“I don’t think Josephine can do this for me.”
“For the kind of money you pay her, she totally can.” Josephine Martinez is not cheap. Her rates used to be somewhat reasonable, but then her business exploded a couple of years ago, and now she has a waiting list.
Ryder laughs. “Why are you so upset? It’s no big deal. All work and no play makes Ryder a dull boy.”
“That doesn’t mean that you can just skip—“
“Look, the meetings are no big deal. Mira doesn’t mind rescheduling, and neither does my guy at OWM. What’s his name again?”
“Pete Monroe,” I answer automatically.
“Yeah. He was happy to accommodate. And so are other people.”
My phone beeps with another call. I check the caller ID. “I have Josephine on the line.”
“Excellent. Talk to her.”
“About what?”
“Catch you later, doll. Bye.” He hangs up.
I cringe. Josephine selects a few items each season and sends them to Ryder. Sometimes she comes up with an entire wardrobe. Every designer who wants Ryder to wear their stuff goes through her since he doesn’t bother with details like that. She rarely calls me, and when she does, it’s to discuss something that Ryder already gave me instructions about. This time, I have no idea.
“Hello, Paige,” she says, her voice brisk but not cold. “I hope I’m not interrupting your lunch break.” Unlike some people who are perfunctory, she genuinely is considerate.
“Not at all. I already ate.” Translation: I was starving and couldn’t wait until noon.
“What’re your height, bust, waist and hip measurements?”
“Excuse me?”
“And shoe size.” She pauses for a moment. “And any allergies to metal?”
“Uh, no, none. Why do you need my measurements?”
She clucks her tongue. “Why would a personal shopper and fashion consultant need your measurements? What could it be, what could it be? Come on now, I don’t have all day.”
Rattled, I give her the numbers she wants. She makes non-committal noises.
“Any colors you prefer, or don’t prefer?”
“Um. Not really.”
“Great. I’ll just choose then. You haven’t tanned or changed your hair color since I saw you last month, have you?”
“No. But wh—”
“Good.” She hangs up.
I don’t know what’s going on, but I hope Ryder isn’t buying me a new wardrobe. I already have decent clothes, collected over the years from clearance racks and eBay. Nothing in my closet comes close to the stuff that people in his social circle wear, but there’s nothing unacceptable. Certainly nobody’s complained about what I wear lately…not even Mira, who did criticize my outfit on my first day of work because she deemed my white cotton button-down shirt and khaki-colored skirt cheap and unbecoming.
At two thirty, four glossy black boxes with golden edges arrive in my office. They have no brand name or logo. A note written on a heavy ivory card is on the top of the pile, stuck to it with a diamond-tipped pin.
Wear the one that looks best on you. If you can’t decide, call me and I’ll decide.
–JM
I open them and gape at the jewel-toned clothing inside. Any one of the pieces has more silk, chiffon, satin and lace than my entire closet. My gaze falls on a deep garnet-colored dress and a sapphire blue vision in silk. The first has a V-neck and cute string straps and a flirty mid-thigh skirt. Priceless European lace wraps around the fitted bodice, creating an interesting contrast and texture. The blue one’s simpler, just the silk, but I like the off-the-shoulder look and the asymmetrical design that somehow makes it über-sophisticated.
They both come with matching shoes—classic strappy stiletto sandals with three-inch heels—and two sets of accessories complete with necklaces and chandelier earrings.
I lay both of them over the back of the couch in my office and move back, resting my hip on the edge of my desk. Was this Mira’s doing? She mentioned turning the whole farce into some kind of Cinderella publicity coup. If so, she might’ve decided to cast herself as the Fairy Godmother.
Pushing myself off the desk, I pick up the blue dress. The simplicity calls out to me, but beyond that the color is soothing. My nerves seem more frayed than usual, and I need a bit of calm.
I change, touch up my makeup and brush my hair until it’s shiny and tumbles down one shoulder in smooth waves. Ryder’s clearly planning something, and I don’t want to do anything that might end up being embarrassing.
I run clammy hands over the back of my chair. No need to worry. This is just us giving everyone a good show, to convince Julian that Ryder’s married for real, so he’ll have no choice but to hand over Thomas Reed’s painting.