“Oh, those are nice.” Mom picks one up for further inspection.
Anneli whistles. “Those are red bottoms.”
“What?”
She rolls her eyes. “How can you be so fashion deficient? They’re designed by Christian Louboutin and are very expensive.”
“Well, I’m going to kill myself in them.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. Just walk very, very slowly.”
“Gee, thanks for the advice,” I say sarcastically.
“You are most welcome, dumpling,” Anneli replies sweetly.
Package number two has a barely there, skimpy-as-fuck red lace bra and G-string set. The tiny triangle bottoms will give me little coverage.
“Oh my goodness.” Mom fans herself.
“Damn, it looks like you’re going to have a lot of fun tonight. I can’t wait to see what’s behind door number three.”
I hesitate to open the last package. Art will probably have me looking like a cheap hooker. I’m pleasantly surprised to discover a simple yet elegant, thigh-length black satin dress with skinny straps.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“What time is your date?” Mom asks.
“I’m supposed to be there at eight.”
“But it’s almost seven o’clock. Shouldn’t you shower and get dressed?” Anneli asks.
“Oh shit.” I flee to the bathroom.
This is so not good.
The driver stops in front of the luxury building twenty minutes past the time I was directed to arrive. I nearly fall out of the car in my hurry to get inside. At my approach the doorman greets me with a friendly smile and opens the door.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Enjoy your night.”
“You do the same.”
Surprisingly, Art hasn’t called or texted, but I’m not relieved. His silence speaks volumes. There’s no telling what kind of evil thoughts are running through his mind this very second. With the killer stilettos in my hands, I make a mad dash pass the concierge desk towards the elevators, barefoot.
“Excuse me,” a woman sitting behind the desk calls.
“Yes?”
“You have to show ID and sign in.”
“I’m really in a rush. Can you make an exception?”
“I’m sorry, unfortunately that won’t be possible. It’s policy for nonresidents to show identification and sign in.”
I grudgingly walk over and hand her my driver’s license before writing my information in the visitor’s log.
“Ms. Belo, an access badge for the penthouse elevator has been left for you. It’s the last one on the right.”
