I pulled on Dress #2, one I’d picked for the ethereal ruffles cascading down the skirt.
“So how come there’s all this big fire for a new dress?” Martha asked. “I mean, don’t you have any nice outfits you could ship from home?” Her voice turned teasing. “Or has Hunter seen those already?”
Hunter had seen a lot more of me than my dresses, but I wasn’t in the mood for Hunter-related banter. “I can actually make decisions without thinking about Hunter’s reaction, thanks.”
I slammed the door open harder than it probably warranted.
Martha considered my outfit for a few seconds, then shook her head regretfully. “The color’s better, and you almost make those ruffles work, but damn girl, we need to leave the mermaids back in the eighties with all the other mistakes of that decade.”
I snorted. “If there’s any room.”
I clomped back into the dressing room and pulled the bolt, before mournfully contemplating my remaining options. There were a lot of them, and I wasn’t sure I had the energy to keep getting shot down. Maybe this had been a bad idea.
“Hey, though,” Martha said in a voice that was clearly meant to be cheering me up. “At least the bimbo he’s dating now looks like you. Shows how hung-up on you he is.”
“That bimbo is my sister,” I said.
There was an awkward silence, and then Martha cleared her throat. “Oh.”
I halfway expected her to jump into an impassioned defense of her hero, but she stayed silent. I guess she knew there were some things you just couldn’t defend.
I was weirdly…disappointed?...about it, though. Like I had maybe thought that Martha would have some perfect excuse for Hunter, and then I could stop being so angry at him and maybe even stop yearning for him and maybe, finally, have a normal client-advertiser relationship without all this Romeo and Juliet bullshit.
Yeah, and pigs would fly over the moon.
I made some last minute adjustments to the criss-crossing shoulder-straps of Dress #3 and braced myself for another round of fashion scorn.
I came out, and Martha’s mouth fell open.
“That bad?” I said, wincing.
Martha shook her head, eyes as wide as a goldfish. “Girl, I am seriously considering switching teams.”
“That good?”
“Daaaay-um. First of all, classic black. Second of all, construction: look at that plunging neckline that still manages to keep you covered, and the way the back hugs your ass without being trashy. Third of all, have you seen that hand-stitching? No, you have not, because it is perfect and not calling attention to itself.”
I spun slowly, admiring myself in the mirror, running my hands over the smooth ebony satin, watching the way the cloth rippled in an artistically asymmetrical line around my knees. “You’re sure it works?”
“Any guy would be lucky to have your fine self,” Martha asserted.
I looked at myself in the mirror, my curls falling on my bare shoulders, my calves caressed by soft fabric. My eyes glowing with delight in myself.
She was damn right.
FIVE
The Kadiatu Suites was a swank, modern hotel, all polished white marble and champagne silk drapes. The lush carpet swallowed all sound until the noise of the crowd was barely a genteel murmur and the light clink of glasses. Oil paintings from European countries with names I couldn’t pronounce shared space on the walls with classic African tribal art, and waiters in tuxedos that most doctors couldn’t afford swanned elegantly through all the salons and lounges with their high-vaulted ceilings, offering chocolate-dipped strawberries, ladyfingers, miniature cups of tiramisu, and tiny custard tarts topped with blueberries, blackberries, and a butterscotch drizzle. It was all a welcome change from the gorgeous but admittedly rustic beauty of Hunter Knox’s plantation, and under normal circumstances, I would have been busy soaking up all the glamour like a leafy tree in the sun.
But somehow, none of this could make up for the company I was having to keep.
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Chuck said at my shoulder. “I could almost believe we’re someplace civilized. How soon ‘til you think someone pulls out a rifle and shoots the chandelier?”
I smiled as pleasantly as I could and changed the subject. “What a nice tuxedo you have. Tell me, do you and Hunter have the same tailor?”
“Clothes, clothes, clothes,” Chad said with an eye-roll, lounging against the nearby table with the rest of his Douchebro posse. Unbelievably, they had all decided that it was completely kosher to keep their collars popped at a formal event. “Ladies be shoppin’, am I right, Chuck?”
Chuck gave a little derisive laugh. “Oh, gentlemen, let’s let the lady have her fun.” He turned his patronizing gaze on me. “Why don’t you tell us all about your little outfit? Was it very expensive? Or was it a gift from…a special friend?”