I stop at the local deli for a bagel and more coffee before scurrying onto the boutique.
When I reach the sanctuary of the overdoor heaters, I unbutton my coat and shake off the excess rain, then there’s a few minutes for me to touch the quality of the cloth and test out the strength of the seams before a sales assistant comes to my rescue.
“Can I help you with anything?” she asks.
“Yes, you can.” I open my notes on my cell, and reading verbatim tell her, “I need three sets of evening wear suitable for galas, swanky parties that sort of thing. Five sets of evening wear appropriate for decent restaurants and five sets of smart-casual for, well, anything else.”
When I glance up from my phone the sales assistant’s mouth is agape. It's obvious she's never had this kind of request before but I’m sure when she’s done she will see that it is actually the way to go.
Within fifteen minutes, there’s a veritable range stashed at the side of the changing room.
“You’ve even got my sizing spot on.” I call out to her from behind the changing room door, swinging around to check-out the mohair sweater I’m modeling and wondering if I dare wear it without a bra that would spoil the effect of the cut out back.
I take a cab home as there are too many bags to carry home in the rain. But there's no time for a second try on as I need to venture back out to the beauty salon.
Although I walked passed this establishment frequently, it is significantly different from the inside. There’s a hive of activity and girly chatter. They whisk my coat off my back and hang it on a coat rack where it drips water onto the floor. A range of herbal tea options are fired at me; ready to enjoy after I’ve been in the waxing room. It scares me to imagine what torture they will subject me to in this small claustrophobic room.
The procedure is carried out by a glamorous technician who’s obviously proficient in her work, as her high definition eyebrows only pucker slightly after I reveal my 1970s style mound. I wish I had at least bothered to trim it before coming here.
I wonder if this is how my grandmother acted, when she had a cleaner and would spend an hour before her expected arrival tidying, scrubbing, and disinfecting everything in sight.
It's as if the technician reads my mind. “We'll have you up-to-date in a flash,” she comments, as she pours an extra dose of wax into the electrically heated tub.
By the time she's finished I'm a couple of pounds lighter but in need of more than a herbal tea to calm my nerves.
Then, as if on a conveyor belt, she hands me over to an equally glamorous woman whose surgical implements are lined up in an impressive multi drawer tray. When she produces a card with a range of eyebrow shapes, I am panicked into choosing a pair that leave me with an expression that looks permanently surprised. Sensing a mutiny, the beauticians all crowd around my chair exclaiming how wonderful my new look is, even saying it makes me appear younger. Which I’m not concerned with, at all.
The rest of the make-up, including stuck on eyelashes, make the eyebrows less of a fright as they diminish with the amount of corresponding eye color and contouring painted on.
Finally, I have glitzy talon shaped nails glued to mine and my hair styled in a chic chignon plait. With the final wiggle of my eyebrows I don my still damp coat and a clear plastic shower cap before making my way back home.
✽✽✽
I haven’t previously noticed how many mirrors I have in my apartment, but I'm constantly surprising myself when I flit around with the final preparations for my evening out, at the shocking reflection.
The last time I prepared for a serious night out girlfriends surrounded me and it took most of the night to get ready. On my own I’m sat in my new matching underwear an hour before the town car is to collect me.
Feeling nostalgic I put on some Britney, making myself chuckle at the way we all used to prance around our dorm mimicking her moves. We had nothing to fear and no baggage back then. The world was there for us to grab greedily with both hands. I wonder what went wrong? For me, anyhow.
Thirty minutes out my palms sweat and I’ve a fleeting notion to call it off. Who wants a life anyway?
I spy the wine bottle left from last night, now languishing on the kitchen windowsill plugged up with a red heart-shaped stopper. I’m sure there’s a glass full left.
The dress fits better than it did in the store with the help of the shape enhancing underwear and I’m feeling confident when I climb into the car, cognizant of even the driver giving me a second glance in the rear-view mirror.
As promised, Hector is waiting outside the Loft Theater, appearing kind of comical himself in a white suit with pants tight to his skinny legs and a bright yellow waistcoat under his jacket. At least it makes him seem cheerful.
Chapter Nine
Johnson
There’s a good vibe about this place I decide as I scan around the foyer of the Loft Theater. The bar area through the doors on the left is heaving, which is a good thing as I don’t need easy access.
My fingers curl up at the thought of a nice bourbon to take off the edge. It’s been a shitty week and there’s nothing I want more than to get to know Jack tonight.
But I’ve promised. Promised everyone that’s asked. I will be on best behavior this evening because that's the right thing to do. This fundraiser is the biggest yet for the Wilder Foundation and I’m not such a jerk I don't get that.
I catch hold of a staff member and ask for directions to the conference room we’re meeting in for a quick run through with the MC for the evening.
The conversation can be heard from the other side of the door but they'll stop when I fling open the door and enter the room. That’s the way it goes with these family get-togethers.
“Don’t mind me.” I stride over to Blane and ruffle his hair. Turning to Yasmin I scoff, “Expected that you would have cut off his tail by now.” Referring in part to his hair caught up in a band at the back of his head.
She laughs, or I suppose it’s a laugh, she’s a feisty one that Yasmin and has almost become as fair game as each of my brothers.
The only problem right now is every loaded comment I make is me trying to be the Johnson they expect me to be.
Confident. Arrogant. In charge.
And right now, I’m none of those things.
“What’s that quote - wit is far more a shield than a lance?” she quips.
“No idea Yasmin, you’re the educated one. All of that literary nonsense goes over my head.”
“Quite,” she murmurs, as she moves to Blane’s side.
There’s a spare seat at the end of the table so I take off my jacket, hang it on the back of the chair and sit down to listen to the evening’s instructions. A scuff on the toe of my shoe irritates me when I rest my foot up on my knee, so I beckon Lincoln over to my side.
He crouches down beside me and I lean over to whisper in his ear. “Do me a favor, go see if there’s someone that can come and polish my shoes? A bell boy or someone.” I point to the offending mark.
“Why can’t you go?”
“Because…” I curve my hands up off the table they’re resting on, showing what I hope is my obvious need to remain here and oversee the arrangements for tonight.
He snorts, but backs out of the room anyway, which makes me smile. Not having our father around has spoiled the poor kid and I try whenever I can to take on that missing role. As head of the family now, it is my responsibility.
“Johnson, you’re allocated to hosting duties.” Blane tells me.
“What’s that mean?”
“Circulating around the guests, making sure everyone turns out their pockets and enters into the spirit of the evening.”
“Okay. Suits me.” Which is does, I’ve no desire to be the center of attention on the stage. I’ll leave that to Blane who loves nothing better.
“Oh, and then we’ve got the golf academy awards to give out at the end. We’ll call you up on stage to hand those out. Yeah?” Blane adds.
The MC runs through the order once more and the technicians talk him and Blane through the mic set ups while I catch up with Miles, Blane’s twin.
“You need to look up my tailor.” I run a finger and thumb up the edge of his white denim jacket. “Shit, you look like a scruffy musician. This ain’t no music awards, bro.”
“Tsk. What do you know about fashion, anyway? I’ve seen you strutting around the golf course sporting those dull threads. Shit, you look like you’ve gone back in time, dude.”
I throw back my head and laugh. A hollow laugh.
He swivels down onto the chair beside me. “How do you think he’s doing?” He cuts a glance toward Blane.
“Fantastic.”
He nods. “Makes me proud, you know?”
My chest inflates at the same time as my heart aches. “Me too, bro. Me too.”
“Anyway, I’m sure it’s beer o’clock, don’t you?” He jumps up and pats me on the shoulder.
“Sure.” One beer won’t do any harm.
Blane bouncing up and down and shaking his head from side-to-side shows we’re all done, and with a final hand to Yasmin’s pregnant belly he leads the way back out to function room.
It’s not until I spy Lincoln leant across the bar, stood up on the foot rail, and with his hand-cupped chin in the barmaid’s face I remember about the scuff on my shoes. If he wasn’t in the middle of such an obvious chat up move, I’d interrupt.
“Hey catch a load of that.” I elbow Miles and lift my jaw towards Linc.
“Fuck me. That’s a first,” he chuckles.
“Or perhaps not.” I screw up my forehead. The pretty bartender is laughing and flirting in a way that makes Linc seem as if he knows what he is doing. “He’s a dark horse that one.”
With instructions to turn on the charm offensive I slip my jacket back on and stride over to mingle with the first group I encounter while Miles grabs us both a beer.
It’s not a problem I don’t know most people here and although it’s likely they’ll know of me I’m sure I can maneuver a conversation around any delicate subject areas.
That is until I spot her.
Dr. Fairchild.
It’s like the crowd parts in a choreographed way to reveal her. She’s spotlighted by an overhead chandelier that bounces light off the sequins on her dress and sets the sheen on her hair alight.
Holy fuck!
I know how Danny felt when he saw Sandy at the fairground. I could easily drop to my knees and crawl towards her right now. Tongue out and panting, ready for her to reveal her leg from that thigh length split in her dress and grind her stiletto onto my shoulder.
“Dude.” The cold beer bottle taps on my shoulder again and again. Reaching around with my hand to take it from Miles without breaking the vision is impossible and in the brief glance I make to secure it in my hand, she’s gone.
“Everything okay?” Miles sucks the froth from the top of his bottle.
“Uhuh,” I whistle over the bottle neck.
“You seem like you’ve seen a ghost. Or is it a compromising ex?” Miles jokes, nearly knocking the bottle from my hand with a flick of his elbow.
“Huh,” I snort. “Thankfully not. It’s much more intriguing than that.”
The MC taps on the mic from his position on the stage and asks us all to take our seats. The background music in the bar cutting off abruptly to allow his instruction to sound through the speakers.
The crowd shuffles along into the function room, leaving behind scores of high-level tables full of empty and partially drunk glasses of champagne. I drain my beer and snag an untouched glass on my way passed.
The ushers help everyone sit in their allocated places, aided by the many personal assistants the room of celebrities require. Our shared PA, in the form of Cherie, is uncooperative as ever, standing from the sidelines and allowing Miles and I to flounder. I curl my hand aloft at her, only to watch her smile and then look away.
Jeez that woman is hard work.
Yasmin comes to our rescue and we follow her to an empty table near the front. Mom is unwell, so the two spare seats are swiftly removed under Yasmin’s instruction.
There’s a decent line up of popular comedians ready to make us laugh, tonight. The first is a short woman who holds back no punches as she rips into each of us. I’m the butt of the biggest laugh lines, as I should have expected, and as long as I laugh louder than anyone else it will seem as if I’m taking it good-naturedly. Which I’m not. I hate being mocked. Although my sensitivity to it is something I’ve only recently become cognizant of.
The highlighting of my presence is unnerving and I’m desperate to peek at the pair of eyes I know are burrowing into the back of my head. I suspect it may be Dr. Fairchild. And if it is, I need to be ready for whatever expression her face may hold.
Cautiously, I turn and as my vision grows accustomed to the dim light, I discover the whole room is staring toward the front. Obvious, but it makes my expectation of a casual glance cast her way impossible. Especially because she is once again glowing from the reflection of her mirror sequined gown. It’s as if the whole room catch our exchange and the energy that sparks the nine-yard distance between us. The chance to school my expression is lost and I’m powerless against the way my jaw drops, having to literally pop it shut with the back of my hand. The time I have spent facing away from the stage and the exaggerated smooth turn back has caught the attention of the quick-witted comedienne.
“Hoping for a birdie, Johnson Wilder?” she mocks, throwing out the quip like a third-grade schoolteacher and making me seethe inside from the unnecessary embarrassment.
There’s only one rebuke, and it is to smile and gently applaud as if she is faintly amusing. Clever bitch. I squirm even more when everyone else joins in the laughter. I wouldn’t mind the joke isn’t even funny.
I can hear Dr. Fairchild now. “How did it make you feel to be mocked by a woman, Mr. Wilder?”
“Fucking awesome, doctor. You know how I admire women so.”
I grind my teeth, impatiently waiting for the interval so I can strike up a conversation with my old friend Jack.
The comedienne bounds off the stage, and without waiting for her inevitable reappearance for an undeserved encore, I turn my back on the stage and make my escape.
I cut the doctor a sideways glance on the way passed and although my intention was to check out those impossibly long legs, my attention is drawn to the guy at the side of her. I hadn’t noticed him earlier and it wasn’t a vibe I picked up on during our counselling sessions. Although I suppose we only talked about me. And if I speculate now, of course she will be in a relationship. There’s no way a stunner like her with oodles of intelligence will be single.
Anyway, my interest in her is now diminished. After the incident with the married woman and my encounter with her husband, it’s safe to say I’ve learnt my lesson on that score.
I beat the rush to the bar and order JD on the rocks, and it hits the spot straight away. The sultry burn sears as expected around my tongue and to the back of my throat like the old reliable friend it has become. But I will stick with the one.
With one arm propped on the bar I watch the audience filter through, the noisy chatter a sign they are having a good time. I swirl the ice in my drink and raise my glass to my lips giving me a magnified vision through the bottom of the thickened glass of the doctor gliding toward me.
What is it with her today? She’s like a catwalk model the way she moves. I could put a royal tiara on her elegant head tonight and it wouldn’t appear of place.
I lower my glass, lick the caramel sting from my lips and regard her more, twisting on my elbows to face back to the bar before she clocks me gawping at her. Beyond the glass shelves showcasing various liquor bottles, the mirrored wall still gives me my fix of her. She pauses inside the room and scans around until her eyes fix onto mine.
Not one to hide from
any situation I down the rest of the drink in one swift gulp, plonk the glass on the bar and shake my head at the bartender who is about fill it up again. Turning around, I lean my elbows back and cross my ankles so I can enjoy the sight of her promenading towards me.
My best dimple popping smile appears at the optimum distance for her to appreciate it most. Only to be spoilt by her date bounding up from the side, pulling up his zipper.
“Good evening Johnson.” Meredith says, before turning to the guy at her side.
“Hector, meet Johnson Wilder, one of the hosts.”
“Ah.” He wipes his hand on his trousers before extending it.
My hand slides into my pant pocket. There’s no way I’m touching a guy who obviously has come out of the john.
In an effort to get over my hygiene snobbery, I ask, “Can I get you both a drink?”
“Sure. What would you recommend?” Meredith asks.
“It’s my first time here so I’m not sure what they’re good at fixing, but…” I cock my head to one side and let my eyes swim up her graceful figure. “A Cosmopolitan would be fitting tonight.”
Hector coughs, wrenching my gaze from Meredith and reminding me he’s stood next to her.
“Yes, that sounds perfect.” She runs a delicate tongue over her bottom lip.
I turn to Hector and lift my jaw to silently invite his request.
“Yeah, I’ll have the same, actually. I’ve not had a Cosmo in so long.”
Okay, he’s in touch with his feminine side I decide. On my turn to the bar I catch Meredith throwing me a sarcastic look. She has read my mind or more likely my expression.
Casually, I raise a hand and the bar tender jogs over to take my order. On a whim I order a Cosmopolitan too. It must be that I’m trying to fit in or show her I’m not judgmental.
“You enjoying the evening?” I try to make small talk, carefully ensuring my conversation equals out between them.
“Sure,” she answers. “It’s wonderful and nice for it to be an upbeat evening and for such a good cause.”
Tee It Up: A Wilder Brothers Romance Page 6
