“No sharp silhouettes. Nothing vulgar. No logos. No daring cuts. Not yet.” A pause. “The power comes in suggestion.”
“Right on it,” the assistant says, returning shortly with an assortment of dresses, eveningwear, and elegant casual clothing on a rack.
“Ah, this is it!” Antoine says, pulling aside each item to make a thorough assessment.
For the next hour, he sends me into the dressing room with item after item.
Each time I come out, he makes me stand on a circular riser while he accessorizes me with oversized jewelry and silk scarves.
When it’s all over, I turn to face myself in the mirror.
My reflection surprises me.
I look expensive. Composed. Like the kind of woman who has opinions about wine vintages.
Maybe even the kind of uptown girl who plays footsie with handsome rock stars under the tables of five-star restaurants.
You never know.
“You’re wearing Max Mara,” Antoine informs me. “Like the look?”
I caught the price tags on only a few of the items. Outrageous. Each piece Antoine selected represented months, maybe even an entire year of busking in the park, my fingers freezing to gather loose change.
“Yes, but I bet this outfit could pay a semester of my college tuition.”
“You mustn’t think that way. Look,” he says, his eyes softening for the first time as he pulls me down to the white sofa.
“Sterling paid me a lot of money for this shopping expedition, and that’s not even including the clothes. He knew I could give you the appearance of an uptown girl who captured Slayer’s eye. But my powers are limited.”
“What do you mean? You did a great job! At least, I think so.”
“What I mean is that I can make you look like a million bucks. But only you can internalize it so you act the part, not just rock the look.”
I nod, though I don’t totally understand. I’m still thinking about Antoine’s words as the limo takes me back to the apartment I share with Keesha. The clothing, he told me, will be sent directly to the private jet.
As I look into the driver’s rearview mirror, I gasp. For the briefest of moments, I could swear I saw Hilary beside me.
And she was smiling.
CHAPTER 22
BIX
The next afternoon, I follow Milo’s directions to meet him, Sterling, and Slayer at a lounge for private-jet customers departing from JFK.
“Hi. My name is Bix Bismark, and I’m?—”
“Of course. Ms. Bismark,” says the attendant at the door with a knowing smile. “Mr. Sterling asked me to take you right over as soon as you arrived.”
The sleek airline lounge looks more like an upscale nightspot than anything you’d find at an airport.
I follow her through, acutely aware of curious glances from other travelers. A woman with perfect highlights and a designer handbag nudges her companion and whispers something.
Do they recognize me from Vanessa Sinclair’s column? That photograph taken outside the noodle shop?
“Ah, Bix! You’ve made it,” says Sterling, standing as soon as he sees me. Slayer rises a moment later, his movements graceful despite his apparent reluctance.
“You look lovely, doesn’t she, Slayer?” Sterling prompts.
