Bidding For Her Curves - Flora Ferrari Page 0,1

I feel dizzy, black spots swirl in front of me and I feel my knees going out from under me.

“I’ll feel better after a shower,” I tell myself aloud, brushing off the obvious.

“All that talk of Mason Thorne’s gone and done it, that’s all.”

Yes, that’s it. A nice warm shower. I’ll have to wash my hair and-

What am I gonna wear!?

I groan again, this time for real. I feel suddenly too tired to think of anything, but I need to figure out what to wear if I’m actually going to this thing. In the vain hope, I might actually see Mason. That he might actually…

Leaning heavily on the closet door, I scan my wardrobe, flicking through what few dresses I have, counting the months, the years since I could even fit into any of them.

The nicest one is from my graduation. Very formal but no way it would fit now. It barely fit then and I was the butt of every snide comment at that dinner.

It is dark and hides most of my curves. The ones I don’t want to show and it does lift my chest.

Sucking in my tummy, I unhook it from the rack and hold it against myself, studying my front and my profile in my full length mirror.

I close my eyes, telling myself not to get upset, not to be so hard on myself.

It was a year ago, maybe more.

A part of me wants to go back to bed, gala, and even my job be damned.

But feeling my hand on the fabric, I imagine another hand covering it.

A stronger, much larger hand, lifting mine to his lips as he tells me how beautiful I look.

How much he wants to…

My phone rings loudly, startling me from my daydream.

It’s Karen again.

“Get moving chunk! I need my gown altered too, those idiots at the boutique sent me the wrong size.”

I half smile at the thought, grateful I’m not the only one with a wardrobe malfunction.

“Well?” she whines. “Move it!” she screeches and hangs up again.

Dry cleaner.

Alterations.

Two birds, one stone.

I smile at my own brilliance, then catch myself getting dizzy again, leaning on the wall for support.

I’m not sick, just nerves. I’ll shower and eat, then I’ll feel better.

After throwing up twice at the subway station, I’m grateful for only having eaten a small breakfast, and make my way to the office, my own gown in a cover.

I must be sick, but there’s no way I’m missing a chance to see Mason Thorne up close.

“Jesus!” Karen exclaims as I hang up my own gown behind the door, “You were right, you look like shit!”

Thanks for the sympathy.

Thrusting a stack of files into my chest, she announces the first of my tasks. “The week’s accounts,” before brushing past me to get to her own office.

“I’m in here!” she calls, summoning me, letting me know I’m supposed to follow her around so she can give me my to-do list verbally.

I swoon in the doorway, feeling giddy again. I thought I was feeling a bit better, but this thing is coming and going.

I can see Karen’s gown laid out on her chair behind her desk. It looks a lot smaller than mine but probably cost ten times as much.

She frowns when she notices me staring at it, snapping her fingers and using her other hand to hold the bathroom door open.

I step over to her desk, meaning to set the pile of folders down, but feel dizzy again. The faint reek of Karen’s bathroom filling my nose, making me want to retch.

I fall forward, tossing the files as I put my hands out, knocking over Karen’s huge coffee mug plus a tall vase of fresh flowers in the process.

Drenching her brand new gown in a curious colored, floral latte splash, I feel the color drain from my face. And it’s not because I’m about to get sick again.

For the first time, I see her speechless. She’s pale too, shaking with rage.

After a moment of mutual shock, I leap into action, grabbing some seltzer and a cloth from her kitchenette and making for the gown to try and get some of the coffee out.

“Oh no!” she screams. “You’ve done enough damage, you clumsy pig! Hands off!”

She snatches up her gown, tumbling it into a ball, and presses her face a mere inch from mine.

“I’ll have to take this to the cleaner’s myself! You stay here. I want those accounts done, my shitty toilet scrubbed, and then those boxes of programs taken over to Mr.