Bellamy's Redemption
Page 42
“I need your help,” I said.
“How so?”
“I need ten evening gowns, seven bikinis, seven cocktail dresses, and as many pairs of stripper shoes as I can find. Not the ugly kind of stripper shoes. The pretty, expensive kind.”
“Oh my God!”
“What?”
“You’re serious. You’re really going on that stupid show.”
“I told you!”
“How much time do you have before you have to actually go on it? Are you going to get some implants? ‘Cause you should. And hair extensions. Definitely get some hair extensions. Have you ever considered getting a perm?”
“I leave Wednesday.”
“This Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re pretty sure about this? Like, it’s really happening?”
“For the last time, Betsy, I’m sure!”
“It’s just, most of the girls on there, you know... They’re going to be really hot. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“You’re not helping things.”
“Sorry.”
“Can you help me with this Betsy? Please?”
“Yes, Emma. Of course. So, Geez. Oh my God! Crazy. Okay, I will see what I can do. What size shoes do you wear? A seven?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. A seven. That’s doable. What else do you need?”
“There’s a whole list.”
“I’m working right now, so why don’t you email it to me. I’ll get the girls together. Be at my place at 6:30 tonight. Bring some champagne, because I can’t do everything.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome. And by the way, congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I said. We hung up. Next I drove by my office building, hoping I could ditch my portfolio while I was still in the neighborhood. Seeing that my boss’s car was not in the parking lot, I quickly ran in, deposited my portfolio of half-finished design projects on one of the chairs in her office, scrawled a note on the back of a company envelope, taped it on top of the portfolio, and darted back out without anyone seeing me. I was beginning to realize I had no backup plan and I was not leaving things in a good way for myself. “Oh well,” I whispered, sliding back into my idling car and heading to my apartment. “I guess as long as Bellamy chooses me, I won’t need a backup plan.”
Chapter 9
My friends were all there, along with someone Betsy knew who had worked for either a designer or a fashion magazine, or both, in New York. Her story was shifty, but I had too much on my mind to get analytical about it. Lucky me, she had stolen a bunch of clothes before she was fired.
I felt like a queen, propped up on pillows on Betsy’s sofa, sipping champagne. Rachel started things off with an apologetic toast: “To Emma,” she said, raising her champagne flute. “We congratulate you on getting this far, accept your new status as reality TV star, and look forward to some camera time ourselves when we serve as bridesmaids in your two hour on-air wedding special.” Everyone clinked glasses. “And,” she added, looking pointedly at Betsy, “we are sorry we weren’t more supportive at first. Please forgive us.”
“I forgive you,” I said.
“Then let’s get down to business,” said Betsy.