Chapter 23
Dress for the job you want, not the job you have – that’s what they say, right?
Do you think that applies to men, too? Well, not literally, I’m not saying dress for the boyfriend you wish you had, rather than the one you do, I just mean that if you’re inviting someone out for dinner, and you want it to be a date, dress like it’s a date.
So, I’m dashing around the shops, weaving in and out of Christmas shoppers, trying to find a dress to disarm Jordan Bill.
I’m after a little black dress, something he’s never seen me in before, which will hopefully make him lower his defences, take me out somewhere, and then give me access to his room.
It is absolutely not because I want him to think I’m attractive. And if you believe that, I believe there’s a bridge somewhere nearby I could sell you…
It’s so lovely to see the city decked out like a department store window display.
Twinkly Christmas lights hang between skyscrapers like constellations.
Wreaths and garlands grace almost everything that’s grace-able (I just saw a dog wearing a wreath around its neck).
And there’s even a brass band playing ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’, infecting everyone with festive cheer.
I start at Bloomingdale’s, because: when in New York, right?
There’s an entire section of designer dresses on the second floor, most of which cost more than my flight here – and I googled it, my flight here was eye-wateringly expensive.
A very chic assistant with icy blonde hair and a designer dress of her own follows me, probably because she’s ready to assist me, but I’ve seen Pretty Woman .
Not that I’m giving escort today, I don’t think.
I’m saving that for tonight, once I’ve found the right dress, but believe me, I’ll be looking like an incredibly expensive one.
‘Just browsing,’ I mumble, in case she does think I seem a little sus.
She gives me a reassuring smile and floats away, presumably to help someone who isn’t dressed head to toe in the UK high street’s finest.
I do pick out and try a few things on. One dress is so tight I nearly crack a rib trying to zip it up at the back.
Another has cut-outs that suggest the designer has never met anyone with more than 8 per cent body fat – I try it on, of course, in the privacy of the fitting room, but the holes look more accidental than fabulous. Sort of like I just Hulked out of it.
I have some time to kill, so I try a few places, before ending up in SoHo, where I find a little boutique sandwiched between a bakery and an art gallery, and inside, things are a lot more me. Unique, funky, relatively inexpensive (despite the escort comment I made earlier).
And then I find it, the little black dress of my dreams. It’s short and fitted – strapless, but it will look great with my boots and my leather jacket. So long as it fits…
I take it into the changing room and peel off my coat, my jumper and my jeans before carefully stepping into the dress and, yep, this is the one. It fits like it was made for me.
Hopefully I don’t look like a spy, or a Bond girl, just a normal woman, going on a date… even if it’s not a real date. I need to keep reminding myself of that.
I stare at my reflection for a little too long and notice that my cheeks are flushed. Great, I’m embarrassing myself in front of myself. I hadn’t even realised that was possible.
Wouldn’t it be even more tragic, being this deluded, only for him to say no, he doesn’t want to go out with me? Well, why would he? And I don’t mean that in a self-deprecating way, I mean he’s a busy and popular man and I’m an employee that he doesn’t entirely trust.
But Paige did say he would date anyone, so with a bar that low, how could I fail?
I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?