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My boss checks his iPhone and says, “Vera Wang is here.” I look at him oddly. He mentioned that Vera Wang - the fashion house - is sending a dress over for the gala. But he makes it sounds like Vera Wang herself is coming to dress me!
We walk down the rooftop stairs and head to the elevator. We descend to the first floor. It opens. And right there, in the reception room, is Vera f**king Wang. The elegant designer is standing there with two of her as**sistants.
Mr. Peak and the legendary designer exchange some pleasantries. She asks about the “incident” on Columbus Circle. My boss as**sures her that “it’s not a big deal.” One of the as**sistants unzips a dress bag and reveals the most stunning white gown I have ever laid eyes upon.
My head is in a daze. This is just too much. “The gala will begin in a few hours. We should get dressed and make the rounds before we hit the Met,” Mr. Peak says to me. I can’t argue with that.
The designer and her as**sistants are led to a parlour room on the ground floor. I remove my clothes. The as**sistants dress me in the gown complete with a black ribbon around my waist. The gown’s long skirt has a flowing ruffled, five foot circumference which dominates the space around me. Wow, I feel like I am getting married.
I look into a full length mirror and I swear I want to cry. My body looks perfect in this dress. I never want to take this gown off. For the first time in my life, I really, honestly, feel like someone special.
The designer recommends a hair and makeup team who work on the Upper East Side. Since Mr. Peak is footing the bill, the exclusive hair and makeup team get to the townhouse in record time.
I am sat in a chair and primped and prodded with expert hands. My medium length hair is sculpted into an irresistible flowing hairstyle complete with curls that fall over my right shoulder. The make-up artist emphasises my strong cheeks and applies these eyelashes that make me look like a “golden age” movie star.
Mr. Peak walks down stairs and looks at me. “Stand up. Turn Around,” my boss orders. I obey. He tells me to walk towards him. I push my shoulders back and use my elevated confidence to give Mr. Peak a good show. The big man nods in approval. It looks like I am ready for tonight’s “coming out” event!
***
The night falls on Manhattan. Mr. Peak and myself get into a black Maybach on 81st Street. We cruise from the Upper West Side to the Met. My body is shaking right now. Even though I have risked my life, the specter of being the center of attention is even more terrifying.
Mr. Peak notices that I am bobbing my right knee up and down. He places his firm hand over my leg. It makes me stop instantly. We approach the sight of the gala. Expensive luxury cars and limos are lined up ahead of us.
I look to my right and notice that my billionaire boss is a little apprehensive as well. Well, this doesn’t make me feel any better! The car pulls up to the red carpet. A door opens. Mr. Peak grabs my hand and says, “After you.” Oh my goodness. I step out to a flood of flashbulbs. I look around and see A list movie stars, fashionistas and some of New York’s most powerful citizens. None of the photographers are even interested in little ole me.
My boss steps out of the Maybach. All of a sudden, the wave of lights hits both of us. “Mr. Peak! Mr. Peak! Over here!” photographers scream. Some of them scream, “How much money did you throw out onto the street?! How much money did you recover?!” I look up at my boss who seems at a genuine loss for words.
Mr. Peak grabs my hand and leans down. “Get ready. Now it starts,” my boss says as he lifts up my chin. Mr. Peak kisses me on the mouth. There is a huge pause in the press line. All of a sudden, all the photographers aim their cameras directly at me.
“Who’s the girl?!” one of the photographers screams. Another photographer yells, “Is she famous?” Then another photographer answers, “She will be by tomorrow!” To which the entire press line laughs.
“Over here!” the photographers yell. Mr. Peak covertly nudges me forward. I make a few awkward steps towards the red carpet. One of the event handlers tells me to step on a little yell piece of tape in front of a wall with Vanity Fair logos. TV cameras aim right at my body.
“Who are you wearing?” one of the journalists asks.
“Vera Wang,” I say nervously.
“How long have you been dating Ryan Peak?” another reporter asks.
I look at my boss who simply stands there deferring to me to answer. I think about what my boss would say. And then I think, what answer would get me the most press?
“Come on. Come on. How long have you been dating Ryan Peak?!” the reporter asks aggressively.
