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“Fine,” I say, shaking her hand. “You’re on and that remote is mine.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.”
* * *
It takes at leastan ice age for Tuesday evening to come around. Maybe two ice ages. When the clock finally ticks past six and I’ve got an hour to go, it feels like I’ve spent at least ten lifetimes waiting. Doesn’t help that the dress hasn’t shown up yet.
I’m in the wardrobe trying to pick something out when it finally arrives.
Cathy brings it up for me. “Look at this,” she says. “A couture creation, light as a feather, it must have cost thousands. No wonder it squeezed in under the wire. You can still see the seamstress’s blood pressure going through the roof when you look at it.” She holds it up against me. “Wow. You’re going to look so good.”
I glance at the clock. “He cut it fine, don’t you think?”
“Get it on. Stop wasting time.”
I head through to my room and find the package doesn’t just contain the dress. There’s a maroon thong to go with it along with a case containing diamond necklace and earrings worth more than the entire building.
“You got the dress on yet?” Cathy asks through the door as I step into the thong. “I need to see it.”
“Getting there.” I notice the thong is the same color as Vincenzo’s ties.
I climb into the outfit. Bright red, slit to the thigh with about an acre of cleavage. Sparkling jewels sewn in wavy lines up from the hem. It’s tight on my shoulders and to my bust, tight as a corset.
Once it’s on, I don’t look like me. I look like some movie star version of me, the look enhanced by the makeup and hair Cathy has kindly done for me while we were waiting.
I come out of the bedroom to a round of applause. “That looks amazing,” Cathy says. “You look so good, I’d do you.”
“That’s good to know, thanks. I need to pee, again.”
“Stress test the dress, see how it copes with being lifted around your waist.” She winks at me.
I ignore her, heading for the millionth pee today.
“How are you feeling?” she asks when I emerge a few minutes later, having fought the dress back into place.
“Like I might throw up.”
“That’s the spirit. Here, get this down you.”
She hands me a glass and I almost spit it out the instant it touches my throat. “How strong is this?”
“Mother’s recipe. A cocktail to take the edge off life itself.”
“Which is ironic because it tastes like death.”
“Just drink it.”
“Will I be able to stand up afterward?”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
I drain the glass and feel red hot all of a sudden. “Am I sweating? I feel like I’m sweating?”
“Give it a couple of minutes and everything will feel all right. Trust me.”
She’s not wrong. The anxiety coursing through my veins eases as the minutes tick by. I sit on the couch and try to watch the TV but I can’t take it in. “Do I look all right?” I ask.
“For the tenth time in an hour, you look great. That dress looks stunning. Here, let me look at you properly. Stand up for me.”
