by Jody Klaire
Darcy snapped her gaze to her phone. Tweet: eyes show our deepest expressions and our inner self. Dressing with mascara enhances the effect. And don’t forget a good eyelash curler.
Although Kate didn’t need any of it. Not really. Should they skip that? How was she going to cope with dressed-up eyes undressing her so easily? Was she doing that? Why did it feel that way?
“Ms McGregor, we have a lot of press outside,” the driver muttered. She marvelled how he could roar a minibus around as easily as a prized luxury car.
“Marge?” She wasn’t risking Susannah’s safety.
“We have a security guard,” Marge said with a wink at Kate. “And the crew will step in if we need.”
“But pencils are not really as dynamic as you lot,” Kate muttered, scowling out at the swarm of paparazzi. “What if Darcy punches someone again?”
Everyone but her roared with laughter.
“Yes, funny. It may well be you.” Darcy fixed Kate with a glare.
Kate bumped Susannah’s shoulder. “Told you I need to keep my guard up.”
Susannah snorted. “Hopefully it’s not the one with the ring on.” She winced. “You’ll have an imprint like Marshall.”
“Marshall insulted you.” Darcy folded her arms. “Kate is not that much of a buffoon.”
“Should hope not.” Zoë scowled, then hugged Susannah. “Marshall is a jerk.”
Kate held up her hand. “Backward compliment aside…” She pointed out of the window. “How do we get through that?”
Darcy nodded to Marge, who drew back the door. “Like this.”
Marge bounced out. Zoë and Darcy sandwiched in Susannah, and Kate scurried to walk in front, blocking the charging cameras’ view. The usual insults fired off, camera lights blinked red, flashes popped, calls, grunts, jostling as the paparazzi fought for that perfect picture. Kate puffed herself up and strode at them, shoving them aside and clearing the doorway. Susannah hurried in.
One guy grinned up at Kate. “How does it feel hanging out with—” The deafening glare of sirens screamed out, covering the insult as an ambulance screeched down the road.
Kate seemed to hear it in full as her eyes hardened.
“In.” Darcy grabbed her by the elbow and threw her into the shop.
Marge hurried in behind and the doors shut, cutting the calls, the fading siren, and the clicking shutters. Staff scurried to lock up, and she let out a weary sigh and exchanged a glance with Zoë. Yes, this was exactly why she’d kept quiet. Susannah did not need to be barged at.
“Do you have any idea what that…” Kate glanced at Susannah and took a breath. “Idiot…called you…?”
“Nothing we haven’t heard before.” Zoë checked over Susannah, fussing over her until she giggled.
“Are you kidding me?” Kate glared out at the doors. Then pulled out her phone and tapped away. “Hashtag bully…idiot.”
“Susannah, go have a drink with Zoë, okay?” She sounded tired to her own ears. Susannah looked shocked but nodded, and Marge led them away. She turned to Kate and slid her hand to the small of her back, easing her from the doors. “There is little use in getting annoyed.” She led them through islands of clothing racks, shiny floors interjected with carpet. “You can be angry at a wasp for stinging, but you can’t change its nature.”
“Wasps are tiny creatures. Those lot…are definitely not tiny.” Kate glared over her shoulder. “He called you a load of things.”
She nodded. “He wants a picture. Any picture.” Kate’s green eyes were so full of intensity. She was so incensed, so fired up, so beautiful. So easy to just lean in and—she caught herself. What was she doing? “Now you have experienced paparazzi. Well done.”
Kate flicked her gaze over her face—had she noticed the leaning?—then sighed. “You make it sound like an insult.”
“Not what I meant.” She tapped Kate on the nose. Cold nose? Better she didn’t hold it or rub it with her own.
Had she just thought that?
Kate took her fingertip and held it. “They don’t see this side.”
“Who?” She stroked her thumb over Kate’s hand. She shouldn’t let her hold on, shouldn’t walk so close.
“Susannah and Zoë.” Kate dropped her gaze to Darcy’s lips. “You’re different when other people are around.”
She pulled her finger free. “Let’s fix your underwear.” She turned in the direction of Marge and the waiting camera crew. “Enhance your breasts. We’ll work around the boxers for now.”
Kate laughed. She was still walking too close, tantalisingly close. “I’d say that’s a battle won for me.”
Zoë and Susannah ambled over. Good, Susannah was chatting and laughing again. Zoë could always reach her.
“We shall see.” She headed to the camera. “Ready?”
Marge nodded. Marcus and whatever the makeup guy was called fixed her up; Zoë sprayed spritz over her, and she pulled back her shoulders.
“Rolling,” Marge mouthed.
“Women spend too much time in the wrong cup.” Nice start. Direct. She turned to Kate. “Why spend hundreds on clothes when your bras look like something from a museum or a desert island?”
Zoë nodded—like she’d ever owned anything for more than a season.
“Strings hanging off, lace lost, the white now a beige grey, and it gives you three cups in one.” Darcy sighed and fixed on the camera. “My dear, dear ladies, and those across the spectrum, please…love your breasts.”
Zoë murmured her agreement—a touch too heartily. Kate raised her eyebrow, and Darcy cleared her throat. She was ignoring that smutty look. “So how do we find the right size?”
Zoë set on Kate and wrestled her out of her coat. Kate blushed but gave in, then blushed enough that her entire face and both ears went red as Zoë pulled off her top.
“This is an A cup,” Zoë muttered, shaking her head.
Zoë had always possessed the ability to fluster most women, but it was a step further to fluster a woman who was interested in gay men. Typical. “Kate, you either have an inability to see your own body as it is…or your bra is older than Susannah.”
Susannah chuckled behind Marge.
Kate shrugged. “It does the job. What’s the issue?”
What to do with her? “Point proven.” She nodded to Zoë. Her measuring tape came out accompanied by a dangerous smile.
Kate cleared her throat. “Why am I always half-naked around you?”
Zoë winked. “Because you’re very, very lucky.”
Kate snorted with laughter and relaxed. She looked like she was quite enjoying Zoë’s attention.
Darcy put her hands on her hips. “Just measure her up.”
Susannah held up her tablet. “Um…how do you measure?”
Why was she blushing? “Who sent it in?”
“Um…Susannah from Kensington?” She shrugged. “Thought it might be useful, and some of these questions are…” She cleared her throat. “They need age restrictions.”
Darcy glared at Marge, who handed the small camera to one of the crew and took the tablet off Susannah.
“It is essential. Zoë is measuring the band size, which sits underneath the breast”—she scowled at Zoë—“far too slowly for anyone so highly trained.”
Zoë chuckled. “I’m demonstrating.”
“Yes, of course you were.” She turned back to the camera. “The cup size is the fullest part of the breast.”
Zoë winked up at Kate, who suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. “Going in.”
Yes, that would help the show’s image, wouldn’t it? Fondle the patients. It could be a Zoë Windermere offshoot. “You take the band size from the bust size.” Kate flashed an awkward smile back at her.
“We have a thirty-four and a thirty-seven.” She grinned up at Kate. “Thirty-four
C. Definitely not an A.”
“How did you get that?” Susannah frowned. Was she really interested?
“The difference is your cup size.” She really was interested. In fact, she looked like she had when Zoë taught her maths or how to say three-syllable words. “Less than one is a double-A, one is an A, two is a B, three is a C, and so on.” She pulled a bra from the rack. “However, many bras are not accurate, so you need to make sure they fit well.” She smiled to the camera. “Support helps promote a good posture and helps your back and shoulder muscles. So let’s get Kate in something that fits.”
“Cut.” Marge cocked her head. “I never thought I’d learn something useful.” She looked down at her potato-sack breasts.
“Zoë is more than happy to measure any woman who strays close enough.” She motioned to Zoë, who grinned and brandished her tape measure once more.
“Want my tape, honey?” Zoë flashed a brilliant smile at Marge’s laughter.
“I’m not sure my wife would approve.” Marge winked back. “And you’re measuring a thirty-something there… You’d have to lift mine with a hoist to find any band.”
Darcy nodded to Zoë. “Enjoy.”
Zoë yanked Marge off to the changing rooms as the crew, once again, feigned deafness.
“Maybe your mum can show you while I figure out how to remove underwire from my ribcage.” Kate held up the bra Darcy had handed over—oh dear. It was a touch on the raunchy side. Extreme Freudian slip?
Susannah chewed on her lip. “That looks painful.”
Kate sighed. “Anything related to being female usually is.” She trudged off toward the changing rooms.
Darcy pulled a tape measure from her pocket. “Not if you have expert help.” She held up a finger. “And you are never wearing anything like that.” She ushered Susannah over to the everyday bras. “As your mother, I vote for these.”
Susannah smiled up at her the way she often gazed at Zoë. “Me too.”
Who knew lingerie would crack the ice? She led Susannah to the changing rooms with a selection. Considering she was in the middle of a shoot—that Zoë, Kate, Marge, and a blushing contingent of men were watching, not to mention the staff—she actually felt like a real mum for the first time in a very long time. #Heartwarming.
Chapter 18
Kate wore the bra. It felt like it was going to shove her breasts into her face, but if Darcy felt better with her in something from a strip club, she’d go with it. She was not going to show anyone, though. Marge and Susannah had both been kitted out, but in comfortable bras. Yeah, Darcy was just trying to torture her.
“We want to emphasize the legs,” Zoë muttered, camera rolling as she and Darcy yanked clothes off racks. This was where the cameras got to watch Zoë and Darcy work—terrifying, but whatever; she’d just go with it.
“Yes. Watch the shape.” Darcy tapped her finger to her lip as Zoë held up a pair of charcoal trousers. “And the size.”
“Why? She is a size twelve.” Zoë gave Darcy a duh look. “I think I can pick out a pair of cigarette pants.”
Kate frowned. Pants? “Are we back on underwear, because I am keeping my boxers.”
Zoë raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say panties.”
“Pants in normal English”—Darcy peered under her eyebrows at Zoë—“mean trousers.” She motioned to the pair Zoë was holding. “And they are nowhere near a size ten, let alone twelve.”
Zoë held them up. “Then who labelled them?”
“A machine, probably.” Darcy rolled her eyes and headed over. Zoë glared at the trousers with suspicion. “High-street shops make their own rules. You can be a size ten in one and a fourteen in another.” Darcy looked to the camera and thwacked Zoë across the head with the trousers. “Designers let loose right there.”
Zoë scowled and threw the pile of clothes on the floor. “How am I supposed to work with this?”
“The way all other women do: ignore the size and learn how to measure it against yourself.” Darcy handed them to Kate. “And keep the receipt.” She smiled a gentle smile. “By that size, we will need a sixteen.”
At least. “Medium men’s always fits, if that helps?”
Darcy scowled at her.
Right. Well, there went being helpful. She looked to the camera. “Style Surgeons let loose right there.”
Zoë howled with laughter.
Darcy narrowed her eyes, intensity rippling through them. “Would you like me to force you to wear floral embroidered jeggings?”
Mean.
Zoë winced. “I may need therapy just for that image.” She shuddered and turned to the camera. “FYI, fashion crime. Big, big crime.” She flicked her hands out like flashlights.
Darcy handed her another size in the same cigarette…whatever they were. “Try them on, and this shirt.”
Zoë nodded. “Worst tailoring ever on those sleeves, but you have me to rescue you.” She winked at Kate.
Marge cleared her throat. “Made by our sponsors,” she mouthed.
Zoë looked at her in disgust. “How low you stoop.”
Darcy shoved Kate into the changing room, muttered something under her breath, and closed the door behind them.
Kate stared at the tiny space. Wasn’t much space to fit her in, let alone change. She turned enough to be smack up against Darcy’s back. “Are they funny sizes with the changing rooms too? Because I think I need a large.”
“No.” Darcy turned and narrowed her eyes. Then passion, sheer intense passion, sparked from them.
Kate brushed her lips over Darcy’s, alarm bells dinging in her head, her brain saying, “Not a good idea.” She pulled back. Oh shit. Had she just kissed Darcy McGregor? Oh shit. Something rattled. She looked at her shaking hand still holding a load of hangers.
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “You’re not meant to pick up tips from her,” she whispered and tapped her on the nose with a long fingernail. Her glossy lips slid into a smile, and she wiped over Kate’s tingling lips with the pad of her thumb. “Change.”
No assault charge? No “get out of the shop?” Nope, Darcy looked amused. She’d take it. She yanked down her jeans, trying not to headbutt Darcy’s chest, and tried to ignore Darcy’s gaze on her boxers. Fruity perfume tickled her nostrils. The heat from Darcy’s breath tickled her neck as she exhaled.
“You’re not making this easy,” she managed, her voice hoarse. She stooped to pull off her shoes—that’d help—then glanced back up. “It’s like a cupboard in here.”
Darcy raised her eyebrow, peering down at her with the kind of look that just made Kate want to rip at Darcy’s very plush jacket and shirt.
“You need a referee in there?” Zoë yelled and hammered on the door. “Or do you want me to continue to go through the serious design flaws in these clothes?”
Darcy scowled over her shoulder at the door. “If the sponsors pull out, you can sponsor the show.”
“Fine. At least we’d have sense.” Zoë sounded like she was grinning.
“Sense?” Darcy glared harder at the door. Kate wrestled on her trousers—weird shape, weird fit. “Sense? You dress skeletons for a living.”
Kate sniggered. “Or very short people.” She motioned to her trousers. Her ankles were on show. Looked crazy with stripy socks.
Surprisingly, she got a smile from Darcy. “Wonderful. Try the top.”
Wonderful? Darcy liked stripy socks? She rolled her finger around in a circular motion. “Only if you look the other way.”
Darcy put her hands on her hips. How could she pull off a catwalk pose in a cupboard? “I’ve seen you in a bra already, what is the issue?”
Kate leaned in and planted her lips to Darcy’s, again. Lingered. Kissed each lip in turn. Fruity. Okay, kissing her once had been cheeky, but twice and lingering was… It had to be assault. Could she still be on the show with
a restraining order?
Darcy eased back. “Is this another defensive tactic?” Her tone was husky, eyes twinkling as she wiped her lipstick from Kate’s lips again.
“I think it might be.” It had to be. Who went and kissed someone they didn’t know, twice, in a changing room? “Turn.”
Darcy sighed and turned around.
“Are you beating her in there?” Zoë’s tone was full of a laugh.
“No, Kate is shy about her underwear suddenly,” Darcy muttered and turned, just as Kate slid off her shirt. Great. Darcy’s gaze dropped to the bra, and her neck flexed several times.
“Defensive thing is going to trip again,” she whispered. The intense gaze wasn’t helping either.
Darcy snapped her eyes up. “Definitely a masterpiece.”
Kate smirked. “The bra or the breasts?”
“Both.” Darcy helped her wrestle on her shirt and buttoned it up, wheezing out a breath. “You look good in purple.”
“The shirt is blue, though.” She cocked her head. Was Darcy blushing? Nah, must be warm.
“The bra isn’t.” Darcy ripped open the door. Cameras fixed on them, and she dragged Kate out. “Now this is how to define shape.”
“If I want cold ankles,” Kate mumbled, then grinned as Mikey and Mum wandered over to Susannah in the background. “Mikey will think I look crazy.”
Darcy wagged her finger. “My dear Sproutman.” She strode over to Mikey. He gazed up at her. “Can you help us?”
He puffed out his chest. “Kay.”
Darcy took him by the hand and led him over. Zoë high-fived him as Darcy placed him in front of Kate. “What do you think? Kate feels she looks silly.”
Mikey beamed up at her. “You look like a lady.” He burst into laughter. “Kate-oh!”
Was that a “yes, she looked crazy?” She hugged him. Stupid how much she missed him. “I lost half my trouser leg.”
Mikey pursed his lips. “They’re ciggie pant.” He nodded to Zoë. “Kate likes pockets.”
Zoë nodded. “So I’ve heard. These have them.”
Mikey turned back to her. “You don’t wear socks with them, Darcy says.” He blushed and wandered off back to Susannah and the drink she had for him.
