Chapter 16
Recent transactions:
Several hours later, I’m grimacing at the past month on my expenses spreadsheet and trying and failing to unsubscribe from
FemTech Monthly before I get charged again. A brisk knock sounds at the door. I jump to my feet, collecting the papers into a pile and sliding
them under the duvet.
Oliver is holding about twenty dress bags over his arm. “Honey, I’m home!”
I’m briefly impressed by his single forearm holding them all before pulling him into the room in case someone sees it. “Why
do you have so many?” I stare at the pile as he dumps them on the bed.
His eyes, almost amber in the dim light, cut to mine. “I don’t enjoy my job, but I am thorough.”
I scan the array of multicolored dress bags covering the duvet like jewels. “There’s thorough but then there’s . . . Did you
tell the intern to buy an entire store?”
With his hands on his hips, he shoots me a side-on glance. “Imagine what I could achieve when I’m actually enjoying myself.”
“I don’t need to imagine, thanks,” I counter, immediately regretting my phrasing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smiles slyly at me, and for some unfortunate reason, it’s working. I tamp down
on the fizzing feeling in my chest and cross my arms.
I roll my eyes, clipping my hair up. “Just shut up and hang them nicely over there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His accent pops. I watch his shoulder blades move against his T-shirt as he hangs up the dress bags one by one
in the wardrobe. My eyes travel to a pair of black boxer briefs hanging over the armchair. For fuck’s sake, Spencer. I thought
I’d hidden everything of his before Oliver arrived, giving the impression that I am definitively not staying in the same room
as my boss. I whip the underwear off the chair and stuff them into my bag before Oliver spots them.
When he turns around, I cross my arms again, pretending to look at something incredibly interesting out of the window. “Thanks,
I’ll just be a few minutes.” I click on a couple more lamps to counteract the 4 p.m. late January sunset.
“Take your time. And I’ll be right outside if you need any help.”
“Great, thanks!” I shoot him a sarcastic smile, pushing him out of the room.
When the door clicks shut, I stand in place gathering my thoughts as the tingle of his body dissipates under my fingers.
I unzip the first outfit, a mustard-yellow dress bag with the words Magie de la mode written in a white scrawling font over the center.
It’s a formal black dress, fairly unremarkable, but I can tell just by touching it that the fabric is expensive.
I sneak a look at the tag and stifle a gasp.
Jesus Christ, thirteen hundred euros. I hesitate, then run to wash and dry my hands before delicately pulling the dress from the bag.
Despite its obvious luxury, the dress looks terrible on me. More like a sack than a dress that costs over a grand. But maybe
this is what Jocelyn is going for: a serious businesswoman. The opposite of sexy. My back starts to sweat a little. I sigh
and shuffle to the door.
Oliver turns around. “That was quick.” His face creases in confusion when I just reveal my head. “Everything okay?”
“I’ve only tried on one.” I hide my body behind the heavy door, not wanting him to see me looking like this. “I just need
to know what the vibe is, for the dinner.”
His face bemused, he confirms, “It’s a formal dinner.”
“I know, but what does that mean? Do you know what the other women are going to be wearing?”
He purses his lips. “It’s a Michelin-starred dinner for the executives. Jocelyn is the only woman attending.”
My eyes couldn’t roll any harder if I tried. “That’s both depressing and not at all helpful.”
He resigns himself, sighing and pulling out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Gettying,” he says. For a second I’m confused, but quickly realize he’s looking up her name on Getty Images. How often does
this woman get photographed?
“From what she’s worn to other events, I’d say . . . smart but formfitting. No cleavage but you can see her . . .” He searches for the right word. “Curvature. Y’know?” He holds the phone out, showing me a series of event photography with the Getty Images watermark layered over the top.
“Okay, cool, that helps. Thanks.” I slam the door the tiniest bit harder than necessary.
I try on ten more dresses at lightning speed, immediately hating each one as I put it on.
Eventually, I stumble upon a ruby-red dress with promise. Once I’ve fumbled around with the stiff zip, I have to give myself
a second glance. It’s figure hugging without being skintight, enough to show curves without looking too try hard. Long sleeved
with a skirt to the knees, but with its sweetheart neckline, it’s still flattering. I pull my hair down, moving it to one
shoulder to match how Jocelyn seems to style it in the Getty Images. My reflection stares back at me until I decide that this
is the one with some accessorizing. I slip on my one pair of black heels and put on gold drop earrings and a red lip to match
the dress.
Smoothing down the dress over my waist and thighs, I tilt my head and imagine wearing something like this on the stage Spencer
is gracing tomorrow. A smart, confident, elegant woman is something I don’t think anyone will ever see me as. When people
look at me, they see a reserved control freak who is out of her depth and desperately trying to look the part. I think it’s
what Dr. Bernie saw in me when we met at the hotel. But wearing a dress like this, maybe I could be something different. Someone different. Someone deserving of greatness.
The door clicks open; Oliver looks up from his phone and blinks rapidly. “Whoa.”
My cheeks match the fabric as he takes me in, the side of his mouth twitching upward for an instant.
Smoothing down the dress because what else do you do with your hands in this scenario, I huff an embarrassed laugh.
Hands on hips feels too “look at me” and waving jazz hands and saying “ta-daaaa!” doesn’t feel like the chic woman who would wear this dress.
I smile politely. “It’s the most flattering . . . I’d go for this one,” I say.
He leans into the doorframe. “Yeah, I would too.” He runs his eyes over me for a few euphoric moments before clearing his
throat, giving his head a light shake. “That’s the one; thank you for your help.”
“No problem, of course it would be the two-thousand-euro one.” I take a deep breath. “Do you need to take the dresses back
now?” I gesture over my shoulder with my thumb into the room, my heart starting to pound. I don’t really know what I’m actually
asking, but safe to say neither of us is thinking about Jocelyn’s outfit choices.
“Yeah, I do,” he answers, his low timbre and eyes on me making me want to try on a million more things for him. He follows
me into the room, his jaw subtly tensing.
“Okay, one sec,” I say, taking a long overdue exhale once I lock myself in the bathroom. Him looking at me like that is not
exactly the “friendly” behavior we agreed upon. And neither is the feeling between my thighs.
Zipping the dress up was hard enough, but as I tug on the metal toggle to pull it down, my stress levels start to spike.
Fuck. I tug and tug, throwing my body from side to side as I try to yank myself free.
I let out a yelp as my elbow smacks into the metal towel rail.
After the longest six seconds of my life, I give up, holding onto the edges of the bathroom sink as I try to calm myself.
I’m going to have to pull myself out of this thing one way or another, but the warmth from the towel rails and underfloor heating is making me sweat even more.
I step in circles around the bathroom and lift the skirt hem up over my body until it hits my waist.
Okay, this is fine. I can do this.
I take a deep breath in and then fully exhale until my chest is as deflated as can be before pulling the remaining fabric
up my waist and over my chest. Except, I don’t get it over my chest; instead the seam of the dress cinches inward like a bear
trap over my boobs and pins me, arms upraised, in a red fabric prison.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”
The panic truly sets in when I remember I’m wearing makeup, fucking red lipstick that I stupidly put on to . . . what? Impress
Oliver? Now it’s going to get all over this two-thousand-euro dress, oh my god. I’m sweating, now I’m sweating. Sweat patches,
foundation and lipstick are rubbing all over the front of this two-thousand-euro dress as I fling myself around the room like
one of those dancing noodle arm inflatables until the heel of my shoe collides against the metal bin with a loud gong.
“Fucking hell!” I growl from inside my 100 percent ethically sourced, sustainably recycled viscose tomb.
A brisk knock is followed by Oliver’s muffled voice from behind the door. “Everything okay in there?”
“Uh-huh, everything’s fine!” I shout, my voice clearly shaky and panicked. My biceps are cramping from being stuck above my
head at this angle.
“Are you sure? Because it kind of sounds like you’re in the middle of a fight?” The voice sounds even more muffled now, like
he has his face up against the door. “Or is this the wrestling you were talking about at the café?”
“I’m fine, I’m . . . I’m just stuck.” My chest is heaving, tightening the fabric around me like a boa constrictor.
He’s silent for a few seconds. “Stuck, how?”
“Like, stuck in the dress!” I shout, almost scream.
“Can I help you?” His voice levels.
“No.” My voice cracks on the word. I don’t want him to see me like this. Exposed like this. He has his phone with him and
I’m fucking trapped. My heart pounds at the thought of him seeing me like this.
“Violet, can you please let me help you?” he says, but I can barely hear him over the ringing in my ears. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I clamp my eyes shut. “Only if you leave your phone outside.”
“Okay, sure. Let me in,” he says. It’s not exactly a request, but he avoids saying it in a demanding tone.