The Fortunate Ones
How convenient.
She leads me upstairs to my room, where a large garment bag hangs on the front of my closet door.
“Open it!” she urges, pushing me forward.
“How did you know my size?” I ask, clinging to a final sliver of hope that it doesn’t fit.
Her gaze flickers to Ellie just long enough to throw my dear sister under the bus.
Ellie snorts. “Cool your jets. I told her your size because she was going to get you a dress no matter what. This way, you won’t look like a fuckin’ lump.”
“Ellie,” Martha hisses at Ellie’s use of a curse word.
I expect to find something stuffy and pink (like most of the clothes in Martha’s closet) but when I unzip the bag and step back, I’m surprised to find an understated velvet gown such a dark shade of emerald green that it’s almost black. When I try it on, at their urging, it fits like a glove. The long sleeves are snug around my arms, the top is tight around my hips and waist, and the skirt flares out gently before it reaches the ground. The high waist and V neckline bring an element of sexiness I’m surprised to find in such a simple design.
“And there’s a slit,” Ellie says, pointing to where a hint of my tan leg peeks through.
“It’s gorgeous,” I relent.
Martha claps excitedly. “YAY! So then you’ll come?”
My mouth is open and a refusal is formed on the tip of my tongue, but then I meet Ellie’s stare behind Martha’s back and she shakes her head once then slices her finger across her neck in a threatening gesture.
Jesus, fine!
“I’ll go.”
…
The week before the gala passes more quickly than I would have liked. Since I’m not working, Martha enlists me to help her with last-minute things. Together, we drive around Austin, stopping off at high-end boutiques and designer showrooms. She’s somehow managed to finagle a donation for the silent auction from every shop in the city, or so it seems. The day before the gala, the back of her Range Rover is packed to the gills with Louis Vuitton purses and spa goodie bags. There are Hermès bracelets and a few pairs of those Gucci loafers everyone and their dog is wearing these days.
We stop at florists and bakeries, confirming all the final details. She doesn’t need me. I basically just sit quietly in the background, wondering if the cake they have displayed in the center of the table is edible or just for show. When I ask at the end of the meeting, they laugh politely before asking me to leave.
I’m technically supposed to be on vacation, but apparently, Martha has a rule against letting people relax. I haven’t had a single day to sleep in and lounge around except for the morning of the gala, and I use it to my advantage. I’m knee-deep into a Bravo marathon when Martha finds me splayed out on the couch with coffee-stained pajamas and bedhead.
“Let’s go! We’re getting our hair done today,” she sings with a chipper tone before reaching for the remote and turning off the TV mid-catfight.
“I’m all set,” I tell her, pointing to the mess on top of my head.
She grimaces. “It needs a trim.” Then she sniffs the air and scrunches her nose when she finds my aroma distasteful. “Probably a couple rounds of shampoo too.”
Oh okay, MARTHA.
I heave my body off the couch with a groan and force my limbs into normal clothes. It’s not that I don’t love having someone else wash my hair, I just need a major break from Martha. Ellie and my dad have been working this week, which means all of Martha’s cheeriness has been focused on me like a death ray. Even worse, her favorite topic of choice has been Lacy Nichols. She won’t stop going on and on about how helpful she’s been for the fundraiser.
“She’s my co-chair,” she tells me for the 67th time as we get our hair cut side by side.
“That’s great,” I deadpan.
“And she works part-time to help coordinate volunteers at the children’s hospital. I don’t know how the girl finds the time.”
One time I stopped and helped a turtle cross the road, but you don’t see me bragging about it.
I’m relieved when the stylist flips on the hair dryer. Martha jabbers on, but I get to point up to my ears and mouth, Sorry. Can’t hear you! Even though I can. My brain sends a smirk emoji to itself.
I feel terrible about harboring such strong feelings of annoyance with Martha when the hair stylist whirls my chair around and I’m presented with a Princess Diaries moment. I didn’t touch my hair in Spain, opting for the very cheap, very hip option of letting it grow out with no maintenance whatsoever, so obviously it needed some major cleanup. The stylist left most of the length, but she trimmed the ends and added a few layers for volume and depth. She even did some of those lustrous beachy waves in preparation for the big event. I hate to admit to Martha how good it looks.