Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I unclip Heartthrob’s leash and pick up my purse, glancing at the clock. Anton was up and out of the house hours ago after a brief, stilted exchange where I assured him my stomach had made a miraculous recovery. I guess that was enough for him to head to the gym like always. Normally on a Saturday, I would be at work by now, but the lingerie store doesn’t open until ten, so I decided to run some errands and take the dog for a walk since I’m leaving him home today. But it feels like I’m playing hooky.
My phone rings as I’m heading for the front door, and I cross my fingers it’s not my contractor calling with yet another setback on the new space. I can only take my life falling apart one piece at a time. But it’s not him, it’s Charlotte, my lawyer. “Lydia, I’m glad I caught you.”
“Hey Char, how are things? Did you get my email about the franchise question?” I cradle the phone between my ear and my shoulder, doubling back to the kitchen to give Heartthrob a treat before I leave.
“Yes. Though I had been hoping for a more serious reply,” she says gently.
I bite my lip, recalling my flippant wording. “Um...sorry, it was kind of late when I sent that.”
“I know you’ve got your hands full. ”
“Well, to give you a real answer, I have honestly never considered turning either business into a franchise. I don’t think I’d even know how to go about that.” I pause, considering for a second. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m just trying to get a sense of your plans for both Ooh La Pooch and The Pooch Park moving forward,” she says. “An attorney has been poking around, asking me questions.”
“What kinds of questions?” I ask, frowning.
“Mostly general stuff. They won’t tell me much, so I’m not giving them much. But it sounds like someone may be interested in an acquisition.”
I snort. “Wait. Like, someone wants to buy one of my businesses?”
“Yes. I figured you wouldn’t be interested, but thought it was worth at least proposing the franchise idea.”
Heartthrob sits patiently in front of the pantry. I give him a sweet potato chew and lean back against the counter. “Who is the interested party?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Charlotte says in her easy, matter-of-fact way. “The attorney’s from out of town, and as I said, they’re pretty tight-lipped. I told them to bring us an actual offer and we could chat more.”
My shoulders release. “Oh, okay, so this isn’t like a real thing I have to deal with?”
“No, not yet,” she says in her most reassuring, motherly tone. “Don’t get too excited about it at all. People ask questions like this all the time and nothing comes of it. Just stay focused on what you’re doing, but keep in mind that you’re successful, and people see that. So maybe start thinking about what you want down the road.”
I let out a grateful sigh. I have enough on my plate right now. I can barely fathom what it’s going to be like trying to operate three business locations instead of two. Or what’s going to happen with my marriage after Monday. I have a feeling I might want to throw myself into work even more very soon. A lump rises in my throat. For a second I wonder if I should ask Charlotte for advice about dividing assets, but she’s not even the right kind of lawyer. And while I’m sure she could give me a referral, my chest tugs when I think about putting that into words just yet. Some hopeful, stupid part of me wants to see what happens first.
“I’ll give the future some thought,” I promise in a shaky voice. “But yeah, I’ve only started to build my businesses. If they do call back, you can tell them I’m definitely not selling.”
It’s just shopping. For clothes. In a store.
This is what I tell myself as I walk through the doors of Allure Lingerie in the posh Cherry Creek neighborhood. I hold my head high, trying to appear confident, like I belong, but as soon as my eyes hit the tasteful white furniture and elegant gold racks of bras and underwear, I imagine my mother suggesting what type of women probably shop here.
“Hello.” A tall, beautiful Black lady approaches me.
I glance up, and my mind goes blank. Apparently so does my face.
“You look like you could use some help,” she adds.
I take a step back toward the door, wondering if I can pretend I walked in by accident. There’s dog hair on my shirt. I don’t have on any makeup. I can pretend I was looking for something else—an art gallery, a church .
But as I’m about to hightail it back out to the sidewalk, the woman smiles. It’s not a knowing, derisive smile like I expect in a store like this, but an attentive, professional one. I glance again at the racks of frilly undergarments. If I’m going to pull off my plan, I need all the help I can get.
“Yes...I do need help,” I admit, figuring I should stick as close as I can bear to the truth. Buying lingerie doesn’t make me a cheater. I just need to look like one . “My anniversary’s coming up. I’m looking for something to um...spice things up?”
“Ah, yes. I think I can guess what you’re looking for,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Georgina. I own Allure.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m...” For a moment I consider offering a fake name. To buy a bra. “I’m Lydia.”
I follow her to one corner of the store. Everything is plush white and pristine, and thankfully hardly anyone else is in here. Classical music plays in the background, and the light coming from a few well-placed crystal chandeliers is soft. A younger salesgirl offers me champagne, which I turn down because, hello, it’s ten a.m., but also, I’d feel stupid drinking champagne in a T-shirt and leggings.
I think I spot one of the items I picked out online—something white and complicated, with laces and boning and lots of satin that reminded me of weddings—and I start to move toward it. But Georgina turns the other way, selecting a little black bra made of the sheerest fabric I’ve ever seen. If someone could have designed a bra made of nothing, this seriously comes close. It looks like it’s held together with frills and air.
“We just got these in. They’re very fun, with beautiful detail, and of course there’s a matching panty.”
I cringe. If there’s a word out there worse than tits , it’s got to be panty .
I examine the “panties” front and back, only I find there is no back to them at all. It’s not like a thong—there’s nothing in the middle at all—just a delicate lace border around a wide gaping opening where apparently all my cheeks will spill out. What is even the point of that? I can’t bring myself to look at Georgina. I’m positive my face is redder than the satin thongs she’s standing next to.
“That certainly is . . .”
“Why don’t you try it on? It does leave a lot to the imagination.” If she winked at me, I would’ve walked right back out the front door, but she doesn’t. She’s placid and professional.
“Um, okay, sure,” I say, because at this point I feel like trying it on might be the fastest way out of here.
“Wonderful. Do you know your size?”
“Yes, 34C.”
She wavers, taking another look at me. “Do you mind if I just measure to be sure? Some of our brands don’t fit like others.”
“Okay...” Really? I haven’t been measured for a bra since my mother took me down to some awful store in the mall when I was fourteen. I’ve always been that same size. It’s never changed.
We step back into a dressing room, and after five long, cold, topless minutes where I hold my arms up, down, stand, and bend over, Georgina straightens with her tape measure, looking satisfied. “I’m thinking...30F.”
My jaw drops. “I beg your pardon?”
She smiles. “Many women who come in here discover they’re wearing the wrong bra size.”
“But I’m not...there isn’t any such thing as a size F ,” I say, crossing my arms over my boobs.
“It’s not as common in the US—we can’t seem to get past our Ds—but European bras are sized with a more logical system. Let me find you a couple of things to try on...besides this.” She hangs the sheer set on a hook by the door.
I say nothing as she disappears. The woman is nuts, and now I wish I’d just gone to the mall, or even Target. There is no way I’m actually that many cup sizes bigger.
She reappears a few moments later with a couple more lacy-looking numbers, but she’s also holding a gloriously simple nude T-shirt bra. “Try this one first and see what you think.”
I press my eyes closed as she exits, then reach for the nude bra. It’s molded, and the band is so small the cups look like freaking hot air balloons. I glance at the UK 30F on the tag and roll my eyes, ready to confirm that Georgina’s crazy measurements are off.
It’s so snug around my ribcage I can barely latch it on the first hook, but when I scoop myself into the cups the way Georgina instructed, I’m shocked to see them totally filled. I stare at the mirror, turning sideways to the left and right. My breasts are up high, front and center, in a flattering position I’ve never seen them in before. The cups are rounded and pretty, and the whole thing is actually super comfortable. I grab my T-shirt, slip it back on, and I’m stunned. It doesn’t even look like the same shirt. My waist appears longer and slimmer, giving me more of a real hourglass shape. I have never looked like this in a bra.
I stick my head out of the dressing room and find Georgina returning with a couple more simple bras. “Oh, lovely! Do you mind if I take a look?”
She has me remove my shirt, lean forward and jiggle, then straighten. Nothing pops out the top or needs to be rearranged like I am used to doing with my old bras. I can’t remember ever feeling this way in my underwear—supported and secure.
“Yes.” She beams. “That’s much better. ”
“I think I’ll take this one,” I say grudgingly, but also eyeing the new sets with more optimism. “And I guess I should try on what I actually came in for.”
She leaves me with an array of satin, lace, and bows. I reach for the made-of-nothing set to eliminate it first. Even in the right size, I’m positive it’s going to look ridiculous. I take a minute to figure out what goes where since the structure of the bra seems like a suggestion at best, but I finally figure it out and even pull the “panties” on over my big, comfy, full-coverage nude underwear.
My face goes scarlet in the mirror. A phrase Caprice uses— sex on a stick— comes to mind, and I blush even harder. I may have needed a lot of imagination to consider this set, but very little is required once it’s on. My nipples are completely visible through the sheer black fabric, and the way the bra is structured, my breasts look like two floating snow globes, my bare skin rising and falling above the neckline with each breath. It plunges in the middle, giving me gravity-defying cleavage I wouldn’t have thought physically possible. And the panties. Oh my God. Even over my wide cotton underpants, even with certain vital areas missing, they flatter my hips and ass and suggest nothing but sex, sex, sex.
They’re perfect.
More than an hour after I walked in, I step out of Allure Lingerie wearing my new favorite nude bra, feeling more attractive than I have in months. I carry a bag with two delicately wrapped fancy bras and panties. Which, I have to admit, do seem totally different from the cotton bikinis I call underwear, making them perfect for the next step of my plan.
A small flash of regret flutters through me that I only bought this lingerie as a means to end my marriage. The delicate fabric makes me feel so sexy and feminine, it seems a bit of a waste. But I want Anton to see everything he’s losing when I wear it. Everything he thought he could find elsewhere. I never want him to forget how good I looked right before I told him I want a divorce.