Chapter 13 Erin
Erin
“Well, this is the most exciting thing to happen to me since Live Aid.”
I glance at Mallorie who is skillfully flicking through a rack of dresses in the women’s designer section of Saks Fifth Avenue.
“You were six years old when Live Aid happened.”
She squints, taking in the detail of a particularly well-embellished neckline, then skims along. “Exactly.”
“And this isn’t happening to you,” I add, half-wishing it was.
“It’s happening to me by proxy, darling. You need to try this one. It’s perfect.
She pulls out a beautiful cocktail dress and I have to agree, the color is rich and decadent and the cut would flatter even a cucumber.
No sooner do I mutter something that sounds like agreement, than a sales assistant is taking the garment from her hands to hang with the others that I—actually, Mallorie—has selected.
I armed myself with my stylist friend because, as much as I like to shop for clothes, I am a little out of touch with what’s considered to be non-casualwear, and Mallorie is a professional.
“I think you have enough for now.” Mallorie takes my arm. “Let’s see how everything fits.”
We reach the dressing room and I reluctantly step out of my comfortable Lululemon leggings and tee, then pull on the first dress. It’s a blue satin midi dress with a deep V-neck and cape shoulders. It ripples seductively over my hips, the gathered fabric pinching in my waist.
A little gasp escapes me at how effortless it feels. I’d always expected clothes that aren’t made for stretching to be scratchy, stuffy and uncomfortable, but this is the exact opposite. It feels like I’m wearing air.
I pull back the curtain and step into the small area where Mallorie is waiting to give her verdict.
Her jaw drops.
“Oh my God, Erin! Look at the legs you’ve been hiding. Jeez, I could lick them.”
“Please don’t.”
“Seriously, though. You look sensational.”
I turn to face the mirror. “It looked so simple on the hanger,” I marvel.
“It looks anything but simple on you. That’s going in the bag.” She snaps her fingers. “Next!”
I slip out of the satin dress and reach for the one dress that drew my eye. Mallorie’s eyebrows shot up when I showed it to her but I like it. It’s fun and frivolous and could be just what I need.
After zipping up the back I turn to peer at my reflection.
It doesn’t look quite how I’d pictured it.
The round neckline makes my breasts look like boulders and the feather wrist cuffs are more excessive now I’m wearing it.
There’s no waist to speak of, making me a look a bit like an ocean-colored, sparkly box.
I step tentatively out of the dressing room. Mallorie straightens and chews away a smile.
“Don’t take this personally but you look like a cross between a sunbathing seal and Big Bird.”
I take the price tag between my fingers. “Wow, that’s fourteen hundred dollars-worth of harsh.”
I frown at the view. I look like I’m getting ready to star in a pantomime. “But yeah, you’re right,” I mutter, shuffling back behind the curtain.
The next dress—a velvet Alberta Ferretti—gains both our approval, as do the next few dresses. All of which were selected by Mallorie, which tells me I should never be allowed to go designer clothes shopping alone.
“So, is this guy a billionaire or something? These dresses aren’t cheap, Erin.”
I finish zipping myself into a Prabal Gurung cocktail dress and step out to face her.
“I don’t know. I guess so?”
Mallorie leans forward and makes a spinning motion with her finger so I obey, giving her a 360 degree view of the outfit. “What exactly do you know about him?”
“That his name is August King and he owns a hedge fund company. And he isn’t married. And he needs a fake wife so he can broker some kind of deal.”
When I face her again, one brow is arched.
“And he’s really hot,” I sigh.
When she doesn’t respond, I grab my phone and pull up the King Investments website which I have open already on my browser and may have looked at several thousand times in the last thirty-six hours.
Mallorie takes my phone and barely glances at it. “Gorgeous.”
“God, I know right? But he’s also a presumptuous, arrogant, annoyingly smooth, inhumanly strong asshole. If I survive the seven days, I’ll deserve a medal as well as the two hundred thousand dollars.”
I look at Mal to see her staring at me open-mouthed. “I meant the dress.”
“Oh.”
“But let’s unpack a little more of that please. What do you mean by insanely strong?”
I return to the dressing room for the last outfit—the wild card, as Mallorie put it. It’s a deep red sleeveless mini dress draped in tiny, delicate red ropes. It looks like it was born in a VIP lounge.
I step into it, feeling the snug fit as I close the zipper. “Remember the piano upended in the crate of mannequins?”
“Uh huh.”
“Moved it himself, single handed. The mannequins too. Not a drop of sweat on him and all done in the space of ten minutes.”
My mouth dries at how stunning this dress is. It makes my legs look like skyscrapers, my waist like a pin. The little ropes float up when I turn, giving the dress movement.
It’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn.
I pull back the curtain.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “A bit like the Terminator, but with slightly smoother conversation.”
“No, I mean the dress.”
“Oh God, of course. It’s pretty, right?”
“It was made for you, Erin. We’re getting that one. Now back to your husband. Are you saying I paid you a full day rate and he did all the work?”
Oops. “Maybe,” I wince.
Mallorie laughs but doesn’t withdraw said payment, thank God. I’m not rich yet.
“Anyway, he’s not my husband.” I fold my arms. “I wouldn’t marry him if he was the last man on earth.”
“But he knocked someone out for touching you…”
I shrug. “Yes. So?”
“Do you know how many guys would actually do that for a woman?”
My frown lines are getting a work-out. “No.”
“None, Erin. Zero. That only happens in the movies, not in real life. And even then, it’s only if they really dig the woman.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that either this guy likes you, or he’s simply got a lot of strength and an anger problem.”
“He definitely doesn’t like me. But he does have muscles bursting out of his skin. So, that and I guess he has an anger problem.”
Mallorie stares at me for a few beats. “You got pepper spray, right?”
I thin my lips, humoring her. “Yes. Three cans, just to be on the safe side.”
“You need to check in with me twice a day, okay? Tell me exactly where and what your plans are.”
“I will do.”
Her shoulders relax and she smiles, wickedly. “Okay. Thank you. Now… lingerie.”
I shake my head, laughing. “I’m not buying lingerie. He said to buy dresses, not lingerie.”
“Oh, come on,” Mallorie says, waving me back into the dressing room. “You can’t pull off designer dresses without decent lingerie and some of these dresses don’t cost a thousand so you have to make up the difference somehow.”
I regret telling Mallorie about my minimum spend limit, but she does have a point.
“And shoes. These outfits won’t be complete without some great heels.”
“Fine,” I mutter while pulling on my trusty leggings.
Thirty minutes later, the sales assistant is running up seven cocktail dresses, three day dresses, one pant suit, a summer coat, three sets of skimpy lingerie and four pairs of Jimmy Choos.
“All together, that comes to seventeen thousand dollars.”
Her smile is as extravagant as the commission she’s about to get, while my stomach is threatening to evacuate out my ass.
Thankfully, Mallorie takes over as if she spends this kind of money on the daily.
“Thanks so much. Please charge it all to Mr. August King. I believe you have his details.”
The sales assistant taps her screen a few times then looks up at us both.
“That’s all gone through. Have a great day now.”
We take the bags between us and walk out of the store in silence. Once outside, we face each other, our cheeks red and our eyes giddy. We squeal loudly at the same time, making at least two passing pedestrians leap out of their skin.
I feel like I’m sixteen again, having just been handed my first paycheck.
Just before we head our separate ways, Mallorie pulls me in for a tight hug.
“Will you promise me something?”
I nod in her arms. “I will check in twice a day and carry pepper spray with me at all times.”
She straightens her arms and shoots me a sincere look.
“In addition to those things, there’s something else.”
My chest steels, anxiously. “What is it?”
“You’ve been someone else’s vision of a housewife for twenty years.
You’ve been the center of your daughter’s life since she was born.
You don’t need to worry about her, okay?
Your mom might be a battle axe to you, but she dotes on Paige, and I’ll check in on them both—you don’t need to worry about a thing.
I want you to treat this retreat as a break, some time for yourself.
You talked about being a support act before.
This isn’t that moment, alright? Be the lead female for once. You deserve it.”
I can feel a tear swell behind my eyes. I’ve been playing this role for so long I’m not sure how to live life any other way.
“I have a good feeling about this August King person, and not just because he’s bought you a seventeen-thousand dollar closet. He’s come to your defense, he had your blouse dry-cleaned, and he helped you at the storage unit. Take what he offers you, Erin. If only for a week. Enjoy yourself.”
Her earnest expression morphs into something mischievous. “And then come home and tell me every tiny detail so I can live vicariously through you.”
I grin and nod. “Okay.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Then I walk away feeling lighter that I have in a long time.