“Miss Lancaster,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn around and do a double take.
The woman standing in front of me could pass as a doppelgänger forThe Devil Wears Prada’sMiranda Priestly’s character.
“Judith?”
“Yes,” she says.
Like the editor-in-chief of the fictional fashion magazine Runway, Judith doesn’t have a hair out of place. And like thecharacter, she must wake up at the crack of dawn to apply her makeup with such precision.
Black is the color of choice for so many stylish women in New York, but in Judith’s case, she wears the color like she came out of the womb wearing teeny black diapers and itsy-bitsy black onesies.
Judith is giving off vibes of fashion consultant extraordinaire.
She steeples her hands together and looks me up and down. “Yesterday, I had a good chat with Mr. Lindström, and I understand my mission.”
She says that like I’m a lost cause.
“It’s a good thing I convinced him to bookla totale.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What does that mean?”
“The whole enchilada. Hair, manicure, pedicure, a mini facial, and makeup for when we’re done.” She enumerates each treatment using her fingers. “This”—she waves a finger up and down my body—”is an all-day job, Miss Lancaster.”
Ouch.
She checks her watch. “It’s ten past eleven, let’s get to it. We want to make sure you step out in style at tonight’s gala, since you’ll be hanging from one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. The press will be watching.”
She not only looks like Miranda Priestly, she sounds like her.
She crosses her arms, and rests her chin against the back of one hand. The red nails matching the red lips are the only pop of color she allowed herself. “Consider me your fairy godmother.”
I always envisioned a warm and fuzzy fairy godmother, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.“I’m glad I don’t have tofigure this out on my own.”
“Once I’m done with you, your own mother won’t be able to recognize you.”
I was having such a good day, please don’t bring down the mood by bringing my mother into it.
“If you’ll follow me,” Judith says.
I’m right behind the woman balancing on a pair of four-inch patent black heels as she weaves her way to the changing rooms.
She heads to the one located furthest to the right.
There are several rolling racks weighed down with clothes in front of it. One rack has multiple white dresses hanging from it.
Thank God my period only lasted three days.
“Let’s nail the dress for tonight first. Then, we can tackle the other rolling rack containing clothes of different colors.” She points to it.
“I thought the theme of the night was Summer in Santorini, and we had to dress in white, light blue, bright blue, or a combination of both colors.”
“Since you’re starting a new job, Mr. Lindström thought you might need a new wardrobe.”
I stare at the woman, dumbfounded.
“Not everything is couture, but everything is stylish and elegant,” Judith says.
