“Maybe,” Bryn acceded, “but truth reading won’t be likely if I can’t retain contact.”
“Anything you can learn will be more than we have now.”
“Well then,” Giles said, “shall we begin your transformation,Bryan?The tailor awaits.”
Withholding a sigh, Bryn followed Giles out of the conference room for what promised to be hours of humiliation.He cast a glance at Gunnar who seemed suitably sympathetic.He never complains about my clothes.I think he likes me in ripped jeans…
“Oh, and Bryn?”Giles paused before they left the building.“Do try to look less like you’re heading to your execution.Executive assistants generally display a bit more enthusiasm for their work.”
“You should be thankful I’m going along with this at all.It’s not in my job description,” Bryn said, pulling on his gloves.Three days.I just have to survive three days of this.He shoved his dark glasses on.At least now he can’t look me in the eye.
Warden had assigned them a driver and it didn’t take long to get to the tailor’s shop, which was tucked away in a corner of downtown.Their driver stayed with the vehicle, right outside the door.Inside, the premises smelled of wool, leather, and money.Lots of money.
Bryn scowled while Giles greeted the owner like a long-lost friend.
“Paolo, it’s been too long.I do so appreciate you giving us this time when you’re in such demand.”
“Giles, my old friend.It’s my pleasure.Is that Richard Anderson’s work you’re wearing?”
“It is.You always did have the best eye.”
“For the best work.Very nice.But to business.What have you brought me?”
“A challenge.”Giles stood aside to give Paolo a better view of Bryn.
“Oh my…” Paolo ushered Bryn onto a low wooden platform.“Arms up.Like scarecrow.”
“I know, but he has potential.I’m training him to be a top-class executive assistant but he needs to look the part.Ignore the gloves and glasses…he has issues.Bryn, this is Paolo Vittorio.Do what he says.”
Bryn stood there while Paolo circled him with the predatory focus of a shark that had discovered a nice plump seal.
“No, no, no.”The elderly Italian tugged at Bryn’s sleeve.“Everything wrong.Shoulders—disaster.Waist—catastrophe.You let him dress himself?”This last part was directed at Giles, who sat in a nearby leather armchair looking far too amused.
“Sadly, yes.But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?You have three days to make him presentable for an important meeting I’m attending.”
Paolo made a choking sound.“Three days?Impossible!This needs three weeks minimum.Maybe three months.”He poked Bryn’s ribs with a measuring tape.“Stop slouching!”
“I’m not…”
“Slouching!”Mr.Vittorio insisted.“And tension here, here, and here.”He jabbed various parts of Bryn’s anatomy with alarming accuracy.“Bodies must be relaxed for proper fit.You are like statue.Very bad statue.Not Italian.”
“Perhaps,” Giles suggested, “we could see the Welsh wool options while Bryan tries to become less…statuesque?”
“The blue-black superfine?Yes, yes.”Paolo shuffled away, still chattering away in Italian about impossible timelines and American barbarians.
“Having fun?”Bryn asked once the tailor was out of earshot.
“Immensely.Though, I must say, you’re taking all the joy out of it with that expression.Try to think happy thoughts.”
“I’m thinking about all the ways to make death by measuring tape look accidental.”
“Ah, there’s that creative spirit.”
The next hour was a blur of fabric swatches, increasingly intimate measurements, and Paolo Vittorio’s running commentary on everything from Bryn’s posture to his choice of socks.“Criminal!In my shop, wearing these…these…abominations!Inhale,” Paolo commanded for the fifteenth time, wrapping his measuring tape around Bryn’s chest.
“Iaminhaling.”
“No, no.From diaphragm.Like opera singer.Like this—HHHNNNN!”
