Netta couldn’t resist a smile. ‘That’s emotional blackmail.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I just don’t want to dig it all up again.’
‘The digging has already been done,’ said Audrey. ‘You might as well make the most of it, or you’ll just end up being a victim all over again.’
Netta didn’t have a response to that. She knew Audrey was right.
‘Plus,’ Audrey’s eyes twinkled and she clapped her hands together, ‘all this drama aside, going to the gala would be magical. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. And with that dishy man on your arm, no less!’
‘A dishy man who’s very loudly spoken for. He and I, it’s all just for show.’ Netta checked her watch. ‘Thanks for the chat, Audrey. You’ve saved me from a sinkhole of second-guessing. I’d better go and call Rhona. Seal my fate.’
‘Good woman. You go and show them what you’re made of,’ said Audrey. ‘And come and show me your outfit before you leave.’
Netta marched up the stairs to her suite, breathing a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. Talking things through with Audrey had distilled her thoughts. The swirling sediment clouding her logic had settled and the path forward was clear. Strewn with potholes and rabbit traps, but clear enough. She pulled her phone from her bag and called Rhona.
‘Netta?’
‘Rhona, hi. Look, I’ve had a think about it. I’m going to take the deal.’
‘Okay.’ The relief in Rhona’s voice was unmistakable. ‘That’s great. I’ll call Charlie back and set it up. The glam team will be with you at noon tomorrow and Mo’s limo will pick you up at six. I’ll be there to make sure everything goes to plan and Charlie doesn’t try to squeeze any more out of you than you’ve agreed to. Also, I made some calls—Mitch isn’t on the gala guest list. I thought maybe you might’ve been worried about that.’
Netta felt a knot of anxiety loosen just a little. At least she could take that fear off her mind. ‘Thanks, Rhona.’
‘For what it’s worth, Netta, I think you’ve made the right call.’
Netta perched on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes. ‘I guess we’re about to find out, aren’t we?’
Chapter Thirty-Six
NETTA
‘So, are we going for sleek femme fatale?’ Marieke, the stylist, held up a fitted, floor-length, one-shouldered, electric blue velvet dress. ‘Or are we going to deck you out like a Christmas tree?’ She wrestled a second dress, covered in sequins and fringing, from the rack.
‘I love them both,’ said Netta from her post on the bed, where she was wrapped in a hotel robe, her hair and make-up already done. ‘But I think I need something a little less out there.’
‘Hmm, okay,’ mused Marieke. ‘How about this?’ She unzipped another cloth bag and pulled out a red satin slip dress.
‘I think I’ll have enough scarlet woman vibes going on,’ said Netta. ‘I think I need something simple. Classic. Definitely not red.’
‘Aha. I have just the thing.’ Marieke tugged a bulging bag from the rack and laid it on the bed. Carefully, she unzipped it to reveal the softly shining folds of a voluminous black dress. She pulled it out and held it up, shaking it gently to release the layers of the underskirt. ‘It’s vintage Chanel,’ she said, turning it to show Netta the scooped back.
‘It’s stunning,’ breathed Netta. Her insides were a washing machine, the thought of stepping into the spotlight spinning them dry at warp speed. But, even so, this day of makeover magic had been a dream come true—the wedding day treatment she’d never had. And the dress was incredible. ‘Do you think it’ll fit me?’
Marieke motioned for her to stand up. ‘Only one way to find out!’
Netta stripped off the robe and let Marieke help her into the dress.
‘Like. A. Glove,’ said the stylist as she zipped the bodice over Netta’s waist. She stepped back and cast an approving eye over Netta. ‘It just needs …’ She scurried away to her huge kit bag and returned with a pair of spectacular earrings and a sparkling bracelet.
Netta put the jewellery on and went to the mirror. She gasped. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘I look …’
‘Beautiful,’ finished Marieke.
Netta’s hair had been set into old Hollywood waves and her make-up was understated and classic, her complexion creamy and her lips rosy pink. She looked so different, like the very best version of herself had finally been excavated: a shinier, sparklier Netta Phillips. The styling team had given her a sharp outline, where normally she kept the edges blurred to fit in, to not draw attention. But now, looking at her reflection, Netta had to concede that Marieke was right. She did look beautiful.
Marieke smiled, assessing her handiwork. ‘I’d say Morrison Maplestone is going to be outshone tonight.’
