Chapter 21
BIX
The limousine waiting outside Sterling Records gleams as the smartly uniformed chauffeur opens the door. “Ms. Bismark?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. LaRue is expecting you.”
As I enter the limousine, I inhale the scent of dark cologne curling through the cool air.
The mysterious Antoine is angled toward the window, long, elegant fingers clasped around a matte-black cane, a trendy fashion accessory made popular by the recent dandy look at the Met Gala.
“You’re one minute late,” he says, turning his head enough for me to catch the full effect: ebony skin, sculpted cheekbones, and a gaze that travels over me with unhurried intention.
“But I forgive you. Style should always enter fashionably.”
“Thanks. Chalk it up to having just walked out of my old life and into this one.”
He smiles faintly, like someone suppressing a secret. “Milo said you had bite.”
“And you’re here to declaw me?”
“Oh no. Just polish the teeth.”
We ride in silence until the limousine turns on to a quieter stretch of Park Avenue.
“Tell me, what do you think a woman in love with a rock star wears to brunch in Saint-Tropez?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re not building a music career, darling. You’re building an illusion. An uptown girl with downtown daring. She summers, but doesn’t post about it. She glows, never sweats. She’s money without anxiety, silk with structure.”
“Sounds like fiction.”
“Of course it is. That’s why people believe it.”
The limo glides to a stop in front of Bergdorf Goodman. The revolving doors look like golden portals into another dimension.
We step into the perfume-clouded cathedral of fashion. Antoine leads me into a private, chic styling suite tucked behind velvet ropes.
A tall woman emerges from a side corridor with dark hair scraped into a ballet bun.
“Mr. LaRue,” she says, her voice filled with respect. “Your suite has been prepared.”
Antoine turns to me with theatrical solemnity. “Bix. Now the work begins.”
Inside, the suite is part hair salon, part designer couture sanctum. Sunlight filters in through elegant gauzy curtains. On a small table sits a silver tray with pale pink macarons and two flutes of something bubbly.
“It’s not Champagne,” Antoine clarifies. “I ordered elderflower sparkling tonic. No alcohol. Sharp lines need sober minds.”
I bite my lower lip to stop myself from hurling a snarky comment. It’s just fabric we’re talking about, right?
Antoine gestures for me to sit in a low, soft chair beside a curved mirror. “Let’s examine the raw material,” he murmurs, waving the hairstylist over.
I tense. “You’re not touching my hair.”
“No,” he says tactfully. “Your curls are divine. But your blonde can use a lift.”
“It’s natural!”
“Just a touch of gloss. And your hair could use a trim.”
Antoine snaps his fingers, and a hairdresser appears.
“You can’t touch my hair!” I say.
“And why is that?”
Both Antoine and the stylist look at me.
“Because...”
Because Slayer likes my hair the way it is, I feel like saying. That night we spent together, I remember the way he twirled that guitar-strumming forefinger of his through my curls.
And the delighted expression on his face when he unrolled one of my natural spirals, and it curled right back up again before his eyes.
Then I remember the way he fisted my hair as he drew me in tight for a kiss, his hands sliding firmly over every curve and plane of my body like a sculptor.
He seemed to love me then. Why does he hate me now?
What did I do to have him to glare at me like that after the faux audition?
“We’re only going to brighten your hair, and give it the tiniest of trims,” says the stylist, showing an eighth of an inch with his finger.
I nod, resigned, then grimace repeatedly as my hair is washed, sectioned, snipped, and blown dry.
Antoine circles me like a sculptor prepping his block of marble. Then he fires off another list of demands for the assistant taking detailed notes.
“No sharp silhouettes. Nothing vulgar. No logos. No daring cuts. Not yet.” A pause. “The power comes in suggestion.”
“Right on it,” the assistant says, returning shortly with an assortment of dresses, eveningwear, and elegant casual clothing on a rack.
“Ah, this is it!” Antoine says, pulling aside each item to make a thorough assessment.
For the next hour, he sends me into the dressing room with item after item.
Each time I come out, he makes me stand on a circular riser while he accessorizes me with oversized jewelry and silk scarves.
When it’s all over, I turn to face myself in the mirror.
My reflection surprises me.
I look expensive. Composed. Like the kind of woman who has opinions about wine vintages.
Maybe even the kind of uptown girl who plays footsie with handsome rock stars under the tables of five-star restaurants.
You never know.
“You’re wearing Max Mara,” Antoine informs me. “Like the look?”
I caught the price tags on only a few of the items. Outrageous. Each piece Antoine selected represented months, maybe even an entire year of busking in the park, my fingers freezing to gather loose change.
“Yes, but I bet this outfit could pay a semester of my college tuition.”
“You mustn’t think that way. Look,” he says, his eyes softening for the first time as he pulls me down to the white sofa.
“Sterling paid me a lot of money for this shopping expedition, and that’s not even including the clothes. He knew I could give you the appearance of an uptown girl who captured Slayer’s eye. But my powers are limited.”
“What do you mean? You did a great job! At least, I think so.”
“What I mean is that I can make you look like a million bucks. But only you can internalize it so you act the part, not just rock the look.”
I nod, though I don’t totally understand. I’m still thinking about Antoine’s words as the limo takes me back to the apartment I share with Keesha. The clothing, he told me, will be sent directly to the private jet.
As I look into the driver’s rearview mirror, I gasp. For the briefest of moments, I could swear I saw Hilary beside me.
And she was smiling.