Serving the Billionaire(3)

In took her about ten minutes to finish my makeup. Then she said, “Face the other way so I can do your hair.”

I spun around on the toilet seat and faced the wall, straddling the toilet backwards. Sadie worked her hands into my hair. I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation. I’d always liked having my hair played with.

“There,” she said, after a few minutes. “Go look at yourself in the mirror.”

I went back out into the main room of the apartment and shoved my feet into the high heels. Then I wobbled unsteadily toward the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door. I stood in front of it and examined my reflection.

I looked... like a grown-up. Like a sophisticated, confident woman. The waistband of the skirt hit right at my waistline, and the contrast of the fitted skirt and the more voluminous blouse made me look about ten pounds thinner than I actually was. Sadie had wrapped my hair into a sleek chignon, and my makeup was elegant and understated, sexy without being over-the-top.

I looked, frankly, like someone I didn’t even recognize.

“Wow,” I said.

Sadie came up behind me and looked me up and down. “I’d hire you,” she said.

“Are you sure this is right?” I asked. “Shouldn’t I wear something... skimpier? What if they think I’m not sexy enough?”

“You’re just going to have to trust me on this one,” Sadie said. “The internet never lies. This place is very mysterious, very exclusive, and very classy. You need to look like you’re worth about a million dollars.”

I gazed at my reflection. A million dollars seemed pretty far off the mark. Maybe a thousand.

Two days later, I woke up early to give myself plenty of time to get ready. I showered and dressed in the outfit Sadie had loaned me, making sure to wear my sexiest, laciest bra underneath the slightly-sheer blouse. I did my hair and put on the makeup I thought I could handle: kohl eyeliner, red lipstick, mascara. I screwed up the eyeliner a few times and had to start over from scratch, but eventually I got it looking more or less even on both sides. Good enough.

The lipstick was strange and sticky on my mouth. I felt like a little girl playing dress-up. I just had to make sure that nobody could see through my facade.

I took the subway to 8th Avenue and walked from there. Navigating the subway in my high heels wasn’t exactly easy, but I figured I should get as much practice as I could. If the interview went well, I would be spending every night tottering around in heels.

The club was in a building so nondescript that I pulled out the piece of paper I’d written the address on, just to double-check. There was a small bronze plaque beside the door that read, “The Silver Cross Club,” and listed the address. That was it. It was the kind of place I normally would have walked by without a second glance.

I tried the door. It was open, and I went inside, into a dimly lit lobby. It was very small, barely larger than my apartment, and contained nothing but a wood podium with a man standing behind it.

“Welcome to the Silver Cross Club,” he said. “Are you here for the audition?”

“Um, yes,” I said, and then inwardly cursed myself for saying “um.” Not sophisticated. The man said nothing, though, merely nodded and pressed a button on the wall.

Seconds later, a door opened, and a tall white woman dressed all in black appeared. She had long red hair arranged in a French twist, not a single hair out of place. “Right this way, if you please,” she said to me, and I meekly followed after as she led me into the club.

It looked rich. That was my first impression: it looked like the sort of place you went if you had serious, no-kidding-around money. No one thing screamed luxury, but the overall atmosphere was one of undeniable opulence. The walls were painted a dark gray color and lined in places with velvet drapes so dark a blue that they looked almost black, but gave off a subtle sheen of light. A bar of dark, gleaming wood lined one wall, and round tables filled the rest of the room, clustered around a central stage. Along the three walls not occupied by the bar, brass doors led into—I assumed—other, more private rooms.

The woman let me gawk in peace as she led me toward the bar. A number of other girls were assembled there, and from their attire, I immediately pegged them as the competition. Most of them were wearing what I would have worn if Sadie hadn’t interfered: short, tight skirts, and glittery tops revealing acres of bare skin. One was wearing a snug maxi dress, but none wore anything like my outfit.

I felt enormously self-conscious as I joined the waiting girls. What if I’d worn the wrong thing and made a fool out of myself? I trusted Sadie implicitly, though, which was the only thing that kept me from bolting right back out the door. I hated doing the wrong thing in new situations. I would just have to hope that Sadie hadn’t been wrong.