“You think this is going to be some Pretty Woman nightmare?” Josephine waves carelessly. “Don’t worry, you’re with me. And I don’t take clients to places that let in just anybody with money. Thankfully, this place also has a full-service spa.”
“Spa?”
“Spa.” She gives me another once-over. “Sorry, but you need a new haircut, mani, pedi…the works.”
Her tone is matter-of-fact like she’s discussing what should be on a cheeseburger. She gets out of the car and I follow her to the building.
“I thought you were just buying me clothes,” I say.
“You need more than new clothes. At least you have good bones. Some people have to get surgical help.”
My jaw drops. She waits for me to come into the high foyer. The floor is all smooth pale champagne marble, while the walls are covered with thick, expensive-looking ivory paper. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling. A soft strain of classical music floats in the air like perfume. The place reeks of money, impeccable taste and class.
A tall woman in a sleek black dress walks out. She manages to walk with confidence despite five-inch heels. “So good to see you, Josephine.”
They exchange air kisses. “Did you get my text?”
“Of course.”
“So everything’s ready?”
“Yes. And is this Gigi?” the woman says, turning to me.
I’m about to correct her, but Josephine talks first. “Yes. She needs everything. And I do mean everything.”
“The same thing we did for Paige?”
Josephine shakes her head. “Not enough time. She has a dinner date today. We’ll start small.” She purses her mouth. “Maybe a few dresses.”
The other woman crosses her arms. “Yes. I agree.” She gives me a brilliant smile. “Let’s start. What would you like to drink? We have Dom or Veuve Clicquot.”
I glance at Josephine helplessly. “I’d go with Dom,” she says.
Chapter Fourteen
Annabelle
Dom turns out to be a kind of champagne. A crazy expensive kind, not the cheap stuff we had in college. The woman—her name is Karen—and Josephine apparently expect me to sip it while beauticians work on my hair, feet and hands.
And I’m supposed to sit in the chair and watch Karen and Josephine go through racks and racks of dresses in various colors and styles and cuts.
I decline the alcohol and ask for mineral water. Karen merely nods and brings me a bottle and a glass filled with ice cubes. Meanwhile, Josephine raids the inventory.
“Not the right shade of green. It won’t do a thing for her eyes.”
“This cut’s going to look foul on her. Emphasizes all the wrong parts.”
“What do you think about this, Gigi? No? I don’t think so, either. Bodice is too low…”
Seven assistants bring out more racks and boxes. Josephine barely glances at them before creating two piles: “yes” and “no”. She doesn’t ask for my input all that much, for which I’m grateful. I’m already too overwhelmed to decide. Everything the women bring out looks beautiful. If it were up to me, I’d say yes to it all.
We take a short break for lunch. Since I’m starving, I’m grateful for the turkey and avocado wrap on the menu—organic and gluten-free of course. What kind of place is this anyway? It seems like there’s nothing the staff here won’t do for the customer.
After a couple of hours, the spa people are done with my hair, makeup and mani-pedi. One of the assistants sets a big mirror in front of me and I gasp. I honestly don’t recognize the girl in the reflection. My hair is soft and piled up in a slightly messy but sophisticated style. The judicious use of mascara and eye shadow enlarges and deepens the green of my eyes until they look like emeralds. My cheeks are expertly contoured, and light bronze powder gives me a healthy, sun-kissed glow. The pearlescent pink lacquer on my fingers and toes is lovely—chic enough for a night out but subtle enough for every day.
For the first time in a long, long while, I feel…gorgeous.
More importantly, I feel my age—a young, carefree woman.
“You look awesome,” Josephine says. “And you’re going to look even better after you change.”
She shows me a classy sleeveless black dress with a mandarin neckline and intricate patterns created by hundreds of small rhinestones. It stops a couple of inches above my knees. The back too is fully covered. “Is this good?”
“Yes,” I say, glad I’ll be in something on the conservative side.
“How comfortable are you with heels?”
“I can handle maybe three inches, I guess?”