Dahlia hunts along the racks and pulls out something that doesn’t have enough fabric to qualify as underwear, let alone a dress. “Ooh. This. Now. Let’s get Maddox all hot and bothered.”
I twist my body into the tangles of string, then emerge, my cheeks bright crimson at the thought a shop assistant will see this much of me. This isn’t like working at the club where everyone expects me to flash them an eyeful.
But Dahlia’s dressed in her own version, though her choice is blue rather than my rusty orange. “Quick. Give me your phone.”
The device is in her hand in a second while I fail at covering all my exposed bits with my hands.
“Don’t you dare,” Dahlia grumbles. “Hands like this”—she gives a quick pose—“all tits and lips, that’s what we want.”
While posing next to me, she takes a range of shots with her phone, then with mine. When I reach for it, she twists out of range, typing a note and pressing send before I even get the chance to read it. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing I wouldn’t post publicly.”
The words don’t inspire confidence but there’s just a cheeky smirk, and a note for Maddox.What about this one?
There are so many bits of me falling out of the dress, I’m more concerned about getting dressed in actual fabric again rather than seeing what he has to say about my virtually naked body.
Dahlia looks pretty while I just look mildly embarrassed.
Still, I’d be lying if I claimed his answer didn’t interest me. Unfortunately, when I check the entry, he’s just hearted it. Hardly a ringing endorsement, though Dahlia takes it as one, adding it to her pile.
And I still don’t know what to buy.
“The colouring of the fishtail dress really suits you,” Dahlia says, trying to be helpful. “Although so does that shocking pink number. I love it when redheads wear pink. It makes your hair colour pop. Oh!” She pulls a dress of the nearest hanger. “Try this one,immediately.Kristoire is such a raging hot name right now. Could you imagine if he featured you in a public post? You’d probably hit the gossip mags. They love a rags-to-riches story.”
Her enthusiasm overpowers any private thoughts I had on the garment, but when I step out of the changing rooms, it’s obvious the cut and colour does nothing for me.
“You try it on,” I order, understanding she’s still shopping for herself under the guise of helping.
When she emerges, I assist her with the straps, positioning them across her shoulders so the starburst pattern across her back shows off her flawless skin to perfection. She grabs handfuls of the voluminous skirts, raising them to show off her ankles.
“Get this shot,” she orders me, and I obediently take the image with her phone. And the next. And the next.
Once I’ve taken a dozen different poses, including of the exquisitely detailed back, I show her the evidence. “This is the one.”
She laughs. “The one on top of the two I’ve already purchased. Now stop taking flattering pictures”—she poses for another shot—“and get yourself sorted.”
“Are these follower numbers real?” I ask, pointing to the excessively populous display counter on her main page.
“Of course.” She flutters her eyelashes. “I’m becoming an influencer, darling. Half a dozen companies have already paid me four figures to feature their products. Another year or two, it’ll be a proper income.”
“That’s so impressive.”
But everything about Dahlia is impressive. Her manner. Her riotous opinions. Her excessive confidence that I wish she could bottle because I wouldn’t hesitate to chargethatpurchase to Maddox’s card.
“What’s holding you back?” she asks when she emerges from the changing cubicle, dressed in her ordinary clothes rather than another new outfit.
“I’m scared to buy something in case Maddox doesn’t like it,” I admit. It’s not the sole reason, maybe not even the main one, but it’s the simplest to articulate.
“Easily solved.” Dahlia grabs my phone, and my thumb to unlock it, then coaxes me to pose in half a dozen gowns, one after the other, taking a picture of each. “There we go.” She returns my phone. “Now he can decide for you.”
The situation should be ridiculous but there’s no hint of derision. Dahlia’s social status might be way higher than mine, but her rung is still a million times lower than Maddox and his friends.
She gets me. She accepts me.
It’s a nice change from the last time I was at school when the student body acted like I had a plague circle drawn around my feet.
“Now, while he’s deciding, we need to get you some serious jewellery. Something green or gold would look fabulous against your eyes.”
She drags me back to the same counter, then we venture farther afield, hitting four different jewellery stores in the twenty minutes it takes Maddox to come back to me.
