A Hollywood Deal(49)

But I wish he’d act as a buffer between me and Ms. Shopping Tornado…er, Josephine. Then I wouldn’t feel so exhausted. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

Thursday comes, and I’m simply done. Feet hurt, joints hurt, my muscles are protesting. Josephine’s replaced my entire wardrobe, but she isn’t finished, meanwhile I just want to stay in bed and look at bridal magazines.

Josephine makes sure I’m properly dressed—a red Chanel and matching sandals—and drags me to an exclusive lingerie boutique. Their stuff is all hand-made in France, and you can’t even step inside the shop unless you have a black AmEx or something similar.

A salesperson comes over, walking across the marble floor. She’s in a white V-neck tunic and black skirt. People who work at a place like this also do not wear comfortable shoes, so she’s in a pair of high heels that click with every step. Unlike my nerdy horn-rimmed glasses—which thankfully I’m not wearing right now—hers are chic, black and make a statement. She pushes her black hair behind her slim shoulders and air kisses Josephine on both cheeks.

“Congratulations on your upcoming wedding, Ms. Johnson,” the woman says. “I’m Kanako Hamada. I’ll be assisting you and Josephine today.”

“Um, thanks,” I murmur.

Within minutes, we get to sit down, thank god. Two flutes of Dom Pérignon are served, and I wish I could have a sip. Drinking is a good way to dull the pain this is going to be.

“Do we have to do this?” I ask Josephine under my breath as we are shown underwear. They are beautiful, but I already have plenty of pretty things that I’ve been accumulating over the years.

Besides, I feel awkward about spending more of Ryder’s money. I understand why we had to replace my dresses and shoes and purses; people in his circle don’t wear clearance rack items—even if they did come from high-end department stores. But who’s going to notice underwear?

“Lingerie is what makes or breaks a woman’s confidence. Nothing bolsters you like a hot undergarment,” Josephine says as she gestures at the sales people to bring out more silk, lace and satin.

“I agree. But I have plenty of nice things.”

“Oh, but nothing like these.” Josephine picks up a black thong made with silk and black seed pearls. “Ryder’s going to appreciate today’s effort.” She grins.

I make sure to smile back, because there’s no way I can object to what she just said. What bride-to-be complains about buying sexy underwear anyway?

“Just so you know, I have a lunch date today,” I say.

“That’s fine. We’ll be done by then.” She tilts her head, her curls falling over one shoulder in a cascade. The gesture looks practiced. “I’m going to have them send what we select to Ryder’s place, so you don’t have to bother lugging everything around to your car.” She chuckles. “See? I can be reasonable.”

I shake my head. “Reasonable.” Sure, only mid-five figures spent in half a morning.

About half an hour before noon, I leave in Ryder’s black Mercedes. I prefer to drive my own car, but he insisted that I take one of his or he was going to buy me a Maserati so that can be my car, not the old Altima.

“You’re going to be seen,” he said. “And you know how media can be. I don’t want them speculating on why you’re tooling around in a Nissan.”

A valid concern. But I don’t have to like it.

I’m running late, so I valet park at the Sheraton near Bethany’s office and cross the street to slip inside a trendy bar and restaurant. She’s at the bar, and I wave.

She pushes a dirty martini my way. “Here. I saw you pull in, and I thought you could use one. All brides-to-be deserve a drink.”

“No, thank you. I had some champagne earlier, and I really shouldn’t, not when I have to drive.” The lie rolls off my tongue like a sweet candy, and I cringe inwardly. I hate deceiving my stepsister like this, but I have no choice.

I order a glass of ginger ale, and the bartender places it in front of me before tending to another customer who just walks in.

Bethany looks good. She’s positively glowing, although she isn’t showing yet. Unlike me, nobody’s bankrolling her outfit, so she’s in a modest black top and pants, plus a pair of red Converse. I, on the other hand, in my scarlet Chanel get-up, feel grossly overdressed.

She gives me one of her soul-warming hugs and takes my hand to check out my ring. “Oh my god, it’s gorgeous! Just lovely.” She gawks, turning the band this way and that.

“Thanks,” I say with a blush. I feel like a total fraud, but I can’t let her know.