gremlin would be great. That fits your beautiful disaster theme.”
“That’s another song, Mom. Ours is gorgeous monstrosity.”
“I also forget you copied them.” She sighs. “Fine, no gremlin. What do I know? I’m just a washed-out community theater actress.”
She means washed-up, but I’m smart enough now to never point out inconsistencies in her sayings or vocabulary. “I’m not saying that, Mom. They don’t let me make the decisions on really anything, though.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s all very hard to be stuck dealing with the whims of a big studio and a huge album deal.” She snorts. “My condolences.”
“I’m not saying that, either. All I’m saying is?—”
“Two weeks,” she says. “Then you’ll be back home.”
“Right.” Why bother arguing? It’s pointless.
“Your father’s driving me nuts, you know. He doesn’t want to bother you, but he’s desperate for information, and for some delusional reason he thinks I might have it. As if my now-famous daughter cares a bit what her mother knows.”
“I’m hardly famous,” I say. “And I’ve texted to tell you all the relevant information as it happened.”
“You haven’t said a word about any handsome movie stars, so I’m guessing that’s all just a publicity stunt? Were the little clips staged, too?” She doesn’t wait for me to even say anything. “How is Jake Priest in real life? Is he just horrible? I bet he’s rude, and brags, and he’s demanding. They always are.”
I think about correcting her, but it doesn’t seem to be worth the energy. “Mom, I have to go.”
“Great, yes, you go and do all your big, important things. I’ll just hang around here, ignoring messages from your father since you never text or call him.”
“Okay, Mom. You do that.” I hang up.
“What about this?” Bea’s standing in front of a shop, her gaze locked on the work of art in the window.
It’s a massive, full-skirted ball gown that’s entirely and completely impractical. The skirt’s touching the ground for at least a foot all the way around, and it’s made up of dip-dyed, bold, autumn-jewel toned swaths of crepe fabric that fall down from the bodice in a stunning cascade. The bodice itself is made of what look like carefully shaped and possibly embroidered sections of chiffon feathers and leaves.
It may be the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.
“That thing must cost an absolute fortune.” Like, the same price as a car.
“The shop’s called Helen Spinelli.” Bea frowns. “I’ve never heard of it. Maybe things that are new are cheap.”
“Well, let’s go inside and you can try it on, but I’m telling you, there’s no way our budget will cover that. We’d need the movie’s costume budget.” I shake my head. “But you do have exquisite taste, and I’d be happy to kick in my entire share for that—I can wear anything.”
“Wait.” Bea drops her hands on her hips.
“What?” I point. “We won’t know how bad it is until we ask. Places like this don’t exactly post a price card in the window.”
“We may be operating under a misunderstanding. Are you thinking I want this dress for myself ?” She snorts. “Because that would be ridiculous. I’m five feet tall and the most introverted person you know. I would never wear this dress, not in a million years.”
“It’s perfect for you. Your face’s basically a work of art,” I say.
“No.” Bea shakes her head. “That dress screams Octavia.”
“That?” I can’t help pointing at it to emphasize my incredulity. “You think that gorgeous ball gown with a million brilliant colors that swirls and poofs and highlights my shoulders—one of which I never expose—and puts all the focus on my face, neck, and hair. . .you think that dress screams Octavia ?” I can’t help laughing. “Have you met me?”
Bea tosses her head. “Just go in there. I’m getting a call—I’ll meet you inside in two minutes. At least ask what it costs and try it on. If you hate it, I’ll never bring it up again, and I’ll agree to whatever other outfits you pick.”
Trying this dress on is a ridiculous suggestion.
There’s no way that I would ever wear that dress for anything, much less to be the focal point of an album cover that’s going to be pushed hard. But once I do it and say no, she’ll let me pick something less in your face , and we can finally be done with all the never-ending searching. I’ve always hated shopping, but finding the perfect outfit for an album cover is the worst shopping task I’ve ever been set.
“Fine, but no photos once we’re in there.” I point.
She nods, presses her phone to her ear and waves.
I go inside—reluctantly—and then I see the price of the gown. It’s seventeen thousand dollars. I almost laugh my way out of the store, but there’s no way that even Bea could justify spending that. That means that once I try it on, she’ll have to concede to me. As I’m standing here, I can’t help wondering whether shops like this even let people like me try on gowns like this one.
“Can I help you?” The woman walking toward me is exquisite. She’s the kind of person who should be wearing this. She’s tall, thin, and just perfection all around. There’s not a blemish, not a wrinkle, and not a single discoloration marring the beauty of her face.
I feel really stupid even asking about trying it on. “I’m looking for something to wear on the cover of an album we’re about to release.” Why did I say that? “This is probably out of our budget.” I swallow. “But my partner really thought it might be the perfect thing.”
“Are you wanting to borrow it?” The woman frowns. “Because we don’t really do that.”
I shake my head. “No, of course you don’t.”
Bea blows through the door like a tiny hurricane. “She’s going to try this on.” She folds her arms.
The woman blinks. “We don’t really do?—”
“You don’t allow people who are looking for clothing to come shop in your store? Or you don’t let people who are going to be spending. . .” She glances down, and her eyes widen infinitesimally, but she doesn’t react beyond that. “. . .seventeen thousand dollars on one of your works of wearable art try them on?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “I find that hard to believe.”
The woman frowns, and even then, she looks like a print model. “Your partner here says it’s out of your budget.”
“Did she?” Bea laughs. “Good thing she’s not in charge of the money part.” She waves. “I imagine it’s a one-of-a-kind, for that price?”
The woman’s frown deepens, impossibly. “It is.”
“Perfect.” Bea’s beaming, the counterpoint to Grumpy Bear. “My friend is, too, as you can see. They don’t make beauty like hers more than once.”
I expect Grumpy Bear to laugh, but she glances my way again and her eyes widen. “You’re Jake Priest’s girlfriend.”
I swallow.
“Here, let me get it off the dress form.” She keeps her eyes down the whole time, never meeting my eye. I can’t tell whether she’s embarrassed or just finds my face hard to look at. I suppose it doesn’t really matter.
It takes her longer than I expect to get the whole thing off the mannequin, but once she does, it takes all three of us to bundle it back and into the dressing room. I actually feel a little bad, making her go through all that, even though she was a little snotty. Bea must know we can’t afford this now that she’s seen the price tag.
“We should not be doing this,” I hiss, once I’m in one of their two massive dressing rooms with Bea helping me into the rainbow cupcake.
“Hush, you.” Bea slaps my arm. “Bra off, loser. There’s no way you’ll like this with straps showing all over the place.”
I turn around just to glare at her. “There’s no way we’re getting this, so why does it matter?”
“Just do it.” Bea’s glaring so fiercely that I almost laugh.
It’s not often someone like me gets to dress up like they’re the Princess of Monaco. This might be my one time, ever. And if I stand with my right side toward the mirror, I might not even hate it. I might even have Bea snap a photo after all.
I tug my bra off, and then Bea helps me zip the back up. I’m surprised to find that they have supportive bra cups built into the sleeveless sheath form, so I don’t even look like I’m sagging to my knees. Though, for seventeen thousand dollars, it should play the piano, clean my room, and lift and shape my bosom.
Now that I’m looking at it up close, I realize how very delicate the carefully shaped and embroidered chiffon actually is. When I gather up my skirt, the tiny bits flutter and shift, and even looking down on it from above as I am, it almost looks worth the steep price tag.
For one tiny moment, I find myself wishing I could buy it.
I’m far too practical, of course. I would never. But I can see why Bea wanted me to try it on. “You know we can’t buy it,” I whisper. “But I don’t regret putting it on, other than feeling a little guilty.”
Bea arches one eyebrow. “You have to leave the dressing room to get the full effect.”
I turn around and realize for the first time that there aren’t mirrors in here. “Why don’t they have mirrors in a dressing room?”
Bea grabs the handle on the door. “They have a wall length floor-to-ceiling mirror outside. Didn’t you see it?” She tilts her head. “These aren’t the kind of clothes you can appreciate without something like that.”
When we walk out, I realize I didn’t even glance to the left as we walked back. I was too busy shifting the dress inside the room without letting it snag on anything. I couldn’t imagine the horror of tearing a seventeen thousand dollar ball gown. I would die.
“How would I even move in this?” I ask.
“There are spots in four places where we can gather the skirt underneath when you need to move in it, but they would be custom tailored based on the purchaser’s height.” The woman’s voice startles me. I had no idea she was waiting outside for us, like a spider. Is that normal?
In places like this, maybe it is.
I swallow, and I move slowly toward the mirrors, but to see how I look, I’m forced to climb up onto the raised dais. It’s all such a big production, like I always imagined trying on a wedding gown would be. Though in my wildest dreams, I never considered I’d wear an off -the-shoulder dress for my wedding. Even if this thing wasn’t seventeen grand, the bare shoulder would be enough for me to rule it out.
I spin around and face the mirrors, and it’s. . .
The gown was gorgeous in the window, but it looks much, much better than I ever thought it could. I shift naturally so that my left side’s hidden, and I smile just a little. “It’s really stunning.”
“Turn straight,” Bea says. “You look amazing , like the masterpiece I always knew you were.”
“Maybe a Picasso,” I say.
Bea shakes her head. “Stop and look in that mirror.”
I do as she asked, and when I really look. . .I don’t look bad. I mean, one side of my face still looks melted. My shoulder, too. I hate it. But it’s. . . In this, I almost don’t care. The asymmetry of the dress makes the asymmetry of my face less displeasing.
Not that it matters.
Our costume budget’s a grand—for the two of us. I’m not about to pay what I’d pay for a car to buy a dress I’d never have anywhere to wear and couldn’t even fit in my closet.
Bells jingle up front, indicating that someone opened the door.
The woman clears her throat. “I’ll be right back. Take your time.” She ducks down the hall, presumably to talk to the customer who’s currently staring at the mess we left of the front window display.
“We have to buy it,” Bea says.
“We?” I snort. “Absolutely not.” She’s standing at the very back of the shop, so I turn to look at her while we talk. “I humored you. I put this on, and we took way too much time away from this poor woman, and now I’m going to change and we’re going to go pick out something completely fine, like a pair of dark jeans and a chunky sweater from Anthropologie. Heck, I’ll even let you pick something weird, like an asymmetrical sweater.” I nod slowly. “Yes, that will be fine.”
A soft exhalation behind me has me spinning around in panic.
Jake’s jaw’s almost draped on his chest. “That’s—it’s—you’re.” He swallows, finally closing his mouth. “You have to get that. It’s the cover.”
The shopkeeper’s literally standing right behind him. I shove the words past the rictus of my fake smile. “Bea, did you call Jake?”
She grunts. “I knew I needed reinforcements.”
“I’m glad you like it,” formerly Grumpy Bear, now Sunshine Bear, says.
Jake snaps a photo.
“Hey,” I say. “Bea promised me no photos.”
He shrugs. “I wasn’t a party to that short-sighted promise.”
I’m going to have to steal his phone and purge any photos later. “Do not send that to anyone, or I will straight up murder you.”
“You can’t do it now,” Jake says. “Even if Bea won’t testify against you, Cordelia just heard that threat.” He tosses his head. “She’d make sure justice was done.”
I roll my eyes. “Alright, well, the show’s over. I’m going to change.”
“Wait.” Jake throws up a hand.
“What?” I pause.
He smiles.
“ What ?” I ask.
“I just wanted to see you in that for one more minute.”
“While she changes,” Cordelia mutters, “I’m just going to go kill myself.”
“What?” Bea looks as confused as I feel.
“You two are disgustingly cute,” Grumpy-turned-Sunshine-Bear-whose-name-is-really-Cordelia-but-I-will-refuse-to-use-it-in-my-head says. “Meanwhile, I’m still single.”
The jealousy from her almost makes me smile. Perfect Cordelia’s single. Not for long, I imagine. “Okay.” I throw my hands up in the air. “That’s enough silliness. I’m going to change.” Only, no matter how I turn, I’m going to walk right past Jake with my burned shoulder. While I’m trying to work out how to back up in this dress, he walks toward me.
And he picks up one side of the dress—the left.
I suppress my cringe and force a smile. “Thanks.”
“A true pleasure,” he says. “You are literally the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my entire life.”
Bea makes retching sounds, but she’s smiling. “You two really are disgustingly adorable.”
“You have to get this,” Jake whispers. “It’s perfect for the album cover because it looks like it was made for you.”
I gather up the right side, and he helps me into the room much more elegantly than Bea did before. The fact that I’m wearing the dress now probably makes the process much simpler, but still.
As he releases the gathered skirt folds, he leans close to me, his face pressed against my left side. “I mean it. This will make the album. It makes me want to refilm our music video.”
I roll my eyes. “Did Bea fail to mention that it’s seventeen thousand dollars?”
“So what?” Jake asks. “You’re worth a hundred million.”
“That’s so corny.”
He sighs. “Well, get changed and I’ll try and convince you over lunch.”
He and Bea both try, and both fail utterly to make any headway.
“How did you get away for lunch?” I ask. “I thought you were working basically all day and most nights this whole week just to try and get caught up.”
“Bea actually called my director and said she hurt her ankle and was in the hospital.” He sounds pretty ticked. And then he smiles. “It was brilliant.”
I can hardly believe it. “So the entire crew’s waiting on you, and they think Bea’s injured?”
Jake shrugs. “This was important.”
“Hardly,” I say. “Because under no circumstance are we buying that dress. Neither of you is going to do it, either. It’s too expensive, and it’s not practical, and most of all, it makes me uncomfortable.”
“Because of her face,” Bea mock-whispers. “She thinks she looks bad.”
“I don’t think I look bad.” I don’t bother saying that I know I do. “But you know when you see people wearing something that’s too small? It’s just not flattering on them. That doesn’t mean they’re fat. It just means that outfit isn’t their best option.”
“But that was flattering on you,” Bea says. “So stop with all that.”
Jake holds out his phone and points. “You looked. . .like some kind of pop legend.”
“At least that’s better than what Bea said.”
Bea frowns. “What did I say?”
“She said I look like a Picasso.” I can’t help myself. I wiggle my eyebrows.
“Oh, shut it,” Bea says. “You got me.” She glares Jake’s direction. “I one hundred percent did not say that. I said she was a masterpiece.”
“Picasso was probably the most famous painter of all time,” Jake says. “I won’t even laugh at that joke.”
After lunch, Jake has to rush back—reporting that Bea made a miraculous recovery from her “sprain,” but we keep shopping and I practically shove her into Anthropologie for a look around. It’s just pricey enough we may have luck, but cheap enough it could come in under budget.
We’ve barely walked past the front display when I see it—a minidress that would be utterly indecent on its own, but covered with a mermaid-silhouette lace overlay, it’ll cover me from wrist to throat to ankle.
They even have it in both black and ivory.
Bea sighs. She turns to face me slowly, but then she nods. “Fine.”
It’s not a work of art, but we look pretty darn good. We also come in under budget, and no one’s going to be bugging me to wear something I have no business wearing. But as I pack for our quick trip back to New York, a tiny part in the deepest corner of my heart laments that I won’t ever own that Picasso ballgown.
In another life, it would have been epic on me.