But I already know what it’ll be.
As I slip my clothes to the floor and put on the outfit from the first box with a knitted pullover in dark brown and a pair of black, high-waist trousers. I don’t feel as out of place as I imagined, but rather as if I'm glowing. I close the slim, dark brown belt and slip on the loafers; they fit perfectly.
“How the hell did she manage to figure out my size?” I ask myself more than Bella, who stares at me as if she has seen a ghost.
“I don’t know, but look at you.” She steers me to the mirror, and when I see myself, my mouth drops open. I don’t recognise myself.
“We gotta do something with your hair, though,” she says, and hurries away.
My hair is up in a bun, like every day.
Bella comes back with a flat iron, a brush and a whole lot of products.
“Bells, I don’t have time for that.”
“You have. Let them wait; every important person is late.”
“It’s disrespectful.“ I say.
“No,” she says and begins to work on my hair. “She wants you, she’ll wait for you.”
“But—“
“No but. Hold still. I’ll work at God’s speed,” she says.
Bella uses the flat iron to wave my hair. She brushes it, and I feel like I am someone famous. She adds a few products, sprays something horribly fruity, and finally clips it back with a golden clip she got from her room. A view strands she left to frame my face in curls. She also applies light makeup and mascara.
“Here,” she says and hands me a light beige coat from one ofthe boxes. I slip it over my arm because right now I feel so hot, sweaty hot.
“I think I need some deodorant,” I say, and Bella fetches it for me.
I have never felt so out of place and yet so comfortable with it.
“Damn, Mia,” says Bella as we look at her work in the mirror. “Every woman will bow for you.”
“I’d rather not,” I say.
“Figurative speech, love,” she says, and I roll my eyes.
“Ready?” she asks me.
“No,” I say.
“You’ll go anyway, hush, hush,” she says and pushes me out of my room. “You’re only ten minutes late, that’s nothing.”
I groan.
“Have fun,” she calls after me as I open the door.
Henry has been patiently waiting outside, and the corner of his mouth tugs into an appreciative smile.
“You look stunning, Miss Phillips,” he says as he gestures me downstairs.
“Thank you, ehm—Henry,” I say awkwardly. “I can call you Henry?”
“You can and should,” he says and smiles.
He opens the door downstairs for me, and I step outside. I hesitate for a single moment, because I know my neighbours will probably have all eyes on me—but then, they might not even recognise me dressed like this.
