Chapter 18 Rae #2
She looks at me, and I know right away it’s a work thing. That fevered shine in her eyes is a telltale giveaway. “A source just texted. For the big story I’ve been working on.” She shoves her phone in her purse. “I gotta go. Like, now.”
“Wait, Jill—”
“I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll call you tonight, okay? You don’t need me anyway. You look amazing. I’d smash. Several times. And then buy you breakfast the next morning. The dress is perfect, you’re perfect, I love you, goodbye!”
And then she’s gone. The curtain swishes behind her and I’m alone with S?sha and a three-way mirror that shows every viewpoint of my rising panic.
S?sha clears her throat. “Right. Well. As I was saying… Mr. Lazarev mentioned that foundation garments might be necessary. Given the cut of the dress.”
I look at my reflection to take stock of all the various angles of attack we’re working with here. The deep neckline. The open back. The slit that goes up to my hip bone.
She’s not wrong. My Duane Reade underwear is not going to cut it.
“I have some options prepared,” S?sha continues. She disappears through the side door and returns with a polished silver tray. On it are several scraps of fabric that I think are supposed to be underwear. I have to squint to examine them, because they’re practically invisible.
Some have straps. Most don’t. A few appear to be held together by nothing prayer and good intentions. I’d say one even has bad intentions, by the looks of it.
My face is on fire. “I don’t usually…”
“Of course.” She sets the tray on the settee. “Would you like to try a few options? To see what works best with the dress?”
I want to say no. I want to grab my mom jeans and flee far away from these torture devices.
But S?sha seems to think “no” is not even remotely an option. As a matter of fact, she’s already handing me the first piece and politely. but firmly herding me behind the—you guessed it—all-white privacy screen that popped up when I wasn’t looking.
With a defeated sigh, I realize I’m trapped. Easier to go with the flow than swim against it, I suppose.
I take off the dress carefully and hang it up.
Then I step into the first piece. It is, for all intents and purposes, nothing at all. Simply a nude-colored suggestion of a thong with invisible straps that turns my nether regions into the blank nothingness of a Barbie’s.
But even I can’t deny that it does something.
I look at myself in the small mirror behind the screen.
In some inexplicable way, I’m a different woman than I was when I wasn’t wearing this not-quite-underwear.
It’s ostentatious, sort of. Like I’m a thing meant to be consumed.
A meal laid out on fine china, waiting for someone to pick up their fork.
Is Lukas the one with the appetite?
Did he choose these, too?
The thought makes my stomach flip. I can’t help but wonder if he stood in this very room and pointed at wisps of fabric, imagining how they’d look against my skin.
I shudder, turn away, and take the panties off.
I try the second item. It’s a strapless bra thing that lifts and shapes without any visible hardware. Again, it works miracles. NASA must’ve had a hand in the design here, because suddenly, I’ve gone from a B-cup to Are you C-ing this? Pure, slack-jawed DD-disbelief.
And again, I wonder…
Would this be enough for him?
That’s a shameful question for a modern woman to ask herself—Gloria Steinem would be appalled—but I can’t deny that it does occur to me. Nor can I deny that it makes me think about Natasha and feel more of that hot shame as I fall short in every way.
Her perfect body. Her complete lack of self-concern. She looked at me from that couch, naked as the day she was born, and just assumed that I wanted to sleep with her.
What must that be like?
I’m nothing like her.
I shake my head. This is ridiculous, and I think the oil diffusers in here might be laced with THC, because I feel like I’m hallucinating.
I shuffle through the rest out of some weird sense of obligation.
The third thing is a garter set of sorts that pinches in weird places.
The next bra hikes my boobs up to my chin.
The last item, a sheer lace bodysuit, is fine, I guess, but I feel like I’m wearing the slingshot that David used to kill Goliath.
When I’ve run through the lot, I decide I’ve had enough.
“I think I’ll just wear my own stuff,” I mumble from behind the screen.
S?sha blinks. “Your own…?”
“Yeah.” I’m on my hands and knees behind the privacy screen, straining to reach my clothes where I left them. Graceful, it is not. “I have things at home. They’ll be fine.”
They will not be, but S?sha here doesn’t know that.
“Ms. Everett, the dress really does require—”
“I know.”
“And Mr. Lazarev explicitly mentioned—”
“I’m sure he did,” I interrupt. “But I’ll figure it out. Thank you for showing me the options.”
I’m about to step behind the screen to change when S?sha clears her throat. “Very well. There is one more thing, Ms. Everett.”
“Oh, God.” I cringe. “What now?”
She looks uncomfortable for the first time since I arrived. Her cool composure is crumbling. “Mr. Lazarev was very specific about one last thing. He requires photo evidence that the dress fits properly.”
I gawk at her, certain I must’ve heard wrong. “Photo… evidence.”
“Yes.” She fidgets with one of the many chrome zippers on her dress. “He was quite insistent.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Oh, how I wish I were.”
I let out a laugh that sounds crazy, even to my own ears. “So what, I’m supposed to text my boss a dressing room selfie?”
S?sha winces. “I understand this is unusual. But he was very clear. No photo, no dress.”
“No dress sounds great, actually,” I say. “I’ll just wear something from my closet. Problem solved.”
“Ms. Everett,” she pleads, “Mr. Lazarev paid for this appointment in advance. He paid for the dress. He paid for alterations. He paid for everything you see in this room.” She gestures at the trays of jewelry, the shoes lined up by the mirror, the scattered undergarments I’m refusing to wear.
“If you leave without sending the photo, I will be the one who has to explain why. And I very much do not want to do that.”
I give her a strange look, like I’m seeing her in a new light. “Has he done something to you?” I ask.
“No!” She shakes her head quickly. “No, nothing like that. He’s just not a man you want to disappoint. That’s all.”
We stand there for a moment, two women caught in the orbit of a man neither of us fully understands.
“Fine,” I say. “One photo. But I’m not smiling.”
She exhales in audible relief. “Fortunately, there were no instructions in that regard.”
I step back behind the privacy screen. Slowly, I put the dress back on. Then I pull out my phone.
This is humiliating. This is beyond humiliating. But S?sha’s face keeps flashing in my mind. That burst of fear when she talked about disappointing him…
I hold up the phone and open the camera app. The view catches me from the chest up. Red fabric, bare shoulders, messy hair.
I look terrified.
Delete.
I try again. This time, I angle the phone lower. More of the dress, less of my panic face.
Still bad. My expression says, “hostage video.”
Delete.
Third attempt. I force my shoulders back, lift my chin, and channel my inner Natasha. What would I look like if I were someone who belonged with Lukas Lazarev? Then I snap the pic.
The result is… I’d say “okay.” Not great, but serviceable. I look like someone attending a gala, not someone being held at gunpoint.
It’ll have to do.
I pull up Lukas’s contact. My thumb hovers over the send button.
This still feels wrong. Intimate in a way I didn’t sign up for. But the opportunity to turn back is way in the rearview mirror. I’m already in this. Whatever “this” is.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.