Chapter 14
PIP
The chauffeur, impeccably dressed in a crisp uniform, steps forward with a practiced grace.
“Mademoiselle,” he intones respectfully, offering a slight, courteous bow.
I clutch my beaded vintage handbag closer, feeling like an imposter as I slide across butter-soft leather seats.
Inside, a handsome man in a sleek, well-fitting charcoal suit sits opposite me.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Fletcher,” he says, nodding his head. “I am Antoine LaRue.”
“Nice to meet you.” I force a polite smile.
This Antoine guy is way too full of himself for my taste. Is that a Panama hat he’s sporting? Ha! And Clare thought my vintage clothing was too outrageous.
“I hear you’re quite the vintage expert.”
Antoine’s eyes, though kind, survey me with practiced skill. Is it my imagination, or does he find me lacking?
“Well,” I ask, rather nervously, “do I pass muster?”
“You have your branding down pat. Right down to the garters holding up your silk stockings.”
I look down at my legs. “How did you know? They’re not showing!”
He just smiles mysteriously, saying nothing.
“And here’s a first lesson… a lady never clutches her bag like a security blanket. She knows her place in the world.”
My fingers automatically loosen their hold under his gentle command. Something about Antoine makes me want to trust him, to please him.
My cheeks flush as Antoine’s eyes continue their assessment. Who does he think he is, critiquing my every move?
I may not be a lady of high society, but I’ve gotten this far on my own.
“Let’s start with the basics,” Antoine continues smoothly. “Posture is key. Sit up straight, shoulders back. A lady exudes confidence.”
I adjust my posture, trying to balance a straight back with a relaxed appearance. Antoine gives an approving nod.
“Now, let’s discuss your look going forward. As the fiancée of a prominent CEO, you’ll be expected to present a certain image.”
My heart sinks. I knew this was coming but it stings all the same.
I’ve always dressed according to my own eclectic tastes, reveling in bold vintage pieces and accessories. The thought of giving that up, even for a few days, feels stifling.
Antoine senses my hesitation. “Not to worry, my dear. We won’t erase your personality completely. Consider it more of an evolution.”
The limo glides to a stop. Antoine guides me out of the car and into a gorgeous store, scented with a delicious mix of perfume.
My eyes follow a few women my imagination identifies as the prototype of the ideal wife of Sheldon Woodward III. They are beautiful, tall, and graceful, wearing tulip-colored suits and kitten heels.
Is he trying to make me look like that? I shudder. Bright, Easter-egg colored clothing is not my jam.
Before we venture further, Antoine looks me in the eye. “Remember, chérie, from this moment on, you are not a temp worker who shops at thrift stores. You are the woman who captured Sheldon Woodward III’s heart.”
I bristle at the derogatory way he utters the word ‘thrift stores.’ Like it’s a dirty word or something.
“Correction. I never shopped at thrift shops for the sake of putting cheap clothes on my back.”
Antoine studies me, his eyes reflecting something akin to surprise at my boldness.
“Ever since I was a kid, I considered myself a curator. An artist of sorts. If you Google my name, you’ll find my online store and see my collections. Here, I’ll show you.”
I click the link to my shop and hand Antoine my phone. As he scrolls through my collection, nodding in approval, I can tell he appreciates how I’ve arranged my ‘finds’ by theme.
“Amazing work,” he says, still scrolling. “It must’ve taken months to put these ensembles together.”
“Years. Almost a decade. I’ve been collecting since I was twelve.”
“And now I have even more respect for you. When we’re finished with this assignment, it would be my pleasure to introduce you to a few fashion museum directors who might be interested in your work.”
Antoine takes a step back and inclines his head to me. “It is nice to meet the ‘new you’ Pollyanna Fletcher, famous curator of vintage fashion. I see your vision now that you shared it with me. So, walk with your head high. Own it. But allow for a slight deviation these next few days.”
As we continue down the main floor, sales associates straighten as Antoine passes, murmuring respectful greetings. A woman in what I suspect to be pricey vintage Chanel, nearly drops her clipboard when she sees him.
“Antoine! We’ve cleared the entire sixth floor for you, as requested.”
“Merci, Maria. I’d like you to meet my new client, Pollyanna Fletcher.”
I smile. “A pleasure.”
“And a delight to meet you, my dear. You’re so lucky to have Antoine as your guide. I’ve recommended my own private clients to him, but the waiting list for an appointment with him is at least a year long. I love your look, by the way. Is that vintage Christian Dior you’re wearing?”
I nod, delighted by the recognition. “I’ve had it authenticated. It’s from his salon on 20 Avenue Montaigne in Paris. I found it in an attic sale upstate. Quite a steal.”
“I’m envious,” she says, her eyes scanning me up and down, taking in my prize find. “If you ever need to sell it, I have at least a dozen buyers for you. Name your price.”
“Thanks! I’ll keep that under advisement. Here’s my contact info.”
As I hand the Saks Fifth Avenue executive my card, I restrain the urge to ask how much money she’s talking about. A thousand bucks? Ten thousand? More than Clare’s paying me to play this ridiculous charade?
Once the card exchange is finished, Antoine guides me toward a private mirrored elevator, edged in gold.
The uniformed elevator operator greets Antoine with recognition and respect. He doesn’t need to be told which button to press.
A few seconds later, the doors open directly into what looks like a private apartment. The classic furnishings suggest it could have belonged to a society woman like the regal best-dressed Jacqueline Kennedy—all cream silk walls and crystal chandeliers.
A single chair sits before a wall of mirrors. Otherwise, there’s no clothing in sight. Instead, discreet doors line the walls, hiding what I assume are fashion treasures beyond imagination.
“Welcome,” Antoine says, “to where your transformation begins.”
A sleek-looking assistant walks towards us, carrying two flutes of Champagne. Antoine takes one from its silver platter and hands it to me.
“Now,” Antoine says, pressing his palms together. “Your measurements.”
Two assistants materialize silently from one of the hidden doors. They’re dressed in identical black sheaths, their movements synchronized as they approach with measuring tapes.
“I’m a size four,” I say.
Antoine tuts. “Numbers from department stores mean nothing. True fashion must be sculpted to the body. You, a vintage fashion expert of all people, should know that.”
Of course I know that. But for a moment, my insecurity got the best of me. A ‘perfect fit’ is everything in fashion.
The measuring tape snakes toward me, and I jump back. “Whoa! How about we start with something less invasive?”
“These are professional fitters, chérie,” Antoine says. “They have measured royalty.”
The assistants advance again, measuring tapes extended like weapons. Resigned to my fate, I let them have at me.
“Tell me,” Antoine says as the assistants work, “what do you imagine when you think of Sheldon Woodward III’s fiancée?”
“That’s easy,” I say, imagining him surrounded by a flock of glitzy groupies wearing spandex minidresses. “A cheap-looking hussy.”
“You’re talking about Snickers. Focus on Sheldon Woodword III, the billionaire heir. Close your eyes. What would his fiancée wear to charity galas? How would she take tea at the Plaza? What fashion designer drapes her shoulders when she steps out of a town car?”
His questions paint a picture I’ve never even considered. I’ve been so focused on fighting this transformation that I haven’t thought about the role I need to play.
The role I’m forced to play.
Antoine’s voice continues, smooth as aged cognac.
“A Woodward fiancée must command attention without seeking it. She must showcase the brand’s romance while maintaining dignity. Most importantly...”
He pauses until I open my eyes. “She must make everyone believe in true love.”
I exhale sharply. “You sound ridiculous. Clothing can’t do that.”
“Maybe not just the clothing. But when they see you finely dressed, and Snickers in one of the classic suits I selected for him, looking into one another’s eyes, they will. You’re selling the entire package, not just a single element of it.”
“Even more ridiculous.”
Antoine just looks at me. “You say you dress to promote your vintage brand. Do you ever leave the house wearing just one vintage item?”
“No... I organize and coordinate several pieces to play against one another and work as a whole.”
“And I just saw your online displays. You don’t just put a vintage skirt up for sale, snap a picture of it, and call it a day. You arrange these individual items into a carefully curated ensemble.”
I look at Antoine, stunned by his words.
“Okay. I ‘kind of’ get what you’re saying. But evoking love at first sight...”
“It’s the same thing, chérie.”
I struggle to internalize what Antoine’s driving at.
He’s right. I hadn’t realized it, but all these years, I’ve been collecting and assembling vintage creations to evoke an emotion.
Maybe that emotion wasn’t necessarily true love. But it was an emotion of some kind.
“Okay. But remember, you’re not talking about Snickers or me. You’re talking about this stupid role we’re playing for this fake romance.”
“As you wish.”
Antoine’s dark eyes sparkle. “Oh, chérie, when I’m finished with you, that man won’t know what hit him. You’ll be the Mata Hari of today.”
“Who is that?”
“A beautiful courtesan turned secret spy. Now we begin.”
The next few minutes blur into a whirlwind of activity.
Antoine claps twice and hidden doors swing open. Racks of clothing roll out silently on automated tracks.
The collection takes my breath away—silks, cashmere, beading that catches the light like diamonds.
“These are...” I touch a bias-cut dress in pale blue. Each garment resembles something I’ve seen in Vogue over the years. I know the prices. “These must cost...”
“A lady never discusses prices,” Antoine reminds me. “Now, for your staged dates and interviews, you must project old money sophistication. The public will be dissecting every detail. Especially the women.”
I eye a severe black suit that screams ‘corporate wife.’ “I won’t wear anything that makes me look like I’m in mourning.”
“Non, non.” Antoine waves a hand toward a nearby assistant, signaling for the suit to be taken away. “Quite right. You are young, in love. We dress you in the colors of hope, in romance.” He selects a navy-blue sheath dress with white piping. “Here’s a possibility.”
“It’s beautiful, but?—”
“Try it on.”
“What about lunch first?” I can’t subdue my growling stomach any longer.
“Lunch is for those who have achieved perfection. You, ma chérie, have only begun your journey.”
An hour and twelve dresses later, I’m wearing something that makes even the assistants pause. It’s a soft blush color that somehow makes my skin glow. And with what Antoine calls ‘architectural details’ that make the curves of my petite figure discreetly pop.
“This,” he says, adjusting the drape, “is how a woman commands a room without saying a word.”
Stepping toward the full-length mirror, I turn this way and that.
My gut reaction is…who is this woman? The outfit is so conservative. So neutral. So boring!
I stare at my reflection. The girl looking back at me is still me, but elevated.
Like someone took the ‘raw me’ and handed me to a master craftsman. Who crafted ‘the soul’ right out of her.
Then I imagine Snickers as he looks at me wearing this outfit.
What would he think?
Would he prefer this look to the clothing worn by his miniskirted groupies?
Of course not.
But this dress isn’t meant to please Snickers. It’s meant to be fitting for the fiancée of CEO and heir Sheldon Woodward III.
Not his bad-boy doppelganger.
But what look would the DJ Snickers prefer in his dream date? Black leather?
Misreading my thoughts, Antoine is quick to offer encouragement.
“The look is totally ‘you.’ Well, the new you, anyway. Don’t worry. You haven’t lost your artistic soul. We’ve simply given it a proper canvas.”
I force a smile. “Can you snap a picture I can send to my friends?”
“Of course.”
After Antoine takes the picture, I send it to Zaza and Keesha with a quick caption.
“Now, lunch,” he says. “Wear the dress if you like. We’ll eat and gossip—dine and dish.”
Nodding my consent, I follow Antoine towards another elevator. So far, I’ve gathered very little intelligence on Sheldon Woodward III.
This may be my only chance to find out more.