She stood confidently in a strapless bra and white thong. A delicate golden key pendant on a fine gold chain rested against her smooth skin. She had no reason for modesty: she was tan, slender, and in-your-face beautiful. Stunning, really.
Tiffany had started her life out with distinct disadvantages, but she had managed to pull herself up from the bootstraps and make something of herself instead of falling into a life like her mother. Tiffany hadn’t settled, and for her it would’ve been so easy to settle.
There was a knock on the door and two people entered after Tiffany told them to come in. One woman held a tray with two champagne flutes, the other—Deidre—held Tiffany’s dress. It was an off the shoulder floor length, bright pink gown.
“That dress is Academy Awards worthy,” I remarked.
Tiffany laughed. “If only the kids from Holy Trinity could see me now.” She grinned. “Think they’d still call me names?”
“Kids are assholes,” I said.
“And yet they can do so much damage to your long-term self-esteem, you know?” She shook her head.
I held the two champagne flutes as Tiffany slid into the gown. It fit her perfectly, from what I could tell, but she immediately started directing Deidre to make alterations. She was polite, assertive. There was no small talk; it was all business.
“I’ll be in four-inch heels, so we should take that into account as well,” Tiffany said.
Deidre nodded and began alternating between pinning the dress in places and scribbling down measurements on a notepad. I got up and handed Tiffany her drink. She gently tapped her flute to mine and we both took a sip.
It was not cheap, hangover-in-your-teeth champagne. It was complex and crisp.
I wasn’t immune to the polish and luxury. It was seductive, to say the least. Especially after years of living modestly and memories of a childhood spent in rented apartments and bungalows with lawns that were more dirt than grass.
But I didn’t need a job that paid what Tiffany’s job paid. I just needed enough to live, enough to be comfortable, enough to be secure. I would take whatever job Genevieve offered me because it would give me a new identity, and that was my primary concern.
The fitting didn’t take long and we left the dressing room. I was feeling buzzy and bold from the glass of champagne as Tiffany linked her arm through mine. She all but dragged me through the women’s department.
“You need something bold but classy,” she said. “Something that compliments your naturally golden complexion. How do you feel about wearing white?”
“White? Seriously? No one can get away with white unless you’re a bride.”
“It’s hard to pull off,” Tiffany agreed. “But I think you’re cut out for it.”
“If you say so,” I muttered. “Tiff, hold on a second. I can’t afford Folson’s. I can’t even afford Target. How am I going to—”
“I’ve got an account with Folson’s. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Stop telling me not to worry about it,” I hissed. “This feels very…I don’t know. What’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Like charity?” she supplied.
I glared at her. “I was going to say sketchy. There’s something sketchy going on here.”
“What do you mean?” Her eyes were open wide with sham innocence.
“I mean, what aren’t you telling me?”
“A lot. I’m not telling you a lot,” she admitted. “But it has to be this way. You have to be a blank slate; you can’t know anything when you first talk to Gen.”
“Why all the mystery when it comes to The Rex?”
“You’ll understand after your interview. We can talk about it all then.”
Without another word about it, Tiffany changed focus and waved down a department store retail attendant and told the woman what she wanted, gesturing to me.
Before I knew it, Tiffany was ushering me back to the private dressing room and the attendant was carrying a few dresses by their hangers.
She hung them up and told me if I needed anything in a different size to let her know.
I quickly closed the door to the dressing room and looked at the options hanging in front of me. They were beautiful gowns and demurer than I expected.
“Have you got a dress on yet? I want to see.”
“Hold on,” I said, quickly grabbing a garment on a hanger.
“Too many ruffles,” Tiffany said, when I opened the door.
The next dress was a fail, too. The asymmetrical hemline cut me off mid leg, and she immediately rejected it.
By the time the attendant returned with a pair of three-inch white patent leather pumps, Tiffany had