Page 60 of Repluse

“What were you doing out there? Meeting with your dealer and getting your fix of happy pills?” Sam asks.

“Fuck you. Just move your arses,” is his only reply.

We pullinto the valet parking area of Chadstone Shopping Mall less that fifteen minutes later, where we’re met by the beautiful Bella—one of the self-proclaimed ‘Fashion Capitals’ personal shoppers.

While the boys take themselves off, I’m escorted to a hair salon, where I experience a wash, treatment, and the best scalp, neck, and shoulder massage of my life, before my hair is blow dried into big, bouncy waves. Just getting my hair done has brightened my day considerably, but it’s made even better when I’m taken to David Jones to get my makeup professionally applied, and I’m loaded up with samples.

That’s when the boys reappear, both of them carrying bags from Armani.

“Look at you,” Frankie says as his eyes roam over my face and hair.

Sam gives a whistle, shakes his head, then winks. “Gorgeous, Mils. With or without the hair and makeup, you’re always fucking gorgeous.”

Warmth spreads through me, and I can’t hide my smile.

We spendthe next couple of hours wandering from shop to shop, where the very efficient Bella has multiple outfits waiting for me to try on. I try on everything from trackies to evening wear, and because of my fresh hair and makeup, and the compliments I getfrom the boys, I feel like a million dollars in all of it. Despite my protests, everything I say I like, either Sam or Frankie order that it’s purchased immediately with the cost deducted from their account.

I have a wardrobe full of designer clothes back in Yira. Looking good at all times is one of Logan’s many rules, but one of the very few I’ve always been happy to follow. Today, though, having this experience when I was feeling so down, and the fact it was arranged especially to pick me up, as well as the boys having taken time out of their busy schedules to accompany me has my overthinking brain going off on all kinds of tangents.

And one of them is the imposter syndrome tangent I often circle back to. I wasn’t born into this kind of lifestyle, but with coercion, some lies, and manipulation, I’m now living it. That little voice inside my head is always there, and every now and then it whispers, ‘you’re not worthy, you little mongrel.’

When I’m standing on a tailor’s riser, having a full-length, black beaded evening dress that I have no idea when I’ll ever wear, pinned at the hem, it hits me that I’m having aPretty Womanexperience, and my stomach drops, because as much as they tried to glamourise it in the movie, Vivian was a prostitute. That’s when that same little voice reminds me that really, that’s exactly what I am.

I whored myself out to my husband for a better life. Now he’s done with me, I’m basically whoring myself out to the two men waiting outside the alterations room, so they’ll rescue me from whatever fate belies me next.

Looking up from where the seamstress is on her knees in front of me, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and wonder if she knows. If all of the staff at this French-sounding shop in a Melbourne suburb know or think they know what I am to Frankie and Sam. Does Bella know? Has she helped them do this for their other women in the past?

I despise these intrusive thoughts. When I’m alone with the boys, I’m bold and brave, but right now, maybe because it feels like it’s about money and buying me things I once could only dream of affording, imposter syndrome creeps in. Cold and uninvited, it invades my thoughts. Most times, I can ignore it. Sometimes, though, like right now, it’s a struggle, and I hate, hate with a passion how it’s ruining this experience for me.

My nose tingles, my jaw clenches, and I feel too warm, but eventually, I manage to swallow down my emotions and focus instead on how beautiful the dress is. Composing myself, I draw in a breath and take in all of the intricate details that have gone into the design.

The top half is made of black velvet. The shoulders are fairly wide, and the neckline of the bodice plunges all the way down to the waist, making it look like it’s made from two separate halves of material. The skirt is completely sheer, made up of black beads sewn onto a delicately meshed fabric. Beneath it is a straight, slightly less sheer, dove grey under skirt. It’s possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn.

Bella appears with a pair of dove grey, ankle strap, suede heels. With the dress pinned and the shoes on, I step out from behind the curtain to face Frankie and Sam, who are both on their phones. I stand silently and watch them, and it’s only when Bella moves out from behind me that they look up.

Frankie stands, then sits down.

“Mils,” Sam whispers, but it’s a loud whisper—one we all hear. One that I feel right down to the marrow of my bones.

“Don’t make me cry,” I blurt. “You’ll ruin my makeup.”

“You look stunning, Mils. Fucking beautiful,” Frankie, again standing up, says.

“I don’t think I’ve ever worn anything so beautiful,” I admit, spreading my palms over the delicate fabric of the skirt and looking down at myself.

“I don’t think anything has ever looked more beautiful,” Sam adds.

“I just asked that you don’t make me cry.” I tilt my head to the side, smiling. “I don’t know when or where I’m ever going to wear it.”

“Wear it when you serve Logan with divorce papers next week,” Sam suggests.

“Next week?” Frankie questions, the smile he was wearing now replaced by a frown.

“Change of plan. We’ll tell you later,” Sam says.

“It was just me having another one of my moments while you were on the phone earlier. We can wait and do it your way if that’s what?—”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Frankie interrupts.

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