I slip on the first one, a soft ivory blazer that feels like butter against my skin. It has these little hidden pockets. And a cut that somehow makes my shoulders look bolder, my waist narrower.
“It’s nice,” I say, smoothing the lapel.
“It is not merely ‘nice,’” Antoine corrects. “It is authoritative. You are the stabilizing force. The white knight.”
He hands me the second—charcoal gray with a high collar that frames my face.
“This makes my eyes pop,” I murmur, looking in the mirror. I didn't even know clothes could do that. I look more sophisticated.
“And the third,” Antoine says, handing me a sleek black number with subtle stitching details that signify its expense.
I slide my arms in. The fabric has a weight to it, a substance. I find myself standing straighter.
For a split second, I imagine walking into that press conference like I belong at Rio's side.
Antoine circles me like a fashion shark, touching his chin and squinting at each jacket.
“The ivory for the press conference,” he finally declares. “The charcoal for arrival photos.”
He turns to Veronica. “But the foundation is wrong. Her pants....” He waves a hand dismissively at my legs. “They scream ‘faculty lounge.’ Burn them.”
Veronica nods as if this is a perfectly reasonable request.
She disappears and returns seconds later with a pair of dark denim jeans and a pair of nude stilettos.
“Try these,” Antoine commands. “And this.” He hands me a white silk top that curiously hugs my curves.
I retreat to the dressing room.
When I pull the jeans on, I have to suck in a breath. They are tight. Not uncomfortable butfitted. They hug hips I usually try to hide (I'm a 'big booty' girl) and taper down to my ankles.
Then I unbutton my blouse, starting at the throat, and slip on the silky top.
It’s not exactly low cut, but the way it’s made accentuates the shape of my breasts.
Maybe a little too much. But compared to some of the outfits I’ve seen these Las Vegas women wear, it’s quite tame.
I slip on the heels, which add three inches to my height and force my posture to shift.
I step out.
Antoine nods, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. “There. Now you look like a woman who could break a rockstar’s heart.”
I look in the mirror. The teacher is gone. The woman staring back looks taller, sharper. Dangerous.
“Wear it out of the boutique,” Antoine says. “We need to break the shoes in before the rehearsal.”
“And the dress?” Antoine asks Veronica, ignoring my wobble as I adjust to the heels.
“It will be ready for tonight,” she promises.
Antoine says goodbye to Veronica, and ushers me outside the store.
The air in the arcade feels thinner, less rarefied than inside the atelier.
“Well, that was interesting,” I say, smoothing the fancy top over my midriff. “How did you find out about Veronica and her shop? There wasn’t even a sign on the door.”
“It’s my job,” he says simply.
