The dress is gorgeous; that’s not the problem. It is a deep emerald green, almost black where the fabric folds in on itself. The neckline has been cut into a sweetheart shape that dips lower than anything I have ever owned. It’s a strapless number with a long A-line skirt, and even on the hanger, I can see exactly how much skin it intends to show.
“Oh, Carla.”
“Are you in the dress yet?” she calls through the door.
“Give me a minute.”
“You’ve had a minute.”
“Give me another one.”
I unhook my bra and hang it up with the rest of my clothes. There is no way I’m going to be able to wear one with this dress. I lift the gown off the hanger, work it up over my hips, and pull the bodice up.
It’s touch and go whether the bodice will fit over my chest. If it does fit, it’ll be like a damned glove.
I face the mirror.
Holy shit.
The skirt skims my hips and falls almost to the floor. My cleavage is on full display.
I make a strangled noise.
I can’t reach the zip at the back. I have it pinched closed at the top with one hand, and I’m starting to feel like crying.
“What the hell is this, Carla?” I yell.
The door opens.
She pokes her head in, takes one look at me, and her face splits into the biggest grin I have ever seen.
“Oh, my god.” She shoves the door fully open and steps inside, both hands flying up. “You look incredible.”
“You have got to be kidding me?”
“No, seriously. Turn around. Let me zip you up. I need to see the back.”
“There isn’t much of a back. My shoulders are bare. My breasts… Oh, shit!”
“Turn around.”
“I’m your boss, you don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“It’s after hours…now turn.”
I roll my eyes and do as she says, still holding the bodice. She zips me up in one quick movement, then takes me by the shoulders and spins me back around to face the mirror. She stands behind me, beaming over my shoulder.
“What were you thinking?” I ask her, watching her in the glass. “You do remember this is a work function? Look at this cleavage. Holy shit balls!”
“You look amazing.”
“My boobs are practically popping out of this thing.” I gesture at my chest with my free hand. “I cannot wear this. I absolutely cannot.”
“You look amazing,” she repeats. “Hold on a second.”
She disappears and comes back about fifteen seconds later with a small velvet pouch. She pulls a delicate silver necklace out of it. It’s pretty. There’s a long, narrow pendant covered in tiny diamonds, the kind of piece that catches the light when you move but doesn’t scream.
“Where did this come from?”
