It seemed being bossy was a Fashion Designer job qualification.
Hope
I stood in a big room filled with people and racks of dresses, wishing I’d worn different underwear. I’d imagined this happening in a regular room. You know, a small room. A dressing room. I’d imagined being by myself in it, too, and that I’d come out to show Karen, and maybe a saleslady, the dresses I thought might work. Like a regular person.
Which had been stupid of me, because Hemi wasn’t a regular person. But unfortunately, I’d dressed for his eyes—later—or maybe for confidence, instead of for public consumption. I was wearing a lingerie set from Shades of V, in fact, a San-Francisco-based company Hemi had acquired six months earlier. He tended to bring me something new from the line every week or two, telling me it was for research, that he was “checking the look.”
Yeah, right. Checking my look, more like—especially when he’d summon me to his office during the workday for the “checking,” make me walk around in the underwear and my heels, then take it all off of me and give me his…opinion. His very tough opinion, after which I’d have to go back downstairs, try to pretend I hadn’t just been banged senseless by the CEO, and know I wasn’t succeeding.
He loved it when I left his office with my cheeks flushed, my hair slightly rumpled despite my efforts to tame it, my eyes soft and unfocused, and my knees still trembling. Even though I’d complain, “Everybody’s going to be able to tell what I just did. Or what you just did to me, more like.”
“And what exactly do you imagine is wrong with that?” he’d answer. “Works for me.” And I’d scowl at him and try to act aggrieved, when I was still swollen and aching from the endless series of orgasms he’d given me, and the hum had already started up again—or had never died down. Once he really had me going, he liked to keep me there, and by now, he knew exactly how to do it. I walked around in a state of perpetual arousal, obviously giving off some fairly potent pheromones, because I could swear that every straight man in my vicinity had started glancing at me in a way they never had before. And not daring to do anything about it, of course, because they knew I was Hemi’s, and that Hemi didn’t share.
It was all extremely reprehensible, on both Hemi’s part and my own. He apparently had to do it, but I didn’t have to allow it, let alone like it. Beneath all his success and sophistication, though, he was a throwback to some ruthless Maori-chief ancestor. Unfortunately, it seemed I had more than my own share of primitive instincts, because I loved it.
On the other hand, I also had a rockin’ underwear collection, which is why I was wearing white today, in preparation for—well, wearing white. But the lacy bralette that looked so virginal in front had a whole lot of unnecessary strapping in back, and the matching thong did, too. All right, I’ll confess—the thong tied in back. The whole thing was fairly bondage-y, in fact. Hemi hadn’t seen this outfit on me for months, though, and I’d known he’d love it seeing it again, especially if all I was wearing with it was his ring and some high heels. If he came into his childhood bedroom and found me walking around like that, breaking in my wedding shoes, maybe, and knew that he was about to make me his wife…
Oh, yeah. That would turn into Possessive City, and wouldn’t I love it.
You see what I mean? When I’d been thinking about trying on my wedding dress, that’s where my unruly mind had gone. Maybe because I loved to look innocent while I pushed his buttons, and maybe because thinking about marrying Hemi—or the reality of being married to Hemi—still made me more than a little nervous.
When I stood in the world’s largest dressing room and took off my boots, jeans, and sweater, though, Karen looked at me and said, “Whoa, mama. I did not need to see that,” which was fairly embarrassing. I couldn’t even hide those straps by keeping my back turned, because—mirrored walls.
Violet, on the other hand, just scrutinized me and said, “Small scale all the way around. We’ll have to keep it very simple,” which wasn’t exactly reassuring. After that, I stood there feeling like an extremely short, flat-chested Barbie as she and Fiona dressed me in one white gown after another that dragged on the ground and overwhelmed me in every way, as Karen said, “Well, maybe that one’s OK” in a dubious tone, and Violet said “No,” or “Horrible,” or, worst of all, “Gruesome,” and snapped her fingers at Fiona to take it off.
“We could do a short dress,” I suggested after seven or eight attempts. “Maybe that would be simple enough. I might look less like I’d chosen something from my mother’s dress-up box, anyway.”
“No,” Violet said with absolute assurance. “You’d look like a teenager, and people would think Hemi had got himself into dodgy territory. We don’t need the celebrant asking to see your birth certificate or the note from your mum.”
“I’m twenty-five,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster.
“Right,” Violet said. “Then let’s make you look that way.”
Fiona hung up the latest reject, and Violet pulled out the last lonely dress from the rack, having pruned the collection considerably after her assessment of my less-than-considerable assets. “I was saving this one,” she said. “Maybe not willing to put it to the test, because if this doesn’t work…” She shrugged. “Well, if it doesn’t, we’ll find something else. But it’s brand-new, and my favorite, so I may be a wee bit prejudiced.”
I couldn’t tell from looking at it. It looked much like the others when it was on the hanger, except even simpler. A warm winter white, sleeveless—and “simple” was right.
And then Fiona put it on me and zipped it up the back.
“Oh,” Karen said with a sigh. She’d long since sat down on a stool in the corner, but now, she stood up and said, “It makes me want to touch it.”
“Bias-cut,” Violet said. “Silk charmeuse.”
It was all that and then some. The dress sported a relatively modest V-neck in front and back, and the cut was absolutely simple, the lustrous silk unadorned except for a two-inch band of translucent lace just below my breasts. But the exquisitely cut fabric draped as if it were caressing my body, somehow managing to look both entirely sensual and devastatingly classic, and my hands smoothed over it for exactly the reason Karen had said. Because I had to touch it.
“Yes,” Violet said with satisfaction. “Absolutely. No veil, of course. Too fussy.”
“Oh?” I asked. I had no idea. I was just relieved I’d found something to be married in. “It’s beautiful. Of course it is. But…will it look like a nightgown?”
“No,” she said. “Or only in the very best way. It’ll look perfect. Your hair pulled up, white rosebuds and pearls in it. You’ll look so virginal and delicious, every man there will wish he was Hemi. And Hemi will love knowing it, because he was born about three centuries too late.”
“Oh,” I said again. The look in her eyes—it was like she knew exactly how reprehensible Hemi could be, and I had to wonder how she did. And how suitable this conversation was in front of Karen, especially with me blushing pink. “I could probably find something like that online,” I said, to steer the conversation in another direction. “A hair ornament.”