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Lady
Eight
“Open.” I open my eyes and stare into Keva’s dark brown gaze as she gives my face a critical study. She waves her makeup brush in command. “Close.”
I close my eyes as she resumes blending the eyeshadow on my right eyelid.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t borrow one of your red dresses?” I ask.
“Not unless you can make these quadruple in size in the next hour.” She unceremoniously thumps the top of my boob with a flick.
“Ow.” I rub my breast as she whips away the towel that’s been draped over my chest.
“Open,” Keva commands.
I open my eyes once more, and this time after studying me, she nods in approval. “You’re ready.”
“And you’re positive on the dress?” I ask, unfolding my legs from their cross-legged position on my bed. “It’s not too… princessy?”
“Look, it’s your favorite dress, right?” she asks, putting a fist on her generous hip.
“Yes. But it’s not particularly sophisticated. I was picturing—”
She’s already shaking her head, her bun wagging. “You don’t need sophisticated. You need power. And there’s nothing more powerful than a woman wearing her favorite dress because she knows she looks good.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she points at me. “Stand.”
I do and let her guide me to the full-length mirror I’ve leaned in the hallway outside the bathroom because my bedroom barely fits my bed and dresser.
“Oh wow,” I say when I see myself. She’s right, the dress is one of my favorites. It’s a sort of pool-water blue, with an off-the-shoulder neckline, fitted bodice, and short full skirt.
My face, however, is… a masterpiece. I look like me, but more badass. She’s done something to make my eyes seem bluer, more direct, yet you can’t tell I’m wearing makeup.
“I know, right?” Keva says smugly. “You look like Veronica Mars meets alternate-universe Cinderella.”
“I was going for Olivia Pope,” I admit.
Keva shakes her head. “All wrong. He’ll be expecting an Olivia Pope move. He won’t see this coming, and it’ll knock him on his ass.”
“Well, I do like the sound of that,” I say, heading back into the bedroom and pulling a pair of beige ballet flats from the shoe rack hanging over the closet door.
Keva bats them out of my hand and they drop to the floor. “Nope, those.” She points at a pair of hot pink high heels. I bought them to match a bridesmaid dress for a college friend’s wedding and haven’t worn them since.
“You want a little Olivia Pope,” she explains.
“There’s zero chance I’ll make it the two avenue blocks wearing those. I wouldn’t even make it two regular blocks.”
“Which is why you’re taking a taxi.”
I snort. “Just to get to Columbus Circle? I’ll have to hand in my New Yorker card.”
“You’ll have to hand in your scrappy New Yorker card,” she corrects. “Today you get to be the other kind of New Yorker. The kind who takes taxis without blinking an eye.”
She pulls a twenty out of her bra and hands it over.
I shake my head. “I’m not taking that.”
“Because it’s been nestled against my boob?”
“Gross. Nestled? And no, I don’t want it because I won’t take your money, especially not to take a cab a few blocks.”
Keva rolls her eyes and unabashedly tucks the money into my bra.
Giving up, I sigh and pull out the pink stilettos. “Fine. Only because it’s fitting that a twenty-dollar bill plays a role in this meeting.”
Keva stares at me. “Huh?”
“Never mind,” I say, remembering I never got around to telling her about the sidewalk meet-cute between Sebastian and myself when I’d accidentally miscast him as the hero of my story for a hot minute.
Now that I know he’s the villain, and that I’m about to enter his turf, a secret twenty-dollar bill somehow feels like an appropriate power play.
I put on the shoes and then wince as they immediately pinch my feet. I’m going to need that cab after all.
* * *
Last night, instead of sleeping, I was envisioning how this day would go. I pictured everything in my mind, right down to what the Andrews Corporation headquarters looked like: my imagination decided a lot of glass and stainless steel.
Turns out, I was 100 percent right. The elevator alone looks like a spaceship, except instead of astronauts, I’m joined by men in gray and navy suits and women in smart dresses and tailored slacks.
The cliché about New Yorkers wearing only black isn’t entirely untrue, and I’m feeling a little out of place in my bright blue dress and pink shoes until a middle-aged woman behind me in the elevator taps me on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” she says with a smile. “I’m dying to know—where’d you get your shoes?”
“Oh!” I turn and smile back as I name the brand. “I do feel I should warn you, they’re not terribly comfortable.”
She sighs as the elevator doors open and she moves around me to exit. “They never are. Worth it though. Those are fabulous.”
