11
Lia
Owen: Hey
Lia: what about dress code
Owen: Formal
Lia: what are your female friends wearing
Owen: Bold of you to assume I have friends
Lia: ha
Owen: Pick you up at 7?
Lia: nope. ill meet you there
Owen: Fine
Clothing is not only self-expression; it’s armor.
Of course, armor is only as effective as the weapon it's matched against in battle. So, as I get dressed for tonight’s party with Owen’s law firm, I make some broad, sweeping generalizations about the kinds of weapons and battles I’ll be facing tonight.
Battle Number One: Rich people who only like other rich people. This is pretty easy to navigate—just wear something that looks expensive. Well-fitted silk or satin should do it.
Battle Number Two: A museum director who probably values artistic expression only within the confines of respectability politics.
This is a bit tricker but not impossible.
Whatever I wear will have to be relatively conservative in terms of cut, fit, and neckline, but still have some interest in the color or design.
Then—both last and least—Battle Number Three: my best friend’s annoying older brother.
Manipulating Owen to my will is going to be a critical part of today’s battle strategy. Fortunately, since he’s a sleazeball, he shouldn’t be hard to push around as long as I’m in something sexy and slinky.
Analysis complete, and I’ve got just the dress.
When my Uber pulls up in front of the venue, Owen is waiting on the curb in a charcoal gray suit, white shirt, red tie. Perfect. He looks up from his phone and spots me and for a moment—just a flash—he forgets to control his expression. Awe slackens his features.
I knew this dress would do the trick.
Picture it: true crimson, floor length, a slit on the left that’s just high enough to be sexy without being too much, the satin hugging every single curve and plane of my body.
The neckline is high, skimming the bottoms of my collarbones, but the back is where it really shines.
A deep cowl skims the middle of my back, hair pulled up to reveal the expanse of smooth skin there.
Pair it with gold earrings and gold stilettos and the look is objectively flawless.
Owen’s pupils blow wide as his gaze drags down my body, snagging slowly on my chest, my waist, my hips.
I would be pissed if it wasn’t exactly the reaction I had in mind.
“Like the view, Owen?”
That snaps him out of it. He forces his expression into a noncommittal frown as he says, “Passable.”
“Right,” I scoff.
He extends an elbow towards me, offering to escort me inside. But if he thinks we’re just waltzing in there without strategizing first, he’s got another thing coming.
“Wait, hang on. This isn’t a social call. This is a business endeavor. We need a game plan. Here—” I drag him around the corner by the arm.
“Ow.” He tugs out of my grip. “Do we really need to do this in an alley? My coworkers are gonna think I’m doing coke or something.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Surely the coke is inside the party.”
“That’s finance, Amelia. We’re lawyers.”
“Potato, po-tah-to. Anyway, I have a first draft plan, but since I’ve never met this person I want to do a bit more research before going in.”
He gestures out with open hands. “Go ahead.”
“You said you’re friends with her, or friendly with her, right? Also, what’s her name?”
“Himari. Himari Mori.”
“And her wife’s name?”
“Her first name is Suzanna. I don’t know her last name.”
“Hold please.” I take my phone out of my handbag and proceed to open up the PDF of the Institute of Contemporary Art’s board of directors, which I pre-downloaded this morning.
Owen, looking at the screen over my shoulder, asks, “How did you get that?”
I look up at him with disdain. “Aren’t you a lawyer? Shouldn’t you know that nonprofit 990s legally have to be made publicly available and list their board of directors?”
“Huh.”
I skim the document quickly. “Suzanna… Suzanna… oh here she is! Suzanna Kominska. Hold please.” I stick a finger up between us, Owen continuing to watch over my shoulder as I open LinkedIn.
“Bachelor’s degree from Brown—well isn’t she fancy. Master’s in arts administration from BU—oh, that’s good! My college advisor went to BU, I wonder if they know each other.” I quickly scan through Suzanna’s other LinkedIn contacts but find nothing. “Bummer. Okay, next plan.”
I pull up Google and cycle through the first few pages of results for all the basic prompts:
Suzanna Kominska
Suzy Kominska
Suzie Kominska
Suzanna Kominska Boston
Suzanna Kominska ICA
Suzanna Kominska Boston University
“Oh, look!” I say, grabbing Owen’s arm. “She worked on a temporary exhibit at the Fogg with Franc Engles last year. That’s perfect, I know him. Okay, we’ve got our in. And you said her wife’s name was Himari Mori?”
Cue round two. LinkedIn. Google. Wikipedia. Contact searches. Articles. We’ve been outside for nearly twenty minutes when Owen decides he’s had enough.
“Amelia, this is getting absurd. I’m going in. Are you coming?”
“Yes, okay,” I say, distracted as I quickly scan the rest of the article before me, then click my phone screen off. “Okay, ready.” I take Owen’s elbow, LARPing as a person who would ever willingly touch him. I need to look like I belong here, after all.
These kinds of parties are ludicrous in their entirety.
An excruciating limbo between professional and personal, with the all-around air of a mom telling her fourteen-year-old she can have one drink as long as it’s inside the house.
There’s a live band playing a cover of “Come On Eileen” to a dancefloor of exactly zero people. At least the food and drinks are free.
The main room is ornately decorated: high tops draped in white, warm low lighting, chandeliers twinkling overhead. The event is packed, and Owen scans the crowd with a complete lack of subtlety.
I tug his shoulder down and hiss, “Don’t be so obvious you’re looking for someone. We have to end up near her by coincidence.”
“How are we going to find her if I don’t look for her?” he grits out.
“How tall is she?”
“Short. Five-three maybe?”
“You know where we would have a really good view of the room?” I turn my head just slightly, eyeing the wide-open dance floor.
“No.”
“I’m just saying—”
“And I’m saying no. Really. This isn’t like a cute thing where you’re going to convince me with your feminine wiles.”
“So you think my wiles are feminine?” I wink, and I can practically see the steam rising from his ears.
“I’m serious,” he says. “I’m not dancing at a work event. You can dance alone and I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”
“Shocking that you don’t have more friends with such a fun and charming attitude,” I say.
“Bite me.”
“Maybe if you ask nicely.”
He rolls his eyes, which has me grabbing his arm and pulling him closer to me.
“Hey, stop that. We have to look like I’m your date to this thing. Can you pretend you enjoy my company for a few hours?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just… smile and shit. Put a hand on my waist. Act like a person. You have seen people before, right? Even if you’re not one yourself?”
He obediently places a hand on my waist, shifting his body closer to mine. “You know, I’m beginning to think this whole thing was a ruse to get my hands on you.”
His fingertips press into the red satin at my ribs—a test and a challenge.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, placing my hands on his biceps in a show of workplace-appropriate flirtation. “I’m well aware that I could say the word and have you on your knees.”
His body shifts closer to mine, our gazes locked, his second hand finding my waist with equal ardor. “Maybe we should test that theory sometime.”
And he’s making it almost too easy. I lean forward to murmur in his ear, “Be a good boy for me today and we’ll see.”
“Himari! Great to see you.”
Owen spins me to his side so I can face the woman he just noticed over my shoulder. She’s short, yes, but somehow still statuesque. I would guess mid-50s, straight black hair cut in a blunt, shoulder-length bob, emerald green boat-neck dress tailored to perfection.
“Owen.” She comes up to shake his hand. “Good to see you. Great work with Liberty Mutual.”
“Thanks. I’ve always found insurance mergers more interesting than your average matter.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Himari says, and I pinch the inside of Owen’s elbow to remind him why we’re here.
“Oh, Himari, let me introduce you to my… girlfriend, Amelia.” There’s only a slight pause before the word and Himari doesn’t seem to notice.
She extends a hand. “Lovely to meet you, Amelia. Himari.”
I don’t miss a beat in this little improv sketch. I shake Himari’s hand warmly with both of mine as I say, “So great to meet you. I’ve been dying to meet Owen’s colleagues for the longest time.”
“Did you relocate here with him from New York?”
“Oh no,” I reply, because the best lies are close to the truth. “We met in Boston. I’m friends with his brother, actually. Between you and me I thought he was a real jerk when we first met.”
“Okay, honey,” Owen grits through his teeth, giving my ribs a squeeze as he questions my methods. “Don’t joke.”
But Himari is laughing with me, camaraderie already sparking. “I felt similarly about my wife when we were first introduced. I thought she would be too highbrow for me, but she turned out to be just what I needed.”
“Is your wife here tonight?” Owen asks. “I’ve been meaning to thank her for recommending the ICA membership. I’ve been four times already.”
“You have? Oh, that’s wonderful. She’ll be so glad to hear it. No, unfortunately Suzanna had to fly out to Ohio for family this week, but I’ll extend your gratitude to her.”
“Oh, what a shame,” I say from Owen’s side as I death-grip his arm. “I would’ve loved to meet her.”
“Yes, please do thank her for me,” Owen says with another squeeze to my side. I’m not sure if he means to anchor me or reprimand me. “And I hope I’ll see her at one of these events again soon.”