I did a full turn. Enzo gave me his best smile.
“Perfect.”
Perfect wasn’t enough for me. There was no one else in the store, so I left my phone there and went back to the fitting room. The last dress was pale, almost the same colour as my skin tone, and made of thin fabric. When I put it on, I realizedit was a bit sheer, though not enough to be revealing. It fit me well, and Enzo’s reaction—no words, just a look from top to bottom—told me it was the right one.
“I’ll call you back soon,” I said. “Give me a second.”
The store owner helped me find a pair of simple black shoes that matched; then, I paid and grabbed the outfit and stepped into a café across the street. I ordered a latte and asked for the bathroom. The coffee was just an excuse; I needed to use the mirror. I pulled my makeup bag from my backpack and started getting ready. Thank God for concealer.
Afterward, I called a taxi. About halfway to the Palais des Rois, I called Enzo again. He had combed his hair and gotten out of bed and was taking bites of an apple as he spoke.
“Vera!” he exclaimed as soon as he answered the call. “I’ve missed you.”
“Very funny.”
“Did you get everything you wanted?” he asked.
His voice was steady this time, and he had shaved clean. He took another bite of the apple, his plump lips wetting as he ate.
“Yes, I think. Didn’t think you were the type to have fruit for breakfast.”
He swallowed before answering.
“It’s almost…” He glanced at the top of the screen. “Shit, it’s nearly six. I guess this can’t really be called breakfast at this hour, but I should make room for dinner.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Do you have plans?”
“I’m just heading to see my family. Mum organises family dinners about twice a year.”
His words reminded me that I hadn’t called my mother. Wehave a similar tradition; it’s just the two of us, so I visit her every Sunday. I bring food and keep her company, and she always makes me butter cookies. Given how my weekend was going, I doubted I’d make it this Sunday. I didn’t plan to tell her I was in France or that I was tangled up in a mess involving half a million pounds. But at least I’d let her know I was thinking of her.
“I need one last thing,” I told Enzo.
“What is it?”
Help me not look like an idiot, I almost said.
“Do you know anything about basketball?”
“Basketball?” Enzo set down his apple, a crease forming on his forehead. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m headed to a game,” I said with a chuckle. “It’s part of tonight’s party. I’ve never been to one before.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Dressed like that? You’re going to steal the spotlight from the game.”
“Hey! It’s not a crime to stand out,” I shot back. “But can you help me with some basics? I’m pretty clueless about basketball.”
“Alright, I’ll shoot you some tips later,” Enzo said, glancing at his watch. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Thanks a ton,” I replied, and dashed out of the car.
The Twitter user BordeauxBsqtFTW was a kid who couldn’t have been older than 13. He had a buzz cut and was wearing skater pants with a blazer that had safety pins instead of buttons. He shoved my money in his pocket as if he feared it would disappear and handed me the tickets for the party.
“Where’s your husband?” he asked, glancing around.
The area where the Palais des Rois was located was filledwith groups of people dressed in the colours of both teams—green and orange, cyan blue—crowding around food stalls and merchandise shops. The sun was starting to set, and the crowd filled the open air with lively shouts and songs I didn’t recognize. Loud music pulsed through the stadium, a French rap song I didn’t recognize. I felt completely out of place. To make matters worse, every few minutes, some grimy person who looked like they hadn’t showered in days would stop to eye me up and down or shout random nonsense. Enzo was right; my dress was drawing too much attention. At least the party was private. Not like that did much to reassure me.
