Marketta gives her a hug instead. “Hello, sweetheart. Oh my, you’re sopretty.” She means it. She never issues empty compliments, and she’s never afraid to tell a client the truth.
Aspen looks slightly taken aback. “Thank you.”
“I have a few things you can try, although I think they’re all going to be fantastic. But first, Grant, Penny’s going to take care of you. I also brought a few Harry Winstons because I figured it’s time you got a new one.” Her gaze falls to my wrist. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but sometimes you just need a new watch to go with a new outfit.”
Aspen looks at Marketta the way she’d look at a used-car saleswoman. Marketta is many things, but she never, ever recommends something she doesn’t believe in. That’s why she has tons of clients who adore her. The fact that my mom likes her says everything.
“I’ll take a look,” I say, squeezing Aspen’s shoulder reassuringly. “Aspen, don’t worry. This lady is going to take good care of you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Aspen
Marketta’s assistants set up partitions and mirrors, creating a couple of impromptu dressing rooms. They also have enough racks to open a small clothing store.
Two of her assistants fuss over Grant, but I don’t get to watch for long.
“Let’s see. Your proportions are better in person than in photos. You have a black cocktail dress?” Marketta asks.
“Not with me, but yeah.”
“Good. Every girl needs one.” She crosses her arms as she squints. “Your hair… The color’s all natural, yes?”
I nod.
“Excellent. I love it.”
“Thanks.” I flash a smile at her, then glance at the racks, wondering if I need to go through them and pick one out. There are an awful lot of dresses.
“Let’s try a purple Dior,” Marketta begins. “And that Chanel and a turquoise Givenchy—not the one with sheer sleeves but the adorable one with a great bustline.”
One of her assistants picks out three outfits like she knows exactly what Marketta wants from the countless dresses she’s brought. The colors are vivid, but I don’t know… They sort of hang limply, and I struggle to visualize how they’re going to look on me. I don’t have the kind of lean body that models who wear these kinds of clothes on the runway do.
“Let’s put these on,” Marketta announces like a queen.
I merely smile, knowing I don’t have any say in the matter. She’s wearing the confident expression of a woman who’s convinced she’s never wrong, and I know too little about high fashion to offer an opinion.
I take the Dior into the “dressing room” and try it on. The fabric feels amazing against my skin, like it’s made of spun cloud. It hugs my torso like a glove, then flares out with an asymmetrical skirt. Wow. Marketta must be a genius to know my exact size. Then I note the bra straps and panty lines showing a bit, so I adjust my underwear.That should do it,I decide after checking from a few different angles.
When I come out, she purses her lips and snaps her fingers. “We need something else.”
Quickly, I’m given a strapless bra and thong that must’ve been made during an extreme fabric shortage. Guess I didn’t hide the lines as well as I thought.
“The Dior is delicate, if you understand what I mean.” Quirking an eyebrow, she gives me a sweet smile, then turns to an assistant. “And she needs shoes. Let’s try Prada. Peep-toe.” She turns back to me. “Do you have a clutch, dear?”
I don’t think it’s the time to tell her about the black purse I bought from Target on sale. Then I remember the one Grant’s mom left for me. “I have a burgundy purse.”
“Lemme see.”
“It’s upstairs. On the bed.”
“It’s a Hermes,” Grant calls out from his part of the living room.
“Ah.” Marketta nods. “Your mother’s ‘present’?”
“Yep,” he says.
“Then it’s a good thing I have my own selection.”
