“Trust me, you’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”
I glance down at my Zara dress, feeling both absurd and somehow proud. This is so out of anything I’ve ever known or done, and yet I’m having a blast.
The first boutique we visit is a blush-toned palace of sequins and silk. I wander in, my eyes wide. A dozen racks of dresses shimmer under warm lights, the hangers sliding past each other like they’re conspiring. They probably are. Against me. Maria wanders around, eyeing me like a hawk, then turning her eye to the dresses and selecting pieces with the air of a seasoned shopper.
“Try this one,” she says, stuffing a deep emerald sheath into my arm.
I head to the dressing rooms and strip off hurriedly. I pull the dress over my head and gape in the mirror. It’s … something. The color is flattering, the cut is sleek, but the thigh-high slit is higher than I’m comfortable with, and I’m worried I look more comical than upper-class.
“What do you think?” Maria calls.
“Um … it’s a bit … much?”
“Let me see,” she orders.
I figure I won’t get any peace if I refuse, so I open the fitting room and step out. Maria laughs, but it’s a laugh of delight, not a nasty laugh. She twirls me around and claps her hands with approval.
“Pippa, you look like a million bucks.”
I look at her disbelievingly.
“Trust me. You look hot. Look at yourself.”
I squirm, but I force myself to look in the mirror again, for longer this time. She’s right, the fit of the dress is impeccable, and even though I feel a little scandalous, the reflection staring back at me is good.
“Ok, it’s not as bad as I first thought,” I concede. “But I feel uncomfortable in it, and …”
“Say no more,” Maria says. “You have to feel good to look good. Let’s try on some more.”
I try on a few maybes, but nothing that wows me. I also try on a few disasters along the way. A powder pink gown with sequins that scratch the back of my neck. A silver tulle dress that makes me look like a walking snowstorm. A black silk number with shoulder pads so massive I briefly imagine myself starring in a nineteen-eighties sci-fi film. Maria laughs at each failed attempt, and while I’m changing, she chatters relentlessly, telling me more of her stories of misadventures on yachts and parties. She makes me laugh so hard I almost forget to breathe.
Finally, triumph. I find the ‘one’. A blush-colored chiffon dress cinched in at the waist, and flared just so. It whispers elegance and class without screaming, ‘Look at me, I spent big bucks on this.’ Paired with a delicate fascinator selected by Maria, a small netted piece that perches jauntily on my hair, and nude patent heels that add just enough height, I feel like I could survive, even thrive, at Elliot Hawthorne’s big wedding.
Maria claps her hands together. “Now you need a cute purse.”
She pushes me toward accessories. Very quickly, I end up with a small cream clutch bag with gold hardware that actually fits everything I might need for a long day. She encourages me into another two more outfits that she claims I will absolutely need. One is designer casual, and the other is outrageously seductive. Quite suddenly, and to my surprise, I find that we have drifted into the lingerie section. My stomach tightens, and I freeze.
“Maria, I … I don’t think …” I trail off.
“Pippa,” she says, smiling. “Rhett gave you his credit card to go wild. The least you can do is treat him back.”
She winks when she says it, and I more than catch her drift. My heartbeat hammers, and I almost say no, almost cling to the illusion of being George’s faithful girlfriend. And then I remember that I’m supposed to be Rhett’s girlfriend. That was our deal. He kept his part of the bargain, and I’m not going to let him down.
Of course, I would want to wear nice underwear for him if that was really the case. And suddenly the idea isn’t embarrassing so much as it would be thrilling if I were really in a situation where I was going to be seducing him in racy underwear.
I end up with a delicate lace set in blush pink to wear with my wedding outfit. It is soft and luxurious against my skin. Maria throws in a tiny red teddy with black lace trims. A bit scandalous, if you ask me, but I suppose it’s flimsy, daring, and flirtatious. I feel my cheeks go hot, but I also feel powerful, like I’m stepping into a version of myself I didn’t know existed.
By the time Maria drops me back at Rhett’s imposing mansion, I’m exhilarated and slightly dizzy from all the retail, the sunshine, and the caffeine from where we stopped for lattes.The afternoon light glints off the ocean in the distance, the waves curling toward the shore like a silver ribbon. My Zara dress and flats feel almost comical compared to what I’ve just acquired, but I don’t care.
I approach the mansion, and my stomach lurches. This is like a scene from a movie. Never in my wildest dreams have I ever imagined a scenario like this. Me playing pretend girlfriend to a billionaire. The front doors are locked. The place is silent. Rhett must still be at the office, and the housekeeping staff must have already gone home.
I let myself in with the key he gave me, and decide to have a look around. I wander through the house, hearing my heels click and echo across the polished floors. The interior of the place is breathtaking. Marble floors stretch beneath my feet, reflecting the afternoon sun streaming through enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto a private beach. The living room is an expanse of cream sofas and glass tables, punctuated by bold art pieces that make me feel sophisticated just by standing near them. The kitchen gleams with stainless steel and polished counters. I try to picture Rhett here, aproned and cooking with an effortless flair, and I just can’t.
He must hardly ever use this house. It is immaculate and devoid of personal touches or photos. Almost as if it is a show home.
I wander upstairs. The guest rooms are spacious, each with its own view of the ocean. I guess Rhett has chosen to give me the first one I come to because my suitcase is there waiting for me at the end of the bed. I open the huge walk-in closet, hang up my three new purchases, and put my accessories beside them. They look so lonely in that massive space. I lift my suitcase onto the bed and unpack the rest of my things, hanging my normal dresses alongside the new designer pieces.
Small touches make me feel like a visitor in a world I’m not fully equipped to navigate. Plush throws, scented candles in thick glass jars, delicate objects-de-art on plinths that I don’t dare even go near in case I clumsily fall against them and break them. But the panic from earlier today has faded, replaced with a thrill, a sense that maybe I can do this. Maybe I can belong here during this short trip.
