We say our goodnights and walk down the same hall that leads to our room, but he doesn’t stop at our door. Instead, he leads me further down the hall, past an end table, past a set of closed doors, to a small, narrow door at the very end of the hall.
“Is this your cupboard under the stairs?”
“You could say that.”
Withdrawing his phone from his pocket, he slides open an app and places it by the door. A light flashes, and a click tells me the door is unlocked. He presses his thumb against a small panel, a second security measure it seems, before he pushes the door open.
At first, I think he’s taking us into a utility closet. It certainly is about the size of one. But when he shuts the door behind us and flicks on a light, I see we’re in a narrow storage room about the size of a walk-in closet. Are those… mannequins? Well, no, just hangers showcasing a variety of not just clothes but… costumes? A large section to the far-right houses clothes on hangers hanging from thick metal bars, and another display featuressturdy shelves with rows upon rows of shoes neatly arranged by type—boots and sneakers, sandals and loafers.
I don’t understand what I’m seeing at first, until he gives me a demonstration.
“Come here, Nicolette.”
I step over to him so I’m standing right in front of him, shadowed under his height. I watch him press a circular button beside one of the wooden panels. With a gentle whir, a door slides open. Fabien reaches inside to retrieve a wild, curly, red-haired wig. He places it on my head with a flourish, then hands me a pair of thick black glasses. When he holds up a mirror, I hardly recognize myself.
“Take a look,” he says almost proudly, a little bashfully, as he shoves his hands in his pockets and gestures with his head.
I press another button, and the panel in front of me with the women’s clothes slides back, a second panel replacing it as if by magic. Wigs and hats, suits and jackets, rugged workmen’s jeans and thick gloves, security glasses and wire-rimmed glasses. I touch each item gently.
“Wow,” I whisper. Each outfit’s in his size, likely custom-made. There are firefighter and police officer uniforms, delivery uniforms and janitorial outfits, even a priest’s black suit and white collar. A tweed jacket with khakis, faded jeans with boots and tees. Another panel with drawers reveals dozens and dozens of passports. I rifle through them and feel my jaw drop. Each passport has a picture of Fabien, but each looks different and none say Fabien Gerard.
Who is he?
I should be scared. I should tell him to take me home, that I want no part of this. But I’ve never been someone who ran in the face of something she was afraid of. No. It doesn’t scare me at all.
I’mfascinated.Intrigued. And if I’m honest, a little turned on.
“This is amazing,” I whisper. “You can become anyone you want to be.”
Another button brings up a panel with women’s clothing, wigs, dresses, and heels. “Who wore these before me?” I ask, not bothering to hide my jealousy.
“Are you envious, Nicolette?”
I won’t lie. “Of course.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “You’re jealous of the woman who may have worn these before you?”
“Yes.” I keep my back to him. “Are you the only one who gets to be jealous?”
Slowly, he turns me to face him. He brushes the hair out of my eyes and cups my jaw.
“You’re allowed to be jealous. I love that you are. And to answer your question, I bought them for you. No one else has ever touched them. There’s only you.”
For me? Just for me?
How did he get them so quickly? He must have connections all over Europe.
“This is the coolest thing anyone’s ever gotten me.” I give him a curious look. “Can we do a test run?”
His voice grows husky. “I insist on it.”
“What should I try on?” I ask, loving the way a fire kindles in his gaze. I lower my voice. “You know. For the next time you fuck me.”
I hold the button down, watching panel after panel rotate in front of me and smile.
He stabs his fingers in my hair and tugs me closer.
“Who says I’ll allow you clothes the next time I fuck you?”
