Twenty-Two
“Grab that beaded chiffony thing at the back. Perfect for India.” Lucy is sitting cross-legged on my bed, sipping a tequila
as I take everything out of my wardrobe, and lay it on my bed, trying to figure out what to pack.
I reach to the back and pull out a diaphanous chiffon caftan, tiny beads and seed pearls around the collar and cuffs. I stare
at it with no idea where it came from.
“Fuck! That’s mine! I haven’t seen that for years!” Lucy grabs at the chiffon to inspect it.
“I have no idea how it got here, I swear. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s too see-through for India, but take it for the South of France.”
Lucy takes a sip of her tequila and gets back to work.
“No.” She tosses a pair of shorts onto a pile on the floor. “No, no, no, yes.” She puts one black off-the-shoulder top to
one side. “No. Jesus, Missy. How old are your clothes?”
I look at what she has tossed on the floor. Blue cotton shorts that I have owned since high school. T-shirts with slogans on the front that I have bought at concerts over the years. White linen tops that I have loved and worn so often the underarms are now yellow. My jeans.
“Not the jeans! Why are you putting my favorite jeans in the ‘no’ pile?”
“Because you’re representing ipryy as the CEO. You’re not going to be in jeans. You’re going to be super fabulous.”
I think about the Journal piece. Being super fabulous is the last thing I want to be right now. In fact, given the choice, I would quite like to crawl
under a rock and disappear for a very long time. I have thought, many times since reading that piece, whether it would have
made a difference had I not been wearing Lucy’s gold sequin pants and Aquazzura sandals. Jerome says the journalist had an
agenda, and nothing I wore, said or did would have changed her mind. “Look at how she described your perfect manicure.” He
took my hand and we both examined my short, unpainted nails. “There was nothing you could have done.”
I wonder if he’s right, though. If I had showed up in something more akin to the kinds of clothes Clara wears. A simple black
dress, black pants and a white shirt, an outfit that allowed me to disappear rather than one that shouted I was there.
Lucy stops sorting out the clothes and looks at me. “You’re thinking of the gold sequined pants, aren’t you?”
I don’t know how she does this, but she has been able to read my mind ever since we were children.
“No,” I lie. Badly.
“She would have stitched you up regardless. Have I ever steered you wrong when it comes to clothes?”
“Maybe just that once?”
“You could have been wearing a trash bag and she would have said it was a latex over-the-top designer indulgence. Let me help
you pack. You’re never going to be able to handle outfits for three places.”
“Do I have anything I can bring?”
“Not much.” She stands up, hands on hips, and surveys the small “yes” pile. “But there are two bits of good news. The first
is you’re now CEO of ipryy which means you’re making real money which means we can go shopping. The second is, I’m your best
friend, and I have the best closet of anyone I know. Mi ropa es tu ropa.”
She curtsies, straightening up as a door slams.
“Noah!” yells Lucy. “We’re in Missy’s bedroom. Come and help us pack. Bring Missy a cup of tea.”
Noah appears a couple of minutes later, bowing in the doorway. “Your wish is my command.” He hands me a mug and nestles against
the pillows.
I stare at him for a second, thinking how good he looks in my bed. Stop that, I tell myself, shaking my head to dislodge the
thought.
“Can you imagine having to pack for six weeks away?” Lucy chatters away, organizing the clothes on the “yes” pile. “We need
to think capsule wardrobe for each place, and frankly, I’d go shopping.”
I am useless at shopping for clothes because they don’t interest me very much. I have thanked the Lord for the internet on
a regular basis for years, because I no longer have to go through the ignominy of badly lit dressing rooms, curtains that
don’t close properly, and trying on clothes that I couldn’t care less about.
“Also—” Lucy peers at me “—I’m giving you permission to have fun.”
I shake my head with a sigh. “This isn’t about fun. This is business.”
“Nothing is ever just business,” Noah chimes in. “Especially glamorous places like Europe and India! This is the opportunity
of a lifetime—you have to enjoy every minute. I’m just a lowly musician, but aren’t these conferences all about connecting?”
“He’s right!” says Lucy. “You’re not corporate, and you shouldn’t try to be.
In life you’re always going to get ahead by being who you are, not by trying to, what’s that thing Clara says?
Think like a man?” I nod. Lucy snorts with disdain.
“That’s ridiculous. That’s not who you are.
I guarantee that’s why your dad put you at the head of the company.
You connect with people because you’re brilliant, and curious, and humble, and down-to-earth. ”
“She’s also spectacularly beautiful, and fun, especially when you’ve had a couple of glasses of rosé.” Noah winks at me, and
I resist the urge to blush.
“You don’t care about clothes, but whatever you put on always looks a bit bohemian, which I love,” says Lucy. “Don’t ever
pretend to be someone you’re not. If you let the real Missy Cooke shine, you can not only change the face of ipryy, you can
change the world.”
“Yeah!” Noah punches the air, and I follow suit, letting out a loud “whoop.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’d make a great motivational speaker?” I am only partly joking, because I am not only brimming
with confidence, but have caught Lucy’s energy, and am now fully of the belief that I can change the world.
“I would make a great anything,” Lucy says. “Seriously. I believe I would be great at whatever I put my mind to. Now I need
to get you to believe the same thing about yourself.”