At some point, this would end.
She just didn't want to think about when.
Chapter Twenty-One
With Victoria in London, Sasha discovered that she had far too much time to think. And thinking, in her current state of complete infatuation, led to wildly unhelpful conclusions about the future.
So instead, she decided to meddle in someone else's love life.
"Absolutely not," Cathy said, backing away from Ambrose like he was holding a snake. "I'm not doing a makeover. I told Sasha, this isn’t some romcom where the girl takes off her glasses and suddenly the man realizes she's been beautiful all along."
"You don't wear glasses," Sasha pointed out.
"Exactly my point."
"Come on." Sasha linked her arm through Cathy's, physically preventing escape. "When was the last time you wore something that wasn't covered in soil?"
"Last Sunday. Church."
"And did Archie see you?"
"He was in London visiting friends."
"Right then." Ambrose appeared on Cathy's other side, and together they marched her toward the house like a particularly reluctant prisoner. "You're getting the full treatment. Hair, makeup, one of Sophie's dresses since you're about the same size—"
"Sophie's fifteen."
"Sophie's also taller than you'd think and has excellent taste." Ambrose was warming to his theme now. "We'll do something subtle. Natural. Just enough to make Archie actually look at you properly for once."
"I hate you both," Cathy muttered, but she let them drag her upstairs.
Sophie's room turned out to be a treasure trove of clothes that definitely didn't belong to a fifteen-year-old. There was no sign of cats, but Sasha had a feeling they weren’t too far away. She held up a designer dress with the tags still on.
"Sophie, why do you have a Stella McCartney?" she asked, holding up the dress.
"Grandmother keeps buying me things for 'when I grow into being a proper lady.'" Sophie made air quotes with obvious disdain. "I keep telling her I'm going to be a vet and will spend most of my time elbow-deep in a cow, but she's optimistic."
"Right then." Ambrose started pulling dresses from the wardrobe with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been waiting his entire life for this moment. "What are we thinking? Classic and elegant? Modern and edgy? Slutty but make it classy?"
"I'm not doing slutty," Cathy said firmly.
"Your loss. That emerald number would make Archie swallow his tongue."
"Ambrose," Sasha warned.
"Fine, fine. Elegant it is." He held up a simple green sundress. "This. Definitely this."
Getting Cathy into the dress required surprising amounts of coaxing and at least three threats to physically wrestle her into it. By the time she was changed, Sophie had assembled an impressive array of makeup on her desk that looked like it belonged to a professional artist rather than a teenager.
"Where did you even get all this?" Sasha asked.
"Tiffany left half her makeup bag behind when she fled. I may have, um, liberated it." Sophie picked up a mascara wand with professional efficiency. "Now sit down, Cathy. And for God's sake, stop looking like you're about to be executed."
"I feel like I'm about to be executed."
"You're about to get laid, which is significantly more fun, or so I’ve heard, anyway." Sophie began applying foundation with surprising skill. "Close your eyes."
"I'm not—we're not—" Cathy sputtered.
