“The blue-and-white-striped dress,”Ramona said.
“Why?” Noelle asked.
Ramona took a breath. She stood in the center of the room, afternoon light streaming through the windows, making the white linens on the giant bed glow. The walls were gray, the furniture mid-century modern, a boring room, to be quite honest, but theclothes.
There were clothes everywhere. Metal racks on wheels filled the room, packed with garments of every color, every fabric, every price point. Some of the pieces—for Mallory’s character and her family, Ramona was sure—cost more money than Ramona made in six months. Louis Vuitton, Versace, Dior, Chanel—the legends in fashion, all right there, inches from Ramona’s fingertips. She didn’t dare touch any of it, though she was dying to know what thousand-dollar silk felt like.
Still, even the caliber of the clothes couldn’t distract her from the fact that she was standing with Noelle Yang in a wardrobe room.
Standing andtalking.
Standing and giving heropinion.
Standing and beingaskedfor her opinion.
“I think it looks more polished,” Ramona said, taking the cottondress off the hanger and holding it up. It was sleeveless, but modest, with a scoop neck that would show off Dylan’s collarbones, and an A-line skirt that should hit right above her knees. Wide navy and white stripes gave it a summery, nautical feel. Perfect for a yacht-loving crew like the folks who would be at this fundraiser.
“We know at this point that Eloise is insecure about Mallory’s wealth and status,” Ramona said. “With an event this big, she’d probably try to find something that gave the illusion of money. Something simple, but a little more sophisticated than a sundress.”
Noelle nodded, took the dress from Ramona, and held it up in the natural light. “Yes, I think you’re right.”
Ramona had to press her lips together to keep from squealing—Noelle Yang just said she was right.
“Dylan, let’s get changed,” Noelle said, waving her toward the en suite bathroom. “And we’ll need different shoes.”
“Thank god,” Dylan said, already pulling a strap of her dress off her shoulder.
“Could you find some flats in navy?” Noelle asked, looking at Ramona over her glasses. “Or should we do a heel?”
“A heel, definitely,” Ramona said.
Noelle nodded. “In the closet. Size seven.”
“I’m an eight,” Dylan said.
“Size seven,” Noelle said again, not even looking at Dylan.
“You’re going to kill me. Tight flats are one thing, but too-small heels?” Dylan asked, hands on her hips.
“Fine,” Noelle said. “Seven and a half.”
Dylan threw up her hands, then took the dress from Noelle and disappeared into the bathroom. Noelle smiled and winked at Ramona, then started riffling through the racks again.
Ramona laughed as she stepped into the massive closet for the shoes. She felt like she was in a dream, her chest full of bubbles as though she’d sipped on some funky drink made by Willy Wonka.But as her eyes locked on a pair of pumps with a low kitten heel, the perfect shade of navy, seven and a half like Noelle wanted, she knew it was real. The faux leather under her fingers was cool, cracked, and perfect.
“How about these?” she asked, stepping out of the closet and holding them up for Noelle to see.
“Excellent,” Noelle said.
Ramona walked over to her, held out the shoes. But Noelle didn’t take them.
Not at first.
Instead, she tilted her head, eyes narrowing on Ramona’s face. “What was your name again?”
Ramona’s heart plummeted to her feet. She had to force her voice to stay steady as she said her name. “We met at Clover Moon a few weeks ago,” she added.
Noelle pursed her mouth. “Ramona, right. Dylan’s girlfriend.”
