IT’S not that I didn’t fume. Oh, I fumed. I fumed for a good three days. And I got really proficient at fuming. But after my anger subsided, I had to accept the truth in Margot’s words. This was a moment, just one moment. I could push through, and maybe even use all the attention to further my own goals. Nationally recognized as an excellent pastry chef? Ready to launch her own line of products? Already thinking about her first cookbook? Check, check, and check. I could play the game, I realized, and at the end, I could be the winner.
Plus, in my most shallow self, I had to admit that a little retail therapy never hurt.
For all of the discussions at Thrill surrounding what I would wear, what Avery would wear, his tux, my dress, when I finally got ready on the night of the debut episode, I did so without fanfare in my quiet apartment. I stood in front of my bed and fingered the gown that lay before me. I studied the winner of the mini-election held by all interested parties at Thrill earlier in the week. The comments of the Dress Parliament returned to my thoughts:
Sebastian the stylist: Refined and elegant without looking like you’re going to stop by the country club for a round of bridge.
Avery: Hot.
Lolo: Deliciously perfect.
Margot: Finally. Don’t forget to wear lipstick.
Tova: The absolute opposite of prom. I so hated prom, didn’t you? You look amazing, Charlie! Seriously! I can’t believe you have those arms without ever even trying CrossFit. I want to hate you, but I can’t when you’re wearing that dress!
The deep emerald of the dress shone richly against the soft grays of my bedding. I ran my hands gently along the bodice and felt the comforting weight of the fabric, hoping that its permanence would steel the butterflies in my stomach and scatter my second thoughts about the evening ahead.
Lolo had indulged me with a home visit earlier in the afternoon, and the result of her time and effort had made my hair and makeup look relaxed and pretty while still living up to the dress.
When it was time to get dressed, I carefully lifted the garment over my head and let it fall over my hips. After some maneuvering, I managed to coax the zipper up the back; I turned to my full-length mirror. For once in my life, I didn’t feel the need to critique each inch of my body, each imperfection on my face. The dress hugged in all the right parts and made me feel very grateful to be a woman. The bodice was figure-formed but modest, a direct response to my request after seeing the publicity photos and being aghast that my breasts appeared to have perked up, grown up, and pushed out, all in the space of one photo session. But as a beautiful counterpoint to the smooth cover of fabric on top, a slit ran in a clean and dangerous line up to the middle of my right thigh. I pivoted before the mirror, unapologetic in my admiration of legs that never saw daylight. Turns out, running in a kitchen at all hours was at least good for the calves.
My phone vibrated as I was slipping on the strappy heels Sebastian had chosen for me. Tova was texting their arrival at my apartment building. The limo was waiting out front. Tova had really worked hard for me over the past several weeks, and as a thank-you I’d suggested that we share a limo to the party. Needless to say, Tova was in favor of that kind of carpool.
I fidgeted with my new clutch during the elevator ride down but knew as soon as I stepped into Omar’s view that I’d done all right.
“Ms. Garrett,” he said with a slight bow. “You are ravishing.”
“Thank you, Omar,” I said. “You are kind to say so.”
He shook his head, opening the towering glass door with a distinguished air. “Kind, perhaps, but honest, as well.” He smiled and watched from the door as the driver helped me into the car, shutting the door with careful precision and then pulling slowly away.
“Charlie!” Tova said, reaching over the space between our seats. “You look so gorge! I can’t stand it.” She was practically vibrating within a swath of sequins. “Charlie, this is my date, Donny Chu.”
One look at Donny and I could guess Tova hadn’t chosen him for this honor because of his membership in Mensa. He looked at me with what appeared to be a practiced expression. Unless I’d missed my guess, Donny’s Botox injections and new cheek implants were responsible for his look of faux thoughtfulness.
“Lovely to meet you, Donny,” I said. His fingers were long and clammy.
Tova leaned over to speak in a stage whisper, as though in addition to the burden of looking like an Asian Greek god, Donny also struggled with hearing problems. “He’s an underwear model!” She gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled in return, wondering how recently Mike the cameraman had gotten the axe and predicting Donny would suffer the same fate momentarily.