To fully commit to my role as a trad-wife-in-training, I somehow let Nat talk me into dressing “in character,” which I’m learning means like some sort of retro pinup girl. The dress she’s chosen for my tennis tryst is a sleeveless cotton fit-and-flare in a flashy banana leaf print, with a square neckline and fabric-covered buttons running down the bodice. It’s garish and girly and not at all my style. I look like Blanche Devereaux’s bedspread.
“Okay, first of all, that’s the idea. And second of all, you look adorable! Like Audrey Hepburn or Natalie Wood.” Natalia cinches the matching belt around my middle one notch tighter, nearly displacing a rib. “Look how tiny your waist looks.”
“It better look tiny—you have me in a corset! I can’t even breathe!”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s a girdle, not a corset. If you’re gonna pull this off, you need to at least learn the era-appropriate undergarment lingo.” She cocks her head, eyeing me critically. “Something’s missing.”
“It’s my pride. I left it on the floor of that bar.”
She ignores my sass in favor of rummaging through her shopping bag, which looks ominously full. “It’s going to be like ninety-some degrees. How about a parasol?” She extracts something lacy and cream-colored and holds it out.
“Nat, are you on drugs? I already look ridiculous enough without carrying a sun umbrella.”
She blinks at me, unmoved. I change tack and appeal to her logical side. “We’re sitting in a box, remember? I’ll be in the shade.”
She purses her lips, considering. “Fine, no parasol. But you need to use a small handbag, not your giant tote. And I found these cute raffia espadrilles to go with the dress . . .” She trails off, burying her head in the bottomless bag.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I grouse, loosening the belt a couple of notches while her back is turned.
“You should be glad I’m not making you wear pantyhose and gloves. Aha! Here they are.” She brandishes the espadrilles with a flourish, and admittedly they are pretty fabulous. I silently thank Cynthia for agreeing to expense an entire vintage wardrobe. I will gladly take custody of these shoes, thankyouverymuch.
Nat eyes me approvingly. “It is an absolute travesty that you don’t wear more color. And that neckline does great things for your cleavage.”
“The girls do look perky,” I admit grudgingly. “But how am I going to explain this getup? People wear shorts and flip-flops to tennis matches. I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Girl, you’re not part of the unwashed masses! You’re rolling with the moneyed set. Haven’t you seen what Kate Middleton wears to Wimbledon? You’re not overdressed, you’re aristocratic.”
She stands behind me so we’re both looking into the mirror, then squeezes the tops of my arms. “Look, I know you’re nervous about pulling this off. You’re not an actress, yada yada, I get it. But this whole thing”—she waves her hands down my body—“is going to help you stay in character.”
I try to take a deep breath but only make it about halfway. “Does part of my method acting include passing out from reduced lung capacity?”
She smirks. “Think about it this way: with each shortened, shallow breath, you’ll be reminded of the sacrifice you’re making for women everywhere.” She slaps me on the ass. “Now go get ’em, Betty Crocker.”
Jack texted yesterday afternoon, offering to send a car for me. Though I felt rather bougie accepting, I wasn’t about to turn down an air-conditioned ride in favor of a packed, sweaty subway car all the way to Queens. No me gusta.
I spend the first half of the drive giving myself a silent pep talk, and the second half gripping my own fingers so I can’t tap the driver on the shoulder and beg him to turn around. As requested, I text Jack once we’re five minutes out, and by the time we pull up I spot him right where he said he’d be: waiting outside the front entrance, looking tanned and Kennedy-esque in classic Ray-Bans and ever-so-slightly windblown hair. He’s dressed in a pale blue oxford button-down and a sport coat, and I’m suddenly brimming with gratitude that I didn’t wear my sensible shorts after all. I beam Natalia a telepathic thankyou for nailing the role of fashion fairy godmother.
When I step out of the car and give him a wave, he does a visible double take; I’m sure he wasn’t expecting my costume. As I head toward him, I scramble for a plausible excuse as to why I’m dressed like a Golden Girl.
But he beats me to the punch. “You look gorgeous. For me?” he asks with a sly grin.
I can taste the flippant retort on the tip of my tongue. If it was Cassidy responding, I’d come back with something like Nah, you never know who I might meet later, or maybe Some of these tennis studs might be single. But since I’m firmly in the WWBD—What Would Betty Do?—camp, I flip through my mental Rolodex of tips and land on Greet him with a warm smile. Be happy to see him!
I flash him my biggest, fakest grin. “Of course! Who else would it be for?” I chirp in a syrupy singsong, then bat my eyelashes for good measure (because eyelash-batting definitely seems like something Betty would do). I immediately worry I’ve overdone it.
Incredibly, he seems to buy it. “I’ll be the envy of every man.”
He leans down to drop a kiss to my cheek and I stiffen, then attempt to mask it by smiling up at him. I’m straddling the finest of lines here—I need to pique his interest long enough to get my story while somehow keeping things as physically platonic as possible. A chaste peck on the cheek or some innocent hand-holding is fine, but anything beyond that is an ethical line I’m unwilling to cross. Threading this needle will be a challenge, but fortunately, I have a plan.
He offers me his arm with exaggerated gallantry, and I accept as he leads us into the stadium. I can’t help but steal furtive peeks at him as he navigates us through the crowd, my eyes cataloguing details my memory must have missed: his profile, with high cheekbones and a strong, regal brow; the imposing set of his shoulders; the gold signet ring on his right hand that catches the sunlight; the way the hair at his nape curls around his collar. He moves with an ease and confidence no doubt established through years of pack leadership and good fortune. I don’t miss the attention he attracts from other women, either—their gazes linger on him as we walk past, then skate over me, judging my worthiness, tight smiles masking thinly veiled jealousy. He really is that good-looking, proof that life truly isn’t fair and God bestows certain gifts on the wrong people.
When we arrive at the suite, he opens the door and guides me inside with a hand to the small of my back. I take a deep breath, my inner monologue repeating It’s harmless on an endless loop.
The interior layout is pretty standard for a stadium suite: a couple of high-top tables, a flat screen broadcasting a live feed of the match, a bar set up in one corner, a row of silver chafing dishes lining a buffet along the far wall. A handful of people mill about the room, a couple of small groups clustered in chitchat. Several people glance at us as we walk in, offering polite smiles before returning to their conversations.
“What do you think, enough chaperones?” Jack murmurs in my ear, his breath grazing my neck.