The stylist, who wasn’t even introduced before she got up close and personal, is so nice, and even though I’d love to refuse this new season ofMake Amelia at Least Look Like a Stanley, this nice woman would absolutely be a casualty of Mother’s subsequent wrath.
“Contacts would suit her better,” Mother declares, eyeing my glasses with disdain. “And some proper makeup wouldn’t go amiss. She looks so… plain.”
I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to argue. We had that talk a thousand times when I was a teen, and I agreed to wear contacts for galas and events. But I can’t wear them long-term. They make my eyes hurt.
What’s wrong with my glasses?
They’re part of me.
The stylist steps back, tilting her head. “Actually, the glasses give her a certainje ne sais quoi. They complement her cheekbones beautifully. It’s a very intellectual, chic look.”
I give her a small, grateful smile, but Mother purses her lips. “We’re not going for the intellectual look.”
Of course, you’re not. Who would want a smart wife?
“How about we get her some new designer frames?” Miranda asks my mother, tilting her head while looking at me.
Again, I want to open my mouth to argue, to tell them that I need these specific frames for my work. But then I remember…
I don’t need them anymore.
And the little fight that was left in me leaves me on a breath. “I can go put in my contacts,” I relent, walking into my en suite.
The bathroom’s harsh light reveals my defeated reflection in the mirror. Dark circles underline my tired eyes in a testament to the restless night I spent barely holding myself back from pulling more hair. My mind wouldn’t stop reeling from everything Daniel told me, everything August had said, and the uncertainty of what I’m supposed to do with my life now.
And since I have no idea, I decided to stay for August for a while, to see and watch what this is all about, and maybe figure out how I can help him, at least a little bit. If that means I have to endure my parents, so be it.
He endured them for me for the last two years.
Rummaging through my toiletry bag, I find the contacts case. I pause for a moment to check the expiration date, then carefully put them in, blinking a few times to let my eyes adjust.
Let’s get this over with.
I walk back out into the room, giving Miranda a tight-lipped smile when she claps her hands at my appearance. “Her eyes are so much bigger with the contacts and so blue. Good call, Edith.”
As the stylist continues taking measurements, she hums thoughtfully. “Your legs are so much longer than your upper body. It’s quite striking, actually.”
My stomach drops.
Another flaw to add to the list.
“I always knew she wasn’t proportional,” Mother chimes in, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “So tall and so flat too. It’s a shame, really. She got that body type from her father’s side.”
I clench my fists, willing myself not to cross my arms over my chest. Her words cut deep, reopening old wounds I thought had healed. But the stylist’s next words catch me off guard.
“That’s actually ideal,” the she says, smiling warmly at me. “You have model measurements, dear. Long legs, thin frame… designers would kill to have someone with your body type model their dresses. You could wear anything and make it look good. It’s quite enviable.”
Miranda laughs, nudging Mother. “See? I told you she’s a paragon of grace.”
I blink, stunned.
Me?
Years of Mother’s criticisms have shaped my self-perception, and this praise feels almost alien.
Mother clears her throat, changing tack. “We’ll need outfits for high tea, horse racing, and garden parties. The weather’s unpredictable, so plan for warm and cool options. And some casual attire, of course. Nothing too… eccentric.”
I cringe inwardly, knowing her idea ofcasualis worlds apart from my comfy jeans and oversized sweaters. I can already picture the pastel twin sets and pearls she’s envisioning.
