Dating Mr. Darcy - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,20
say “Hi,” and instantly regret coming across as one of his simpering sycophants.
He shoots me an uncertain look. “Thank you so much for the offer, Camille. Maybe later. Right now, I think I should take a shower before my fitting.”
I’m sure every female mind in the room is picturing him in that shower.
“Enjoy your morning.” He turns to leave and several of the women call out goodbye.
I let out a puff of air. I’m glad I’m not “here for the right reasons” and have got to deal with a bunch of women thinking they’re half in love with the guy already.
As the production crew begins to pick us off individually and herd us to other rooms for fittings, I sit and wait with Kennedy until it’s my turn.
“Are you really here because your sister signed you up after a breakup?” I ask her.
She nods her head. “Yup. She thought the experience would get me out of my head.”
“And?”
“I haven’t thought about my scumbag ex since I walked down the red carpet. Too many other dramas here, I guess.”
“He’s clearly a man with poor judgment if he dumped you.”
She taps her mug against mine. “You are so right, babe. I am moving on.”
“Good for you.”
“Emma,” Trudi, one of the production crew, calls from the doorway. “Time for your fitting.”
“Wish me luck,” I say as I stand to leave.
“Don’t forget to channel your inner Lizzie Bennet,” Kennedy says. “Not so hard for me, considering my last name actually is Bennet.”
“You are the obvious choice for Mr. Darcy, then.”
“Not if I value my life,” she replies, looking at Camille across the room.
I shoot her a sardonic smile. Even though I’ve known Kennedy for less than a day, I know she’ll be the only thing I’ll miss about this insane asylum when I leave.
Chapter 7
I trudge behind Trudi down the wide corridor with its long Turkish runner carpet and black and white photographs of horses lining the walls. We reach a white painted door, and as she pushes it open, I spot Reggie in front of a wardrobe, filled with Empire line dresses. She grins at me, looking like she stepped off the pages of Pride and Prejudice itself.
“Don’t I look cute, Emma?” She does a twirl.
Her skirt is ivory, her top a pale lilac, and with her dark hair arranged like Mrs. Watson’s last night—but without the hideous shower cap—she does indeed look cute.
“You totally do, Reggie.”
“Why thank you, darlin’. Now, if only I had my phone I could post it to my followers.”
“Missing social media, huh?”
“Like I lost my right arm. Up until I arrived here, my entire life was catalogued on Instagram. My followers must be missing me somethin’ wicked.”
“But you’ll have a great story to tell them.”
“I’d better. That’s all I’m sayin’.” She does another twirl. “Dressing up is fun. Well, other than the undergarments piece.”
“The undergarments?”
She glides past me toward the door, followed by Trudi. “You’ll see, darlin’. You’ll see.”
With the door closed behind them, it’s just me and an older woman I’ve never seen before. She peers over the top of her bright red glasses at me. “You must be Emma. I’m Mable Richardson, Head of Wardrobe. Let’s get started on this.” She’s got a no nonsense tone and a briskness about her.
I eye the pile of weird looking corsets piled up on a chair.
“I’ll need you to take everything off, and that includes your bra and underpants.”
My jaw drops. “All of it?”
Mable flicks her wrist. “There’s a modesty screen if you want it, but I’ve been fitting people for costumes for thirty-five years and I very much doubt you have anything I haven’t seen before.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I step behind the screen and begin to slip off my things. Before I’ve reached my bra—super supportive and soft sports bra by Timothy, naturally—her hand appears around the corner of the screen, thrusting something at me.
“Put these on.”
I take it from her and examine it. It’s a pair of underpants so big and roomy, it puts my nana’s to shame. And my nana had some pretty big underpants in her time.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Put the bloomers on, please.”
Bloomers? Dear Lord, help me now.
I pull the huge garment up and tie it at my waist. It reaches down to my knees and is easily the least sexy item of clothing I have worn in my life. How anyone is going to feel like flirting with Sebastian while wearing these is beyond me.
“In the Regency period, bloomers didn’t have a