Chapter Twenty-Seven
Itake a deep breath and knock on Mary’s door.
“Come in,” Alistair calls.
It surprises me to hear his voice beckoning me in, though I don’t put it past him to have the most power in any room he’s in.
I step in and shut the door quietly behind me. Something tells me to keep this very private.
Alistair is alone at the desk. I don’t know what I was expecting.
“Where’s Mary?” I ask, and then, “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be on your way to a party with your wife?”
I don’t mean to say wife with a bite, but I do, and I hate myself for it.
“I told them I needed to make a private call. I’ll catch up with Clementine. Mary generously offered her office.”
“Have you already made your call?” I ask, playing dumb.
He gives me that heavy-lidded look that makes me feel weak and he says, “Come here.”
My heart lifts a little and I walk over to him. “I’m sweaty from rehearsal.”
He nods, running his hand down the back of my arm, lifting it toward him, and kissing the back of my hand and then my arm. He licks my skin and the weirdness of it makes my legs feel like jelly. In a good way.
“I know I said the other night I was trying to be a good man, but it’s just too hard to watch you move your body like that. Especially with another man.”
He pulls me closer and kisses me. I lean into him, parting my lips, responding. He smells like expensive things and he tastes like them, too.
When we pull apart, I say, “It’s just dancing.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “I wasn’t talking about the rehearsal.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you…”
“No more guests at the apartment.”
“Wh-what?”
He smiles at me and then says, “I have cameras at the place. Outside. Not inside. Don’t worry. I didn’t and wouldn’t watch. I couldn’t bear it.”
I feel a plunge of embarrassment. “Oh, shit.”
“I know I have no right to ask for this, but I couldn’t stand thinking about you there with Luca. It didn’t help seeing him handling you just now. I’m not usually a jealous man.”
I know I’m beet red. “It’s your place, I understand. I probably shouldn’t admit it, but you have nothing to be jealous of.”
He lifts my chin up to him. “Look at me.”
I obey, looking up into his steely eyes. “Really nothing. You’re all I can think about.”
He kisses me again, more eager this time. His hands playing with the strap of my leotard. It would be so easy for him to just pull it down. I moan, wanting that so desperately. He pulls back, smirking, and says, “Good. I know I have no right, but I like the idea that I consume you and no one else does.”
He steps back. He knows he’s completely being a tease.
“Now listen, I need to run,” he says. “But tomorrow. Berretti’s at six p.m.”
—
Part of me thinks that I should cancel the meeting at Berretti’s. The reality of meeting Clementine yesterday in rehearsal makes my forbidden thoughts about Alistair seem suddenly more inappropriate than ever before. I’m confused and I’m angry. What the fuck is going on? He told me he was separated. They didn’t seem close, but they also didn’t seem on the brink of divorce. And then what happened in Mary’s office. Who am I becoming?
I could tell him I have an added rehearsal. Or I could say I need to call Mimi because I had a voicemail from her care home and something happened—no, first of all he’d probably know if I was lying, and second of all I don’t want to jinx her. I believe in that kind of thing.
I try to remind myself that this is all part of the job. It’s part of having a donor. It’s part of keeping everyone happy. And maybe I should try to enjoy it. My mom certainly would. Berretti’s is a beautiful luxury department store. If he’s taking me shopping there, which is what I assume is happening, it should just be exciting.
Shouldn’t it?
I arrive about ten minutes before six p.m., going through the old, ornate revolving doors, the warm gust of air a welcome relief from the cold, damp weather outside. It’s dark out today, the moody, heavy clouds gathering low and opaque in the sky, seemingly just a little higher than all the buildings.
I decide to take the escalator up to the fifth floor to meet Alistair, wanting to take the time to admire each floor and its elegance. Plus, I’m here early. This is why I showed up early.
I’m dressed simply, in a black fitted turtleneck and tight black jeans, my hair in loose curls, diamond earrings in my ears. I bought them for myself after my promotion to principal with NAB, deciding that I deserved them after a lifetime of cubic zirconia from Claire’s. It was an irresponsible thing to do with my money, but I have never regretted it. Every time I need to elevate myself for my surroundings, they’re the first thing I grab.
Despite them, though, I still feel like a fish out of water. There’s a sophistication to this place that makes me feel like I’m about three generations of wealth behind on knowing how to shop here.
The first floor is jewelry, makeup, and handbags. The glass counters glow as spotlights land on sparkling diamonds, gold, platinum, and silver earrings, rings, bracelets, necklaces, and even—I spot—a tiara. The makeup looks more glamorous here than it ever does in a makeup bag, every little compact and brush looking like something to be treasured. The bags are all perched on their own little pedestals. The place smells like roses and leather.
The next two floors I pass are women’s designer labels. I see Prada, Dior, Celine, Yves Saint Laurent.
The fourth floor—my heart nearly stops as my eyes land on all of them at once—is shoes. Fucking amazing shoes. Patent leather loafers gleam beneath the lights, sparkly pumps glisten, and delicate stilettos that hardly look as though they could support the weight of any woman. Even a carb-starved ballerina.
Finally, I get to the fifth floor. Menswear. I feel a flush of embarrassed disappointment. Maybe I wasn’t brought here to be treated, but instead to help him. Help him with what, though?
Surely he has people for that. And plus, all of his suits look custom-made.
When I don’t immediately see him, I find a clerk. There’s a woman adjusting the belt on a mannequin, a little obsessively, if I’m honest, as the adjustments she’s making are almost imperceptible.
“Excuse me,” I say.
She turns. She’s an older woman, one of those women who looks like she never goes anywhere without her “face on.”
“Yes, miss?”
“I’m looking for Special Services.”
She gives me the tiniest, microscopic flick of judgment, then says, “Right this way.”
It was like the famous Pretty Woman moment, only a microaggression.
She leads me to double doors with frosted glass. She gestures at them with a small bow, and then walks away.
Okay then, I guess I’m on my own.
I knock.
No one answers. I knock again.
Nothing.
I can hear distant voices on the other side of the door. I glance at my phone. It’s six now, and I don’t want to be thought of as late.
I push the doors open.
There’s a small, elegant waiting area. Cream chairs and a glass coffee table. Silk wallpaper. Wooden molding on a low ceiling. An intricate chandelier.
“Um…hello?” I call out, once in.
I hear a woman laugh, and then, in a strong French accent, “This way, this way!”
I round a corner, then walk down a short hallway and through an open set of glass doors.
I can hear the woman’s voice speaking in French, but I can’t see where she is. It’s a round room with mirrors and racks of clothing. Beautiful dresses with long hemlines or tight waists and puffy skirts. There are thick coats with beautiful stitching. Silky blouses and camisoles as light as air.
I let my hand run gently over the materials.
This is the kind of thing that literally filled my dreams when I was a kid. I would fall asleep on a creaking mattress with four fans blowing on me, hot without air-conditioning. I would escape on fictional journeys, imagining myself in dreamlands of shopping, vacationing, being in beautiful places. I dreamed of tulle tutu-like dresses—and sky-high heels. I wanted to be a beautiful ballerina with a gorgeous life.
Right now, that’s what it feels like I am.
There is a velvet couch in the center of the room, and on the table in front of it, an ice bucket chilling a bottle of a champagne called Agrapart & Fils. I’ve never had it, but as my heart floats to the top of my chest, I realize I’ll probably be given a glass any moment.
The woman comes out from behind a rack, scaring the shit out of me.
“Jesus!” I say by accident, eliminating any sophistication that I might have briefly appeared to have.
“Jocelyn! I am Laura, your personal shopper.”
She’s a petite brunette with a messy bob and the sort of messed-up teeth that somehow look glamorous on the right kind of chic European.
“My…? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
I think I might. I think I might understand that this shopping extravaganza is about me, but I want to be sure.
“I wasn’t sure of your taste, but Alistair said ballerina chic and that you are tiny tiny. And you are! Look at you, I definitely guessed right for the size on most of the items.”
“Wait, are you saying…is this for me?” Then, dumbly, “Doesn’t the store close soon?”
“Oh my gosh, yes! Of course it is for you. Ah, did I ruin the surprise? I’m sorry about this, dear. For the Cavendishes, we keep the store open late.”
Of course they do. I kind of can’t believe I asked. I’m really making myself sound like a rube. Next, I’m going to ask if there’s a charge for bags.
I look around, trying to take it all in.
My eyes stop on one of the racks I didn’t notice before. Lingerie.
My heart is beating so fast, the poor, broke child inside me absolutely alight with excitement. I can’t help but smile.
“Why don’t I pour you some champagne and you start looking about. Alistair’s instructions were to let you have anything you want, but you need a dress for an event tonight. You really only need the one dress, he said, but asked that I pull extra, thinking that you might need to fill out your wardrobe. So I obliged, as you can see.” She smiles.
“Is Alistair coming here?”
“No, no,” she says. “Don’t worry, it’s just us girls.”
I feel a little disappointed, but I pretend not to. It’s easy to pretend, considering I’m looking at an entire room of expensive clothes, knowing I can have anything I want.
For the next half hour, I look through everything, feeling my greedy little heart explode as I see the labels and mentally guess how expensive they are. The clothes in this room could buy a house. A nice house.
Laura has stripped me down and helped me into a stunning dress when I hear my phone buzz.
“Oh, could you—” I gesture. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to mess up the—”
“Of course, darling.” She steps off her pedestal and retrieves my phone.
I look and see that it’s Alistair.
I hide the screen from the woman, and read the text.
Send me a picture of what you’re thinking of wearing.
I take a picture of myself in the three-way mirror I’m standing before and send it to him, along with a text.
So…what event is this? Sorry about the guest by the way.
He texts back quickly.
The event is at nine. I’ll pick you up at Ivory at quarter-til.
He says nothing about the guest.
Do you like the dress? I ask.
It’s an Alexander McQueen, a strapless, draped chiffon dress in hot pink.
I think it would look ridiculous without diamonds. Have Laura pull some for you.
“Um,” I say.
“Is everything okay? Am I pinching?”
“No, it’s just…Alistair asked that you pull some diamonds.”
“Of course, dear,” she says. “You see how this feels as you move around, and I’ll go get some. I had some set aside just in case.”
And then I’m alone in all this opulence.
I take another picture, a more relaxed one, and send it to Sylvie.
My donor is buying this McQueen dress for me. Fucking crazy
She responds after a few minutes, saying: no strings attached??
I write back, idk, I don’t think so…?
She sends back a cringing emoji, and then adds , it looks fucking amazing though .
I respond, the shopper woman is literally grabbing some kind of diamonds to go with it .
She answers, omg that’ll look so good with that pink. How are you tan, you’re in LONDON .
I answer, that Louisiana poor kid tan just never left me .
She says, lol , just as Laura bustles back in.
“Okay, darling, I’ve got a few options.”
She drapes diamond necklaces over my collarbone as I look on in the mirror, again feeling like I’m in Pretty Woman .
“I like this, but it won’t work without the matching earrings. But this looks nice with the studs you’re wearing. These are real, correct?” She flicks my earlobe.
Proudly, I respond, “Yes.” I stop just short of adding that I bought them myself.
“We’ll need bigger ones to make the look work. Take them out.”
She doesn’t mean any harm, but I feel a little slapped by this. I put them safely into my purse and then allow her to put much bigger ones into my ears.
The effect is stunning. I feel like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s , only instead of a tiara, I’m in a long delicate diamond chain and matching earrings.
She picks out a few pairs of shoes and I go with a strappy pair in the same shade of pink by a designer I don’t recognize.
I pick a few other items, feeling shy and that maybe I look like I’m taking advantage, and then she packages them up for me. Someone brings them downstairs for me, and just as I’m becoming aware that I’ll have to walk out onto the city streets with thirty thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise, I’m informed that there is a car waiting for me outside.
I get into the back of it and the driver takes me to Ivory Towers, where the doorman retrieves my packages, and I walk upstairs empty-handed.
Rich people really just don’t have to do anything, do they?
Upstairs, I get ready using my own makeup. I do a simple look with clean skin, light mascara, and a pale pink lip. I don’t have the skill or will to do anything much with my hair, so I put it back in a slick ponytail and call it a day.
I consider the fact that there’s no glam squad waiting a confirmation that Clementine is not involved in any of this. A woman would have known that with a five-thousand-dollar dress and many more thousands’ worth of jewelry, you should not leave someone like me to my own devices with the rest.
At eight forty-five sharp I’m waiting in the lobby and I see headlights pull up out front, checking to make sure there’s no one around, conscious of not wanting to be seen with him in case it’s another shit show.
My phone buzzes. A text from Alistair.
Here. Come.