Liar Liar

Inside the box, I slip into the dress, happy I’m not flashing my (matching) underwear as originally feared. I pull up the concealed side zipper and take a look in the mirror. I look like I belong in a box of Valentine’s chocolates picked up at Bergdorf. There is also the possibility it might cut off circulation to my heart because it’s so tight.

‘Oh, pink.’ Fee is the first to speak. Diplomatically.

‘Well spotted,’ I find myself answering.

‘No, this is not the dress for you,’ Glenna decrees. ‘The Valentino.’

And so it goes. I try on six dresses in colours of a kid’s painting palette. A red from Valentino. A yellow from Givenchy. A blue from YSL. A black from Off-White. If you’d asked me a month ago if I’d enjoy an evening of trying on designer wear or statement dresses, I would’ve said hell yeah! Until I came to Monaco, I’d never even been close to this kind of luxury. But right now, I’m hot, and I’m antsy, and I’m beginning to think I just don’t have the body type for designer dresses. Too tight in the chest, or the arm, the waistlines too long. According to Glenna, some of these can be altered in the right dress. But we’ve yet to find “the one”.

She’s not taking it well . . .

‘Marco!’ she snaps. ‘The Chanel. Not the orange but the white.’

White and I are not friends. White is an invitation to spilled spaghetti sauce and splashes of red wine and sitting through a dinner with a napkin tucked in your neck.

Stylish, yes?

‘I’m . . . not sure,’ I begin as the woman turns her gimlet glare my way, but I won’t be browbeaten. Doesn’t she know who the customer is here? But as Marco’s arms begin to slowly retract the offer, I see the look on his face. I hear you, my friend. There are better ways to spend a Friday evening. ‘Okay.’ I make a grabby hand in his direction, my words unenthusiastic. ‘Pass it over.’ What’s one more wrong dress added to the total?

The dress flutters over my head, my arms gliding effortlessly through the armholes, the fabric settling at my waist where it falls to the ground in luxurious swathes.

I suck in a breath as I pull up the zipper, tightening the braided silk belt before I dare to take a peek at my reflection. And ‘Oh, my God.’

‘Oh, that sounds exciting,’ says Fee from beyond the box.

‘I knew ’zis would be the one,’ Charles bursts out. ‘Let us see, Rose.’

But I’m too busy looking at myself, though I think the actual word is admiring.

I run my fingers along the ribbon-like wrap-around top. The neckline is low, the cowl cut somehow both minimising and bringing attention to my chest. It’s not exactly white in colour, maybe more oyster, and there’s something almost Grecian about it. Whatever the style, I’ve never had a dress make me feel like this. Look like this. And as I step out from the box, Glenna’s smile is immediate.

‘This,’ she announces. ‘This is why I love my job. Darling, you look divine.’ Her voice seems to drop a whole octave on the last word. ‘Marco, the shoes.’ She snaps her fingers. ‘Not those ones, stupide!’

I’m handed a pair of matching sandals by her red-faced assistant. Spike heels and leather fashioned into silver ropes. I put them on, and the dress is pinned at the hem, and all the while, I can’t restrain my happiness. Glenna makes another few suggestions from her golden rack of gorgeousness, and as the dress is such a success, I find myself eager to try them on.

‘That’s gorgeous,’ Fee marvels, fingering the ruffle of a blouse by a French designer, Jour/Ne.

‘Why don’t you splurge?’ I suggest. But she just wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. While she’s not looking, I add it to my pile of purchases. Remy might be picking up Glenna’s exorbitant appointment fee, along with the dress, but the other things I’ll buy. Including my gift to Fee.

Glenna sweeps off in her low-slung Jaguar a little while later following delivery of double air-kisses to all and an almost emotionally charged au-revoir. Probably because she earned a fortune in fees and commission tonight. Marco hangs back to exchange numbers with Charles, but before he leaves, I ask him if he has anything in the van than might be a little more masculine. And he does; boxed gift sets containing a tie and a matching pocket square. I take two of the exact same design. While Charles might be currently enjoying a little flirt with Marco, I know he’ll just die when I tell him Remy and he are tie twins.

As everyone leaves, I deposit the last glass to the dishwasher when my phone buzzes with a text. A text from Monsieur Baguette, as I’ve saved Remy’s number in my phone.