Page 109 of Against the Clock

“I couldn’t get my butt in my rental gown,” I blurt out, and they all smile at me, exchanging knowing glances. I scrunch my nose, so self-conscious I want to melt away.

“Don’t worry, sweetie, we brought a couple sizes. Every designer runs different. It’s the dress, not you. You’re going to be even more gorgeous when we get through with you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay!” Charles claps his hands. “Sit, sit.”

So I sit, and they make easy conversation with me and each other, dolling me up like a Barbie. The suitcase contains an entire Sephora’s worth of cosmetics, and the two women wield the makeup sponges and false eyelashes like warriors as Charles works a curling iron through my hair.

It makes me feel like a princess, and I’m wide-eyed when they finally show me my reflection.

The look is surprisingly natural, but super glamorous. My eyes are dark, more cat-eyed than normal, but not too over the top. My lips are a shade pinker than normal, and one of the makeup artists presses the lipstick into a clutch, along with a few other items.

“For touch-ups,” she says.

“This look will go with any of the dresses,” the other says. “And don’t worry about getting makeup on them, we’ll help you in.”

Charles just keeps messing with my hair, and the feel of the comb and his fingers has put me in a total trance.

“I think the Marchesa is too frilly. I don’t want to overwhelm you,” Christophe says, holding up the dress in question.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“How tall are you?”

“Five-seven.”

“I just think it’s too much dress. No, you’re so pretty, let’s get you in something slightly simpler. Your face will be the star.”

“Heck yeah, it will.” The makeup artists high-five.

“I think the champagne, don’t you, Charles?”

“Yes.”

Christophe pulls a garment bag off the rack, unzipping it.

My breath catches as he pulls it out. It’s stunning—strapless with little draped sleeves that hang off the shoulders.

“She likes it,” Christophe says, delighted by my response.

“She does,” I agree, and he laughs.

“Put it on,” Christophe says. Charles’ hands leave my head and I stand up.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before,” Charles says and I laugh, ducking behind the clothing rack for a semblance of privacy all the same.

I hold my breath as I step into the silk, pulling it up over my hips and putting my arms into the little draped sleeves.

“It fits,” I announce, relieved as hell. “I need help with the zipper.” Half my hair is up in curlers, and they press uncomfortably into my scalp as I emerge from behind the rack.

“Oh my GOD.”

“Stunning.”

I turn, and two pairs of hands help zip the dress up, which fits… like a fucking glove. A silk, golden glove.

“Show, show, show us!”

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