Changing Teams

by Jennifer Allis Provost

  And that’s how I’d ended up sitting naked before a room full of art students.

  So I spent the morning trolling websites looking for gigs that seemed legitimate; there weren’t many. I did see a few open casting calls, but I hated those. All the respondents were herded around like cattle, clutching head shots and batting their eyelashes at who they hoped were the right people. Okay, most models didn’t behave that way, but it only took one to irritate me, and no one wants to hire an irritated Britt.

  After checking my email for the bazillionth time and finding nothing from my agent, I sent Astrid a text.

  Britt: Lunch?

  Her reply came a few minutes later:

  Astrid: Sure. Café near my place in 30?

  Britt: Sounds good.

  The café in question was Café Luna, a bistro situated almost exactly between my apartment and Astrid’s. Geography alone hadn’t made the café our go-to hangout; the proprietors had the decency to serve their breakfast menu until two in the afternoon on weekdays. Really, all restaurants should be so civilized.

  I got to the café before Astrid, which was no great surprise. Early on in our friendship I’d learned to add fifteen minutes onto Astrid’s estimated times of arrival. Just after I’d chosen one of the outdoor tables and ordered a beer, I got a call from my mother.

  “Hey, Mom,” I greeted. “What’s up?”

  “You are aware that Melody’s wedding is Saturday?” she said, forgoing a proper greeting to her only child. “Why haven’t you sent in your RSVP?”

  “Um.” Truth be told, I was hoping that if I laid low for a few weeks, everyone would forget about me and I could avoid the event altogether. Melody was my cousin on my stepfather Patrick’s side, the eldest child of his dearly departed sister. While Melody and I had gotten along well when we were younger, once we graduated high school our lives took very different paths. I went on to college with the intent of becoming an artist, while Melody concentrated on honing her gold digger skills.

  “Would you believe me if I said I forgot?” I asked.

  “No,” was Mom’s frosty reply. “Let me help you out. I’ll check off your response for you. Will you and your guest be having chicken, fish, or beef?”

  “Guest?” I repeated. “I have to subject a poor innocent to all of this?”

  Mom was silent for a moment; I could picture her pinching the bridge of her nose. “The invitation was for you and a guest. Did you even read it?”

  “I read most of it.” Mom made a soft, strangled sound, and I knew I was getting off easy. I can only imagine the tongue lashing she’d gotten from Patrick about my failure to respond. “What kind of fish will it be?”

  “Salmon, your favorite,” Mom replied. “Will your plus one be having salmon as well?”

  “Better put down chicken,” I said, since I really had no idea who I was going to ask to go with me. I liked my friends, which was why I kept them as far away from all Sullivan-centered events as possible.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” Mom said. “See you Saturday?”

  “Saturday it is.”

  I ended the call and held my head in my hands, thinking of all the wonderful things I could be doing with my weekend instead of spending it at Melody’s wedding. I could do some laundry, scrub the grout in my shower, or volunteer to scrape gum off playground equipment…

  “Why the long face?” Astrid asked as she sat opposite me.

  “I have to go to my cousin’s wedding on Saturday,” I whined. “They’re all going to be staring at me, judging me for not being a poor little rich girl like she is. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. And I have to bring a date.”

  “You have to?” Astrid asked, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Or what, they’ll doubt you’re a real girl or something?”

  “Or something.” I peeked at Astrid through my fingers. “Hey, you want to go with me? It’s open bar.”

  “With the glowing endorsement you just gave? A world of no.”

  “Some friend,” I grumbled. I opened the contacts folder on my phone, trying to decide who I liked enough to spend the day with, but not so much that I’d feel guilty about taking them to the wedding. Pickings were slim, indeed.

  Astrid tapped her chin, then asked, “Why don’t you ask Sam MacKellar to be your date?”

  I glanced up from my phone at Astrid. “Date? You want me to take a gay man to my cousin’s wedding? As my date?”

  “Can you think of better arm candy than him?” Astrid countered.

  Well no, I couldn’t. I flipped to Sam’s number and dialed. Astrid, the bitch, grabbed my phone, set it between us on the table, and put it on speaker.

  “Hey darlin’,” Sam drawled when he answered.

  “Hey yourself.”

  A pause. “Am I on speaker?”

  “Unfortunately so,” I replied, while Astrid trilled, “Sammy, baby, it’s Astrid!”

  Sam chuckled. “What can I do for my two best girls?”

  “Britt needs a date,” Astrid said. “Will you be her date?”

  “Date for what, exactly?” Sam asked.

  Astrid looked pointedly from me to the phone. Great, I got to talk about the awkward parts. “It’s for a wedding. Specifically, my annoying cousin’s wedding.”

  “When is it?” Sam asked.

  “This Saturday.”

  “I’m all yours, darlin’,” Sam declared. “Where are you now?”

  “Café Luna, the bistro by Astrid’s place,” I replied. “Why?”

  “Stay there,” Sam said. “I’m picking you up.”

  “Sam, the wedding isn’t until this weekend.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much when you said it was Saturday,” Sam said. “Today, I’m taking you dress shopping.”

  “Um, why?”

  “If I’m gonna be stepping out with you, you’ll need to look good.”

  “Sam—”

  “Gotta go, hailing a cab,” Sam said in a rush, then the line went dead.

  I stared at my phone for a moment, then I looked up at Astrid. “Shopping? Sam is seriously taking me shopping?”

  “You never know what will happen where Sam’s concerned,” Astrid said. “From the day he showed up in this town, that man has been an enigma.”

  “Really.” I didn’t add that I’d found Sam more than an enigma. Ever since that night in my apartment I’d been assuming he was a closeted bisexual, though outed homosexual, but Astrid’s comment made me wonder if there wasn’t a bit more to Sam’s story. Based on Sam’s past relationship with her cousin, I bet there was a lot more.

  Fifteen minutes later a cab pulled up and Sam exited in all his glory. He was wearing dark washed jeans, a dark blue tee shirt, and Doc Martins, with his black leather jacket slung over his shoulder; basically, this outfit was a variation on the jeans and tees he always wore, but damn did he wear them well. He looked like sex on a stick and I was about to place an order.

  “Pick up your chin,” Astrid whispered. I scowled at her, but before I could snap that my chin needed no such maintenance I felt Sam’s hand on my shoulder.

  “Darlin’,” he greeted, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Astrid.” Sam grabbed a chair and spun it around, straddling the back.

  “Nash let you just take off?” I asked.

  “No shoot today,” he replied. “Nash hates working on Mondays. And before ten a.m., after five p.m., with children, or animals; he really hates animals, especially parrots.”

  “I bet the parrot community is devastated,” I observed. “Such pretty feathers and no one to immortalize them in pixels.”

  “Of that I have no doubt,” Sam replied. “Tell me about this wedding.”

  “It’s for my cousin, Melody,” I whined. “She’s on my stepfather’s side, and they all hate me.”

  “Then why are you going?” Sam asked.

  “I kind of have to,” I said. “They’ve all looked down on my mom for the longest time, all because of me—mostly because I dropped out of college, wante
d to be an artist instead of a slimy lawyer, and all that. If I don’t show up they’ll just harass my mom, saying I’m ungrateful, a brat…the list goes on.”

  “So, she figures if she shows up looking like a million bucks with a hot guy on her arm, it will at least take the heat off her mother,” Astrid said, swirling her drink.

  Sam looked at me and cocked a dark eyebrow. “You think I’m hot?”

  I looked him up and down. “You’re okay.”

  Astrid snorted. “Come on, Sam, it’s common knowledge that every woman in the borough wishes you were straight. Just be Britt’s safe little date so she can shove her bitch cousin’s nose in it.”

  Sam looked at me expectantly, so I said, “Well, yeah, that’s the gist of it.”

  “All right, then, I need details,” Sam said. “Time of wedding, requested attire, wedding party colors?”

  I blinked. “You’ll seriously do this?”

  Sam smiled. “I’ll seriously do it.” Wow, did that mean he’d really go to my sisters’ birthday party too? He really was the best. We grinned at each other until Astrid cleared her throat. “About those details,” Sam said.

  “Three o’clock wedding, formal but not black tie, no wedding party, and therefore no official colors,” I rattled off.

  “No wedding party?” Sam repeated. “What kind of bride doesn’t at least have a maid of honor?”

  “Melody isn’t what you’d call friendly,” I said. “Besides, she’s concerned someone will upstage her.”

  Sam grinned that devilish grin of his. “Darlin’, you are just the girl to put this Melody in her place.” He stood, then he grabbed my hand and hauled me upright. “I’m taking you to Jorge’s.”

  “Jorge’s?” I asked, Astrid echoing me.

  “You’ll like him. He makes the costumes for Nash’s shoots.” Sam reached for his wallet. “How much do you owe?”

  “Why would you pay for my lunch?” I countered. “Besides, I already took care of it.”

  Sam ducked his head, then he walked to the curb and hailed a cab. “Astrid, you want to come with?” I asked.

  “Nah,” she replied. “You two are like an old married couple. I’ll let you have your marital discord together.”

  Normally I would have fired off a snappy comeback, but Sam had a cab waiting. I jumped into the cab, and held on for dear life as it lurched into traffic.

  “Want to make out?” Sam asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “I’ve never made out in a cab,” I said, sliding closer. “You?”

  The cabbie made a hard left, and I slid away from Sam. “Guess that ends that,” Sam muttered.

  I patted his hand. “We can always find time later.”

  The cab deposited us at a store front in Greenwich; the sign over the door read ‘Tienda del Sastre.’ “This is Jorge’s? And he’s a…” I searched my memory; I’d been good in Spanish class, but that was years ago. “Seamstress?”

  “I believe Jorge refers to himself as a tailor,” Sam replied. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the diva himself.”

  The shop evoked every sample sale I’d ever patronized, what with its white walls and selection of timeless neutrals displayed on lacquered wood hangars. Sam led me through the shop and through a door at the rear, beyond which everything changed. This room, which was obviously Jorge’s design studio, was a riot of color. Bolts of fabric were heaped upon tables and stacked against the walls, and a shelving unit was full to bursting with all sorts of trim. There had to be a hundred kinds of lace, and thousands of ribbons in every color of the rainbow packed in every available crevice. The finery didn’t end there, for against the back wall there were shelves of shoes and racks of jewelry. To top it off, the desk near the door, the only semi-clear surface in view, boasted a bowl of glittering rhinestones in lieu of candy.

  “Jorge,” Sam barked. “I need a dress.”

  “Whatever for?”

  I turned toward the voice, and saw a slight Hispanic man wending his way among the racks of clothing. He wore a checkered button down shirt, khakis, and tan leather loafers. A pair of wire rimmed glasses were perched on his nose. Basically, he looked like the complete opposite of a hip New York City fashion designer.

  “For a wedding, actually,” Sam replied. “Jorge, meet Britannica Lynn. She wore your frilly orange gown at one of Nash’s shoots the other day.”

  “Did you?” Jorge said, his face lighting up. “How did everything go? Was the lighting good? I chose that silk to reflect well under both natural and artificial light.”

  “It was beautiful,” I said. “Probably the most perfect gown I’ve ever worn.”

  Jorge clasped his hands together. “Good, good. I can’t wait to see the images.”

  Sam whipped his phone out from his back pocket, and thumbed open a folder. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got ’em right here.”

  Jorge looked at Sam’s phone, while I wondered why Sam had a phone full of pictures of me. Figuring it was part of his job as Nash’s assistant, I peeked over Sam’s shoulder. He tipped the phone toward me as he swiped to the next image, which was taken mere moments after Giovanni had liberated my breasts and ruined my gown.

  “What happened to the bodice?” Jorge demanded.

  “You know how Gio likes to oil himself up?” Sam asked. “His Greasiness got a little too close to Britt.”

  “Way too close,” I added.

  “That bastard got grease stains on my gown,” Jorge muttered, then he let loose of a string of Spanish expletives I definitely hadn’t learned in Mrs. Garza’s class. “Next time Giovanni orders something from me, I’m sewing a pouch of itching powder into the crotch.”

  “Does Nash use Giovanni often?” I asked.

  “Mostly for romance novels,” Sam replied. “Gio’s got a good look for that. He’s even got his own fan clubs.” Sam shoved his phone in his back pocket and said to Jorge, “Here’s the deal: Britt needs to attend her snooty cousin’s wedding, and she needs to look better than the bride.”

  “I don’t need to look better than her,” I said.

  “Too bad, you’re gonna.” Sam turned back to Jorge. “Can you help us out?”

  “Of course,” Jorge replied, looking me up and down. “Take off your jacket.” I did, and handed it to Sam. “Your boots too. I need to see how tall you really are.”

  The answer to that was I am really tall for a girl; if modeling or art doesn’t work out for me I could definitely have a career in basketball. Well, except for my whole lack of athletic prowess. I slipped off my boots, but even in my stocking feet I towered over Jorge. Sam, however, still topped me by a few inches.

  Jorge nodded. “Good, good. I can work with this.” With that he went to the racks at the back of the room, furiously sliding hangers back and forth. Once he found what he was looking for, he returned with a length of sky blue fabric draped over his arm. “Before I let you try this on, I need to know if you sweat.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” I countered.

  “This fabric is quite delicate, and sweat stains will ruin it,” Jorge explained.

  “She didn’t sweat when Gio plastered his greasy self all over her,” Sam said.

  Jorge nodded, then he handed over the dress. “You can change there,” he said, indicating a curtained alcove.

  I stepped into the alcove and pulled the curtain shut, then I hung up the dress and took a good look at it. It was pale blue satin, floor length with a halter back and plunging neck line. I sighed, then I removed everything but my panties and stepped into the dress. The fabric skimmed over my body, so soft I could hardly feel it. As I fastened the single button at the back of my neck I felt like a princess.

  I hiked up the skirt before I drew back the curtain; the dress was a bit long, but that would be fixed once I put on some heels. Since there was no mirror in the alcove, I had no idea what I looked like. When I saw Sam’s face, complete with glazed eyes and open mouth, I had my answer.

  “Beautiful,” Sam murmured. “Jorge, you’ve d
one it again.” Jorge, however, did not share in Sam’s opinion.

  “It’s all wrong,” Jorge wailed. “It’s too plain, too soft, and that color does nothing for her.” Jorge stomped toward the back of his workshop, muttering, “Dios, Sam, do you even have eyes? How can you think that dress is anything but terrible for Britt? Did you want her to look terrible?”

  “So, this is not the dress?” I asked, watching Jorge as he delved into the back of his shop.

  “Evidently not,” Sam replied. He glanced sidelong at me. “For all that it’s the wrong dress, you do look great, darlin’.”

  “Thanks, cowboy,” I said. Sam cocked a dark eyebrow, but before he could question his new nickname Jorge returned, bearing a measuring tape, a mouthful of pins, and more fabric draped over his shoulders.

  “When is this event?” Jorge asked around the pins.

  “Saturday,” I replied.

  “Arms straight out,” he ordered. I complied, and Jorge commenced measuring every part of my anatomy. He didn’t write anything down, instead muttering furiously in Spanish around all the pins. After a few minutes of this he dropped the tape, grabbed one of the lengths of fabric, and draped it around my neck. It was a sheer tulle, the color reflecting blue or gold, depending on the angle.

  “You are comfortable forgoing a bra, yes?” Jorge asked as he pinned a second swathe around my torso.

  “Not wearing one now, am I?” I countered.

  “Good. This dress will have a low neckline.”

  “Wait.” Jorge halted, mid-pin. “You’re making me a dress?” I asked.

  “I will customize a dress for you, yes,” he said, straightening up. “You cannot outshine a bride on her wedding day in something off the rack.”

  “I can’t afford a custom dress,” I said. Hell, I could barely afford groceries.

  “No charge,” Jorge said, resuming his pinning. “You are Sam’s friend, therefore you are my friend. I do not charge friends. However,” he added, “should I need a model of your height and coloring, I do hope you will return the favor.”

  “Of course I will,” I said. “Thank you, Jorge.”

  He waved away my gratitude. “Now, about the skirt. Will there be dancing?”