Libby steps into the hall, her eyes downward. She’s wearing a fitted bright blue dress that shows off her waist to perfection. It’s longer than anything I’d wear, but knowing Libby, she probably considers it a miniskirt.
“Hot stuff!” I whistle. “You look banging.”
She blushes. “You don’t think it’s a little tight?”
“Libs, that’s kind of the point. It’s a dinner dress. Do you like it?”
She turns around, inspecting herself from multiple angles in the mirrors. “I do . . . but what about the chest? You don’t think it’s too low-cut?”
“We have professors that wear dresses more revealing than that. It’s perfect. It shows off your body without making you look slutty.”
She frowns. “Don’t objectify women like that. Slapping labels on females because of their sexual choices—”
“Okay, jeez, I’m sorry.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “It shows off your body while still making you look like a strong woman who knows her mind. Is that better?” She rolls her eyes at me. “I think it’s a winner. You look seriously hot.”
Libby stares at herself in the mirror for several long seconds. Her face relaxes slightly and she looks pleased.
“You’re allowed to think you’re pretty,” I tease her. “I won’t tell.”
She blushes.
“So that dress goes in the yes pile. Try on the red one.”
Each of the next few dresses is rejected for being over the top, but after a solid forty-five minutes of trying on clothes, we have a respectable pile of dresses, blouses, and trousers. I even manage to get her into a pair of skinny jeans and ankle booties.
“This is too much stuff,” Libby says, carrying an armful of clothing to the cash register. “How are we going to buy all this? My allowance won’t cover it.”
“Credit cards, duh.”
“Dad made it clear our cards are for emergencies only.”
“You’re having your first Saturday night dinner with the group tonight and you have nothing to wear. This totally qualifies as an emergency.”
She plunks her card down, looking doubtful.
“Now we need to get you some fitted jumpers. Yours are too baggy.”
“We can’t buy more. Mum and Dad will kill us!”
“They’ll get over it.”
We hit several more shops, buying choice pieces at each until I’m satisfied with Libby’s bounty.
“I feel like that makeover montage in Pretty Woman,” Libby says.
“Minus the prostitution.” I gently steer her by the elbow toward a hair salon across the street.
“Is this the part where I walk in as an ugly duckling and emerge a swan?”
“Something like that.”
I come to the salon once a month for a trim: the irony of having long hair is that you have to cut it all the time to maintain it, otherwise it turns into a shapeless mess. India turned me onto this salon, coming here to maintain her own crazy-long hair in between her trips to London.
Libby and I sit quietly in the reception area. I grab a copy of Hello! from the coffee table and start flipping through it. A few pages in, my eyes widen at a photo of Edward at home at Cedar Hall in Gloucestershire over the summer. He’s playing polo, sitting confidently astride a horse with a mallet slung over his shoulder. I love the fierce look in his eyes.
“Hey, Libs. Look. The guy I’m dating is in Hello!”
She nods, smiling a little. “Surreal.”
The receptionist calls her name and escorts Libby to a stylist’s chair. I follow with her.
“So, what are we doing today?” he asks, running his fingers through her hair. He’s a skinny man with bleached hair, black eyebrows, and thick black-rimmed glasses.
“Not too much,” she says. “Just a trim.”
The stylist and I exchange a look.
“She doesn’t need much,” I say. “She’s low maintenance, so just a good hairstyle she can work with. But I want her to start blowing it out. Maybe you can show her some straightening techniques, too. And add a few layers. And maybe a tiny bit of fringe. Should we do highlights?”
“Just a trim,” Libby repeats firmly.
The stylist spends nearly an hour painstakingly pulling on Libby’s curly chestnut hair with a round brush, running the blow dryer down the hair shaft over and over. It falls in thick waves, cascading over her shoulders.
“You have so much more hair than I do,” I say. “I’m jealous.”
“Jealous? Of this mess?”
“Most of my clients would kill for hair like yours,” the stylist says, pulling on a tender section of Libby’s scalp and causing her to yelp. “Sorry. No pain, no gain.” She shoots him a dark look.
When he’s done, we stand back and admire his handiwork. Libby’s hair is normally a little frizzy and pulled back, but now it falls in loose waves around her face. He’s given her a few easy layers, but nothing over-the-top. She looks both naturally beautiful and sleek—a million times better.
“You look gorgeous, Libby. Absolute stunner.”
“Wow,” she says. She touches her hair and sits forward in the chair, staring at herself in the mirror. “It’s so soft. How?”
“Loads of conditioner—and some serious elbow grease.”
“We’re going to a dinner tonight,” I say. “Can you make sure it lasts until then?” Libby’s hair turns into a frizzy pouf-ball at the merest hint of moisture in the air.
The stylist pulls out a big can of hair spray, spraying Libby’s hair until it’s well lacquered.
“This must be some fabulous dinner the two of you are going to.”
“Just to Donatella with some friends.” Our friends meet in town most Saturday nights for dinner at Donatella, an Italian hole-in-the wall famous for a lax student-drinking policy.
“All this fuss for Donatella?”
I bristle. “I want her to feel pretty. Are we all done here?”
At the checkout counter, I pull out my wallet. “I’ll pay for this,” I say magnanimously. “My treat.”
Libby bursts out laughing. “Your treat? You’re putting it on Mum and Dad’s credit card!”
My cheeks redden. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“Thank you for a wonderful day, Bug,” she says. She throws her arms around me, pulling me toward her as I sign the receipt and shove the credit card back into my wallet. She plants a big, sloppy kiss on my cheek. “You’re the best sister ever.”
“And don’t you forget it,” I say huffily, leading her out of the salon. I pretend to be irritated, making a big show of wiping my cheek, but I’m pleased.
Once we’re back in my room, I play music on my iPhone and scatter Libby’s new clothes all over the floor.
“Charlotte! You’re going to wrinkle everything!”
“Calm down. We need to figure out what you’re wearing tonight. You can Marie Kondo everything when we’re done.” I pull the blue dress out of the bag. It looks even more stunning in soft lighting. “What about this one?”
“Okay. But what if I’m cold? It’s not very heavy.”
I rummage around my top drawer, pulling out a pair of opaque black tights. “That’s what these are for. We’ll pair it with the new booties and the new black coat—the faux fur collar is major. It’s all going to look beyond.”
“You’re sure I won’t be overdressed?”
“Libby. Relax. Do you trust me?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Good. Now sit down so I can put makeup on you.”