She showed me around the store, asking questions about my likes and dislikes in regards to fashion. When she asked me who my favorite designer was, I scrambled through my mental inventory, trying to come up with a name. Drawing a blank, I joked, “Umm, Macy’s?”
She laughed jovially at my complete fashion-impairment and threw me into a dressing room, telling me to strip down so she could take my measurements. She logged them on a yellow legal pad that smelled like lavender, then darted out into the store while I stood there, passing the time by staring at the walls while hanging out in my underwear. I had just started to wonder if I should get dressed and go pick out some stuff to try on when she came barging back into the room carrying half a dozen dresses over her arm. I guessed she’d be deciding for me.
Gown after gown was flung in my direction, while my modesty was forced out the window. I was surprised at how quickly I got over it. She was incredibly professional, and thank God, never once acknowledged that my bra and undies didn’t match. I started to feel guilty for my initial evil thoughts about the woman, considering she was going out of her way to be perfectly accommodating and wonderful.
She was very sweet and attentive and obviously knew her stuff. After I nixed the first three selections, she’d narrowed down my taste enough to zero in on a few beautiful dresses. I’d really liked almost all of them, but it wasn’t until I tried on a shimmery cream ball gown that I finally fell in love.
Siobhan heard the gasp and immediately stopped fiddling with the hangers to put her hand to her heart, looking at me as if her baby had just taken its first steps.
The gown was exquisite; Grecian-styled bustier that cinched my waist and pushed my boobs up in an almost obscene, yet still tasteful way, with gathered folds of bunched fabric that billowed down to my ankles, a scandalous slit up one leg. It practically screamed “Oscar.” It was a bit out of my comfort zone, but it really was a fabulous gown.
But then I checked the price tag.
Nope. Nuh-uh. No way.
I shook my head, explaining that while the dress was beautiful, there was no way I was spending that kind of cash on an item of clothing I was only going to wear once. I mean, the thing cost more than Lisa’s wedding gown! I didn’t even care if I looked like a pathetic rube. My conscience would just never let me indulge in such an extravagance, especially while shopping with Trip’s money. Maybe I should have checked out some of the prices before trying on a dozen gowns. My poor, clueless boyfriend obviously had no idea where he’d sent me.
I put my clothes back on, apologized to Siobhan and thanked her for her time. She looked disheartened, and I felt bad about that, but there was just no way.
She said a graceful goodbye, and I zipped around the corner to the Beverly Center. I managed to find a beautiful, copper-colored dress at Nordstrom that was almost as nice as the one at Siobhan’s for about a third of the price. It was still expensive, but compared to the cream one, it was a bargain. I bought some awesome coordinating heels that cost more than my first car and a small, clutch handbag to match (both with my own money) and was really proud of myself that I’d managed to find an appropriate ensemble. I had to pay extra for rush alterations on the dress, but the cost was still coming in way under Siobhan’s, so I practically skipped out of the store.
I took advantage of my newfound free time and drove around the city like a big fat tourist. I was scoping the streets for a surgically-enhanced, California blonde walking a pair of Afghan doggies or some other clichéd movie scene I could find. No luck. I did see a little girl wearing a tiara, but without the Jon Benet frou-frou dress to go with it, she didn’t look that different from my goddaughter, Julia.
Denied.
I made a few extra stops, took care of a few errands, and decided to head back to Trip’s.
His backyard, aside from being a covert fortress, was also designed for entertaining. Not only was it private, but it was totally cool. He had this fabulous outdoor kitchen area; a stone and granite workspace with a monstrous grill, covered under a roof eave that jutted out over the six or so stools surrounding the adjoining snack bar.
That area abutted the massive patio which sported a few tables and chairs that looked brand, spanking new. It’s as if they were placed there, not for their function, but because the patio called for them. I wondered if they’d ever been sat on.
I was in the pool when Trip came home. He walked outside, looking beautifully professional in his dark slacks and white button-down shirt. Just another day at the office.
“Honey, I’m home!” he called out playfully, thumbing through the mail and asking, “How’d it go at Siobhan’s?”
I resisted the urge to pull him into the pool and attack him. “Okay. She was really nice.” And pretty.
“Did you find a dress?”
I decided not to tell him about my cheapskate mentality. “No. Not at Siobhan’s. But it wasn’t for lack of trying. She really gave it her all. I found something at Nordstrom’s, though.”