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“For a dinner,” I say. “It’s a formal business event, but I don’t know where. I have to get something formal though.”
“Excellent. We will find you something flawless.” She holds the dresses against me, one after another, evaluating them with a quick and practiced eye. “Wrong color, too revealing. Ah yes. Here is zee one for you.”
It’s clearly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. For this to be for me is almost too good to be true. The dress is a soft champagne-colored lamé, beaded, with jaggedly-layered panels of black tulle, net and beads dripping from a tasteful neckline. It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen in my life—not only a piece of clothing, but a work of art. It seemed like something a fairy would wear. The label reads Rodarte.
I try to calculate the exchange rate on the tag, but it seems insane. Could ten thousand Euro really be over ten thousand dollars? It can’t be. There must be some mistake. The woman hustles me into the sumptuous fitting room complete with shoes. Money talks, I figure.
The dress slips over my skin like a whisper or a caress. It’s simultaneously soft and heavy against my skin. Cool. The beads are practically dripping against my flesh. My nipples harden as the beads slip over them, reminding me of my fantasy of R.
When I see myself in the mirror I’m shocked. My hair, plain before, now is transformed into something artful—the strands curl around my face in a way that seems wildly beautiful, rather than frizzy. Such is the power of the dress. The champagne lamé makes my skin glow, while the beads reflect colors in my eyes I’ve never seen before. I slip into the strappy shoes, while the store clerk assesses me.
“Zee dress is lovely. She is perfection. But ze shoes are all wrong.” She pulls out some studded high heels. “What do you wear? A sirty-six?”
“Not sure.” I am not familiar with European sizing. And I’m starting to feel a little panicked. I look amazingly beautiful in this dress, but if it really is the price it seems to be, I was starting to wonder what I would owe for it. He suggested a dress, and he said to buy in the hotel, but did he mean something like this? Does he know how expensive these boutiques are? He must. He’s not stupid; he lives here part-time.
She puts the shoes on my feet, making me feel like Cinderella. They’re gorgeous, and my legs look as if they’re ten feet long. M
y ass is popping, and in the dress it looks divine.
“Zees is the one,” the clerk crows, triumphant. “Do you need a bag as well?” She holds up a small beaded purse that matches the dress perfectly. “I would be happy to throw zees in if you take ze outfit. Welcome to France.”
“Um. Okay? Thank you?”
I can’t stop staring at myself. The transformation is just so complete. It’s as if the dress, instead of making the rest of me look even more like the silly, nerdy person I was, made each element of what I naturally am look a million times better. I look right. How can I not get it? It’s too beautiful. But I’d be spending so much of someone’s money. More than you might spend on a small car. Still, he offered, and told me to get those things, and honestly, money doesn’t seem to be a problem.
“Wonderful. I will wrap zem up and have zem sent to your room. Ze penthouse you say.”
“That’s right! When will they arrive?”
“Momentarily. Eez your dinner tonight?”
“I... think so?”
“Perfect,” she says. She eyes me knowingly. “You are very lucky. You have done well. Enjoy your time een France.”
I want to skip out of the store. Confront this fear. I go somewhere in France on my own and buy something. I felt ridiculously grateful to R and the saleswoman for helping me as well.
Suddenly I turned back as an idea had struck me. Maybe I can find out his name without having to ask him or my parents.
“Do you have the records to the rooms? I just want to make sure you are charging it to the right place.”
“You said zee penthouse, yes?”
“But, what name is that under?” I’m prying, yes. But I have to know who R is. What is his name? Ryan? Rick?
“I’m sorree but ah cannot give out zat information.” She smiles smarmily. “Zees is why we don’t send ten-thousand Euro dresses and shoes off with a customer paid by room. No, it will be delivered to the penthouse, so zat it is signed for by the client. And of course, if you are charging to ze penthouse, you do know his name yourself, I am sure.”
She says this last part quite airily, but in such a way that it makes me wonder, and not in a good way. Even her smile is odd. She knows something I don’t. Does he send girls here all the time? Seduce them, buy them dresses, and parade them around the hotel...?
She leaves and goes into the back, and I hear her muffled voice talking to someone else. “Another one of ze King’s girls.’ Is that what she said, really?
A new fear grips my heart like an icy cold fist—was this confidence I thought I had gained based on nothing? Not that I harbor any illusions that he’s in love with me, but is this some merely kind of elaborate way to make him look good in front of his business partners? Or is it a real date? Who is he, anyway? Can I trust him? What is he thinking?
What am I thinking?
All the emotions that were crowded out of my mind suddenly roar up inside me. I walk out, angry, confused, unsure of what to do next. Should I confront him? Should I go on the date and talk to him? There’s no one here I can talk to, confide in. I’m alone. There’s nobody anywhere to tell my secrets to anymore. The tears for my best friend threaten to flow past the dam I had built inside myself.
Kelsey, dammit, this is so fucked! What should I do? Is everyone laughing at me? The stupid American?
