I wonder what that costs in a world like this. I wonder what you have to survive first.
I go find the girls in the garden.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GIA
"This one," I say.
Carla looks at the dress. Then at me. Then back at the dress with the specific expression of a woman who has an opinion and is deciding how much of it is her job to share.
"It's beautiful, Mrs. Caruso," she says carefully.
"It is," I agree. I take it off the hanger and hold it up against myself in the mirror. Black, fitted, with a neckline that is tasteful enough to be appropriate and interesting enough to be worth wearing. I bought it in Paris three years ago and it has never once failed me. "I'll wear this one."
Another pause. "I'm not sure the boss will?—"
"Carla." I set the dress on the bed and reach for my earrings. "What the boss likes or doesn't like about my wardrobe choices is not something either of us needs to spend any time on this evening."
Carla makes a sound that is not quite agreement and not quite disagreement and has the careful neutrality of a woman who has worked in this house long enough to know when not to finish sentences.
"Will you need help with the zip?" she asks.
"I'll manage. Thank you."
She goes.
I sit at the dressing table and finish my makeup in the quiet of the room, the particular focused calm of a woman doing the one task that requires just enough attention to stop the mind wandering. Foundation, then the eyes, then the lip color I've been saving for something worth it. I look at myself when I'm done and I think, yes. That's the one. That's the face that walks into a room and doesn't apologize for being there.
I stand, step into the dress, reach back for the zipper and pull it up.
The door opens.
I don't turn around. I can see him in the mirror — dark jacket, dressed already, a man who has been ready for twenty minutes and has come to check on the situation. His eyes go to me. Then to the dress. Then back to me.
The look on his face is not the look of a man who is pleased.
"No," he says.
I set my lipstick down. "I beg your pardon?"
"You won't be wearing that."
I turn around slowly. He is standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, his expression flat and certain, the expression of a man who has said a thing and considers it finished.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I am not sorry at all. "I heard words coming out of your mouth, but they didn't make any sense so I need you to try again."
"You won't be wearing that dress tonight."
"Ah." I nod. "Then I heard you right the first time. I was just wondering—" I turn back to the mirror, pick up my lipstick again, "—what exactly made you think you have that kind of autonomy over me and my body?”
"Gia."
"I'm listening." I uncap the lipstick. "I'm genuinely curious. Was it the vows? Because I don't remember the part where I handed over the rights to my wardrobe. Although I may have been distracted by the part where I found out it was my own wedding."
"Take the dress off."
I put the lipstick down again. I turn around again. "Excuse me?"
