Chapter 17
The limo pulled up in front of the Hay-Adams Hotel on Lafayette Square, one of Washington’s famous landmarks. With stunning views of the White House and the Washington Monument, the hotel was steeped in history. Aside from its political foundations, it had hosted many famous patrons, from Charles Lindbergh to Ethel Barrymore. Which is precisely why her fellow alumni had chosen it, to be sure. With them, it was all about appearances and bragging rights.
Lucy had felt beyond ostentatious climbing into the stretch limo that had been Vivian’s final surprise of the evening. But as they pulled up alongside the structure, with its gorgeously restored Italian Renaissance motif, she felt a tiny bit glad she’d accepted.
“Every princess needs a carriage,” Vivian had announced. “I prefer mine sleek and black, with a full bar and a handsome driver.” Lucy smiled, remembering Vivian winking at the driver, who was young enough to be Vivian’s son. He’d given his employer a cheeky smile in return, at which Vivian had fanned herself and privately confided in Lucy that she “loved a man in uniform. And out of it.”
Lucy tried not to let that image into her head, but then again, she wouldn’t be surprised if Vivian ended the evening seeing the sights in a private limo tour of her own.
Lucy had had to restrain herself from turning the lights on around the vanity mirror in the rear of the limo to marvel at herself. Or, the self that Vivian’s trio of elves had transformed her into. Okay, so she’d had to refrain after the first half-dozen times. But honestly. No one was going to recognize her. Her own mother wouldn’t know it was her.
Of course, her mother was still reeling a bit from her daughter going blonde. Lucy had been careful not to overwhelm her mom or her dad with her new, updated look. Immersed as they were in the world of academia, they didn’t take dramatic change well. For them, reading the business section of the Post before doing the crossword—in pen; black, never blue—would be a major upset to their morning routine.
She had told them she was going to a spa for a makeover, but that was pretty much the extent of it. Like most parents, they wanted her to be happy, but fitting in with regular society—aka anything off campus—simply didn’t register on their list of concerns. They’d never really understood their only daughter’s discomfort and feelings of awkwardness.
“Well, dear, it’s quite . . . lively, isn’t it?” her mother had said, in reference to her new hair color and style, when she’d met them for dinner a few days after emerging from Glass Slipper.
“They’ve certainly relaxed the dress code in the public school system,” her father had grumbled, hiding behind his menu so he didn’t have to see her short skirt.
She’d patiently explained that she didn’t wear miniskirts to school, but that, as a young woman, certainly she should be allowed to express herself, fashion-wise, in her private life however she wanted. He’d harrumphed, but hadn’t said anything. Still, Lucy was pretty sure he spent the entire meal worrying that someone from the university was going to come in and—God forbid—see Lloyd Harper’s daughter looking like anything other than the very cliché of a repressed librarian.
Their less-than-relaxing evening had ended—thankfully, with both their professorial reputations still intact—with her mother hugging her and whispering in her ear, “Just tell me you didn’t . . . pierce anything.”
Lucy still hadn’t completely gotten over that one.
The driver got out and she snapped out of her reverie. Game time.
God, she wasn’t ready for this. She glanced down and took a quick inventory. Her taped-up breasts appeared evenly spaced and elevated. She still couldn’t believe that was her cleavage. Well, hers with a healthy bit of foam padding, anyway. The tiny silver chain that hooked the two narrow front panels of her dress together actually sat away from her skin. Where had this stuff been when she was in high school? Awesome.
She smoothed her damp palms down her bare legs. The one consolation prize of the evening was that she didn’t have to wear the garter or the stockings. Vivian had been disappointed, and maybe there was a teeny bit of Lucy who felt the same, but ultimately she had enough to worry about tonight. But no matter how smoothly the garter lay against her skin, the slinky little sequin tank dress was too clingy for it not to be noticeable. So she was barelegged. Wearing a thong, no bra, and a dress that weighed about two ounces. Soaking wet.
And diamonds. She couldn’t forget the diamonds. She hurriedly tugged the mirror down one last time. Only she didn’t check her makeup, or the super-straight, fringy bob her hair had been styled into. She just ogled the discreet but incredibly sparkly diamond-and-aquamarine pendant and dangling earrings she had on.
The driver opened her door.
Please, God, she thought, don’t let me humiliate myself.
Pulling her beaded silk pashmina around her shoulders, thankful the late September weather had been relatively balmy, she smiled at the driver and took his hand as he helped her out of the limo.
“Have a wonderful evening, Ms. Harper,” he told her. “I’ll be here whenever you depart.” He pressed a small pager into her hand. “Just use this and I’ll pull around.”
“Thank you,” she said, her smile beginning to tremble a bit as the immediacy of her situation began to sink in. For a wild second, she was tempted to slide right back into the anonymous privacy of the leather-appointed interior and beg him to circle the block a few more times while she extensively sampled the contents of the fully stocked bar. She wished now she’d taken up Vivian’s suggestion of enjoying a glass—or three—of champagne on the ride into D.C. She’d wanted a clear head. At the moment, she couldn’t imagine why.
Well, worst case was she’d drink herself into a stupor on the way home. Best way to forget whatever kind of nightmare this evening turned out to be.
Clutching her shawl and the minuscule beaded bag that went with the dress, she took a deep breath, then immediately stopped in midsuck when she realized heaving breaths made for heaving bosoms. This had never once been a consideration for her. She carefully exhaled, so as not to dislodge any tape.
“This is going to be a long night.”
Fortunately, no one else was being dropped off at the moment. Studying the sidewalk and carpet for any signs of a crack or wrinkle that would send her sprawling face first onto the lobby floor—not the grand entrance she’d dreamed of—she picked out her path and carefully made her way through the gold-trimmed glass doors.
Focusing on keeping her balance and her boobs inside her dress, she turned and looked around the grandly paneled, beautifully appointed lobby. She could hear a bit of a hubbub coming from somewhere on the other side of the room, so she immediately ducked to the right and hid between a cluster of furniture and a big pillar. The dance, being held in the John Hay Room, had already begun—better to make an entrance, Vivian had assured her—so her former classmates were likely crawling all over the place.
Lucy gripped her handbag, feeling the cell phone inside. She’d already called Jana from the limo. But there had been no answer. Jana had called her earlier in the day to wish her luck and demand a full play-by-play tomorrow over lunch.
Jana had almost sounded sorry she and Dave hadn’t RSVP’d just so they could watch her take Jason Prescott and the rest of the gang down. Lucy would have loved the moral support of having her best friend close by, but she’d known from the beginning she was in this on her own. And frankly, if Jana had come with her, they’d have either spent the entire night in the bathroom, or, with the last-minute attack of chickenitis she was presently having, she’d likely have let her best friend talk her out of the whole thing. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use a lifeline right about now.
She toyed with the idea of calling Grady, but decided against it. It bothered her that she couldn’t share this moment with him. Not that he’d fully comprehend the princess-at-the-ball aspect of the evening, but in the past he would have made some kind of observational comment that would have put the ridiculousne
ss of the event into the kind of detached perspective she badly needed. Now she wasn’t sure what kind of comment—thinly veiled or not—she’d get. So she didn’t risk it. And that saddened her.
She smiled and shook her head when a bellhop motioned to her, asking if she needed help. She shifted so she could see the room—and not be ambushed off guard—but remained far enough in the corner so no one would notice her, then pulled her cell phone from her bag. That’s when she noticed that something else had been tucked in with the new lipstick, her ticket for the dance, and the few bills she’d folded in earlier. She kind of liked the idea that with a limo, not only didn’t she need her car keys, she didn’t need her ID, either. It lent a sort of anonymous freedom to the evening. Add the dress and the hair, and she felt like a woman of mystery. She wanted to embrace that vibe, make it work for her. But first she needed a pep talk.
She punched in Jana’s cell phone number and pulled out the little folded packets, thinking Vivian might have put in hand wipes or something. “Come on, please pick up,” she murmured, letting the packets unfold. Her gasp drew the attention of the bellhop. His lips twitched as she quickly folded the condom packets and turned her back to him. “Thanks, Vivian,” she muttered, even as she stifled her own urge to snicker.
Jana’s voice mail kicked in just then and Lucy was forced to leave a brief SOS. Of course, once she was inside the ballroom, with the music blaring, she’d be lucky to hear herself think, much less her cell phone ringing. She’d just have to check it. Often. It would give her something to do besides stare down in awe and wonder at her newly formed cleavage.
With that thought, butterflies in her stomach, and a knowing smile from the bellhop, Lucy edged her way through the lobby until she spied a table set up outside the ballroom. All the name badges were lined up on the table, waiting for the guests to claim them. Lucy had visions of pinning her badge on with pride, then striding into the ballroom, head held high.
She did not have visions of mincing her way through the lobby, worried about tripping on the rug, which would send her, boobs flailing, into the ballroom. And yet that was exactly what she was doing. Disgusted with her lack of conviction, she boldly removed her pashmina, then had to fight not to ball it up and clutch it between her overexposed, double-taped breasts.
Some femme fatale you’re turning out to be. She draped her shawl over her arm, took a steadying breath, and proceeded past the registration desk. “Inner rhythm,” she whispered, over and over.
A small group was moving up to the table ahead of her. Lucy instinctively ducked back behind a potted plant and plastered her back against the side wall. She swallowed a little yelp as her bare back hit the cold marble. She peeked around the foliage and realized she didn’t recognize any of the people at the table. They all grabbed their badges, chatting and laughing as they moved en masse toward the double doors leading into the ballroom. The woman manning the table, whom Lucy didn’t recognize either, walked over to open the ballroom doors and ended up stepping inside for a moment. Seizing the now-or-never moment, Lucy took fast little scuffy steps toward the table and quickly scanned the alphabetically ordered badges.
To her horror, each badge was plastered with a name and senior-yearbook photo. While she appreciated the reasoning behind the idea—God knew, she hadn’t recognized a single person yet—the idea of pinning that horrible picture to her newly plumped up and blush-enhanced breast . . . well, no. Sure, the looks on people’s faces when they glanced from her badge to her Lucy Harper 2.0 face would be momentarily gratifying, but there was a sort of National Zoo exhibit feel to the whole idea that was suddenly repugnant to her. She wanted to wow people, but she wanted to do it in her own way. On her own terms.
So she quickly stashed the badge in her tiny purse, and when the woman manning the table stepped out of the ballroom, Lucy flashed her a fast grin, shoved her ticket at her, then ducked inside before the woman could stop her.
Once inside she automatically sidled to the left and back against the wall. Once a wallflower, always a wallflower. But there was security there by the wall, out of the spotlight, a moment to catch her breath, to rally her will, and to make sure her boobs were still pointing in the same direction.
“Okay, showtime.” She closed her eyes briefly and pulled up images of her dance lessons with Arturo. The disc jockey working the reunion dance was playing Tears for Fears, which wasn’t helping her much. Then, as if it was a sign from God—or her godmother, which would have surprised her less—the song abruptly changed to an early nineties hip-hop anthem. Not her first choice, or even her hundred and first, but she could follow the downbeat.
Words she’d never thought to utter slipped past her lips. “Thank you, Vanilla Ice.” Keeping her eyes closed, focusing on the beat, letting it sink in, connecting to the pulse of it. She let her hips sway a little, singing, “Ice, ice, baby” under her breath until she finally worked up the nerve to lift her chin, stand straighter, even thrust her chest out a little. She owned this song. She owned this room. She could do this!
Then she opened her eyes and saw the throngs of her former classmates filling the dance floor.
Sure. She could do this. Right after she had a drink. A very stiff drink.
Her ticket came with two free-drink coupons. She wondered if they’d let her use them both at once for a double. However, inner rhythm or no inner rhythm, she was pretty sure her heels came with only so many stumble-free steps in them. Alcohol would probably reduce that number dramatically.
She stared at the writhing masses, thinking that right there in front of her was pretty much everyone who had made fun of her all through her years in the public school system. The girls who had made fun of her klutzy lack of coordination in grade-school gym class. The guys who called her up in middle school only to ask her if she could do their homework, or get the phone number of the current babe-of-the-week. Like she would know.
The same group who had laughed at her the night of the prom.
Her stomach lurched, and she was glad she hadn’t had any champagne. Or dinner. She pulled her phone out and punched the DISPLAY button, but no call from Jana. “Shit.”
Well, she told herself, it would mean more if she did this on her own, right? She’d show her former classmates and her current best friends what she was made of. And herself, while she was at it.
God, she wanted to throw up.
Then she thought of it from a different perspective. Because the thing about that prom-night fiasco was, she could hardly go down in anyone’s estimation. Reading the loop, it was clear how much everyone was trying to prove they’d maintained their level of cool into adulthood. This was pressure she didn’t share. In fact, anything she did here tonight was likely to be a major step up. She already looked better. So basically, all she had to do was not make a spectacle and she’d come out ahead.
The music segued from Vanilla Ice to MC Hammer. Filled with renewed determination, she straightened away from the wall.
“You’re damn right you can’t touch this,” she muttered, and marshaling every bit of nerve she had, she tossed her hair back, pointed her Austin Powers fembot boobs forward, and plunged into the throng.
She immediately slipped a tiny step, almost upending an entire tray of canapés. Two waiters swung smoothly away before she could take them out. She mercifully got her balance back before she went down herself, but just barely. Cheeks flaming, she inched her way to the edge of the room. A wallflower once more.
The very thought gave her the courage to begin carefully edging her way around the room. It wasn’t exactly plunging headlong into the crowd, but it was a step up from hiding by the door.
She took her time and made a complete circuit, and though she’d gotten a few glances, even a few downright leering ogles, everyone was so caught up in excited conversations with their long-lost classmates, no one really noticed her. There were no gasps. No pointed fingers. No whispered “Oh, my Gods” as she trolled the alley created between the large round tables s
et up around the perimeter of the dance floor, and the wall, which ran parallel to the busier, more heavily peopled dance floor table lane. She’d work her way up to navigating that one. And it was possible no one noticed her because she was mostly walking behind their backs. Nor was she making direct eye contact. At least not on purpose.
Still, she hadn’t tripped or fallen out of her dress once. And for the moment, she rather liked being one of the anonymous. No badge, no way anyone could know who she really was. Sort of like Clark Kent in a dress. She used her “disguise” to drift again around the table track, and shamelessly listened in on snippets of conversations. Eventually, she planned to attempt to join in one or two. Right after she worked up the nerve to make eye contact.
After lap three, she admitted she wasn’t any closer to doing that than when she’d started. She’d recognized a few people by now, but had not the first clue what to say to any of them. “Hi, I’m Lucy Harper. You remember me, the one whose gym uniform you stuffed in the locker-room toilet in sixth grade?” Or, “Hi, it’s me, Lucy Harper. You know, the one who did your science homework for two years, but whom you pretended was invisible if I so much as made eye contact with you in the halls?”
Somehow, they just didn’t seem like the ice breakers she was looking for.
So she began looking in earnest for her ultimate quarry.
Because, while it would be gratifying to have a Carrie-like moment—sans all the blood, of course . . . well, maybe there could be a little blood—where she’d have the complete and utter attention of everyone in the room as she told them where they could stuff their insufferable egos, catty criticisms, and condescending, bullying, mean-spirited bullshit, the truth was, there was only one person she really wanted to blow away tonight.
The rumor buzzing about the room was that he was still godlike and had shown up wearing Armani. How hard could it be to find a six-foot-five god in a two-thousand-dollar tux?
Sleeping with Beauty Page 19
