Page 122 of Morally Black Betrothal
“My God, just look at those ankles,” Terence cooed while he toyed with his hair, which was tipped with orange.
“Look at those legs,” Kate corrected, eyeing me through her oversized black-framed glasses. “I see lots of short skirts in your future, babe.”
“Not too short, please. I have a four-year-old niece. I have to squat a lot.”
“What shall we do with the hair?” Terence stepped forward to examine a lock closer. “Do we like the length, Katie?”
Kate, the head of this whole operation, tipped her head. “I think so. Bring it to the shoulder blade and give it a little texture, but we’re not trying to do anything avant-garde here. She needs to look classic. Think Carolyn Bessette or a young Julia Koch. Maybe Karli Kloss after she married into the Kushners.”
“Mmmm, yes, yes, yes. Got it, got it, got it.” Terence had a tendency to speak in threes when he was excited.
I pulled at my hair. “Someone mentioned the other day that I have split ends.”
“Oh, you do.” Somehow Terence’s acknowledgment didn’t cut the same way Brendan’s brothers’ comments did. “But what’s the saying? The bones are good. A little trim and a deep conditioning treatment will fix that right up. Don’t worry, babe. I got you.”
I couldn’t help but smile. In a weird way, the frank but nonjudgmental discussion about my physical strengths and weaknesses was liberating. They were there to help me assemble the armor I’d need to survive the next few months. The Q to my James Bond.
“Good style has nothing to do with brands or trends.” Kate picked up a book of color swatches and started holding them to my face one by one. “It’s about working with the body you have. Do that, and you’ll never look bad a day in your life, no matterwhere you shop.” She nodded, then turned to Terence. “Tell me she’s not a soft summer.”
“I was thinking spring, but you’re right. Damn, I owe you twenty now.”
“We’re going to want to bring some caramel tones into her hair,” Kate said. “Some sunny little highlights too up top. Ariane, let’s work on bringing out the natural, dewy glow in her skin, okay? Just alittlespray-tan, but mostly we’ll just moisturize. On the nails, I want a soap manicure, but use the polish with the gold shimmer, all right?”
“Botox?” Ariane was already rubbing her hands together with glee.
“No,” I said quickly. Good Lord, I wasn’t even thirty yet.
Thankfully, Kate seemed to agree with me. “She’s got good skin, so I think we can hold off.”
And they went to work. For several hours, I was subjected to treatment after treatment in the privacy of my own home—well, my fake fiancé’s own home. Some pleasant (I found my own personal heaven in a seaweed body wrap), others less so (sugaring sounds sweet, but it’s unequivocally the worst).
When they had done all that could be done in a day, Ariane and Terence left with kisses to my cheeks and an assurance that they would be back next week to help me prep for the engagement party. Ruth had informed me that it was a lavish affair that would be held at the Black family’s estate in Newport. Black-tie on the beach. It sounded…nice, I supposed. For a party where no one I actually knew would be in attendance.
After that, Kate and I spent another several hours going through my newly furbished wardrobe, making notes of anything she thought I still needed (spoiler: it was a lot), and trying on everything she’d brought to see exactly what was going to look best. To my surprise, she embraced a good portion of my thrift shop finds but gave me advice on how to mix andmatch with modern pieces so I could avoid looking like a period costume party attendee.
Looking back, I could now see the mistakes I’d made trying to style myself. I’d shown up at Niall’s home looking like a 1960s hostess when I should have taken my sweet vintage dress and paired it with modern hair and accessories.
By the end, I had approximately two full months of outfits put together for occasions as small as a sidewalk promenade for coffee that might go TikTok viral again to ensembles for various formal events that Brendan may or may not want me to attend.
Did all wives and girlfriends of such prominent men go through this? I wondered. For the first time, I had a little more respect for people who made their looks their entire lives. Being an honest-to-God trophy wife could legitimately be a full-time job.
“Try it again.” Kate sat on the edge of my bed and watched me walk in yet another pair of sky-high shoes. “Try balancing more on the balls of your feet.”
I crossed the room once more in a pair of butter-soft leather sandals. They were beautiful and far more comfortable than I’d expected for five-inch heels. But I still looked and felt like a baby deer trying to walk in them.
“I’m never going to get this,” I told her. “Two inches I can handle.”
“Threeinches is what my grandmother wears to protect her swollen ankles,” Kate replied. “Come on, girl. You’re young, and those legs are too good not to show off. Practice makes perfect, so I want you walking in these around the house for the next week.” She made a note on the master list she was keeping. A style inventory, she’d called it.
I had an inventory. Like a warehouse.
Ruth probably loved it.
“Better,” she said when I tried again and managed not to fall.
“I’ll take your word for it.” I reached out for the wall to catch myself.
“How are we doing?”
