not sure if it’s a sense of awe or fear that has her sitting so primly; straight-backed, knees together, hands placed carefully on her lap.
‘No, thank you,’ Glenna answers. ‘One glass is sufficient when I’m working. I’d also like to take a look in your closet while I’m here. To see what we have to work with.’ Her eyes flicker over me, from my ballet flats and skinny black jeans to the silver-blue square-necked blouse I’m wearing. I can almost sense her disappointment.
‘Actually, Glenna, right now, I just need something for the gala.’
‘As I understood it, Monsieur Durrand required more outfits for your perusal?’ She turns to Charles, who begins to speak in rapid French, the older woman deigning to nod in several places.
‘I explained you do not have your full wardrobe at this house.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’ I shrug; whatcha gonna do? There’s no way I’m letting this woman get a hand on my drawers. Also, Monsieur Durrand can “require” all he likes.
‘Then this selection will have to do for now. Perhaps at a later date, we can book in your shopping consultation. I am available in Monaco, of course, but also for trips to Milan or Paris, as you wish.’
I wish not to go shopping with you anywhere, least of all for a little continental hop to shop. Plus, with me, you’re more likely to get a lift on the back of a bicycle than a Gulfstream even if I own neither. When I don’t reply beyond a benign smile, she gestures to Marco, who begins to unzip a dress cover lifted from a gleaming gold-coloured garment rack, glossy shoeboxes sitting underneath, a dazzling array of brands. Dior, Louboutin, Manolo Blahnik, Chanel; the stack of labelled boxes goes on and on. I’m handed a garment of tissue-thin silk and gestured into something that looks like a windowless sound booth, which is actually Glenna’s portable fitting room.
Have van . . . will bring the kitchen sink!
Inside the box, I slip into the dress, happy I’m not flashing my (matching) underwear as originally feared. I pull up the concealed side zipper and take a look in the mirror. I look like I belong in a box of Valentine’s chocolates picked up at Bergdorf. There is also the possibility it might cut off circulation to my heart because it’s so tight.
‘Oh, pink.’ Fee is the first to speak. Diplomatically.
‘Well spotted,’ I find myself answering.
‘No, this is not the dress for you,’ Glenna decrees. ‘The Valentino.’
And so it goes. I try on six dresses in colours of a kid’s painting palette. A red from Valentino. A yellow from Givenchy. A blue from YSL. A black from Off-White. If you’d asked me a month ago if I’d enjoy an evening of trying on designer wear or statement dresses, I would’ve said hell yeah! Until I came to Monaco, I’d never even been close to this kind of luxury. But right now, I’m hot, and I’m antsy, and I’m beginning to think I just don’t have the body type for designer dresses. Too tight in the chest, or the arm, the waistlines too long. According to Glenna, some of these can be altered in the right dress. But we’ve yet to find “the one”.
She’s not taking it well . . .
‘Marco!’ she snaps. ‘The Chanel. Not the orange but the white.’
White and I are not friends. White is an invitation to spilled spaghetti sauce and splashes of red wine and sitting through a dinner with a napkin tucked in your neck.
Stylish, yes?
‘I’m . . . not sure,’ I begin as the woman turns her gimlet glare my way, but I won’t be browbeaten. Doesn’t she know who the customer is here? But as Marco’s arms begin to slowly retract the offer, I see the look on his face. I hear you, my friend. There are better ways to spend a Friday evening. ‘Okay.’ I make a grabby hand in his direction, my words unenthusiastic. ‘Pass it over.’ What’s one more wrong dress added to the total?
The dress flutters over my head, my arms gliding effortlessly through the armholes, the fabric settling at my waist where it falls to the ground in luxurious swathes.
I suck in a breath as I pull up the zipper, tightening the braided silk belt before I dare to take a peek at my reflection. And ‘Oh, my God.’
‘Oh, that sounds exciting,’ says Fee from beyond the box.
‘I knew ’zis would be the one,’ Charles bursts out. ‘Let us see, Rose.’