First thing Friday morning, I head straight for the headmistress’s office at The Day School. I am not a rule-breaker. Truly. I once got pulled over while I was driving, and because I thought the officer was going to give me a speeding fine, I cried so hard he ended up consoling me through the window and then had to use my mobile to phone my mum to see if she could come meet me since I was no longer fit to drive. It was only later that I learned he just wanted to let me know one of my car’s tail lights had gone out.
Anyway, I want to know for sure whether or not I have to keep my distance from Logan. I realize it might be all sorts of tantalizing to go after a forbidden man, but I like my job and I’m not trying to throw it away for a quick romp in the hay.
I round the corner and see Mrs. Halliday’s office up ahead. Her secretary is already perched at her desk out front, and I greet her with a warm smile. I’ve brought them each a bribe.
“Good morning, Laura. Fancy a latte?”
She grins in surprise. “That’s so nice! You didn’t have to do that.”
I very much did.
I pass her the Starbucks drink then offer a grin of my own. “Is Mrs. Halliday busy or could I have a little chat with her?”
Laura frowns after taking a quick sip of her latte. “Actually, she isn’t here today.”
“Isn’t here? What do you mean?”
I’m sure all the color has drained from my face.
“Her husband is scheduled for a dental procedure, so Mrs. Halliday had to be there to drive him home after.”
Bugger. Shite. Crap.
“But surely I could still reach her by phone?”
Laura takes another prolonged sip of that latte before shaking her head. “I’m afraid not. She’s asked me to hold her calls today. Doesn’t want to be disturbed, just in case.”
It’s dental work, not open-heart surgery. For the love of—
“Okay, I see.”
I have half a mind to yank that half-empty latte right out of her hand. Some help she was!
This is worse than I was expecting. I thought I’d have a quick word with Mrs. Halliday and know one way or the other whether I’d be allowed to date Logan. Sure, yes, it’s laughable that I would date him even if it weren’t against the rules. I’m sort of putting the cart before the horse here, but it’s in the realm of possibility at least!
Now, I have no way of knowing.
Now, I’ll have to go into the weekend and be on my best behavior.
No snogging his face off. No doing a little striptease and showing him just how not cute I can be.
Could my life get any worse?
“OH MY GOD. UNZIP IT!”
“I can’t! It’s stuck!”
“Okay, hilarious. You two have had your fun, but seriously, get me out of this thing.”
It’s suddenly hard to breathe in this posh dressing room, like maybe they’ve done something to the air so we’ll get a little lightheaded and forget we can’t afford a single item of clothing in this store, not even a sock.
I twist away from Yasmine and try to get a good look of my back in the mirror. The zipper she had trouble getting up a few minutes ago is the culprit. It’s what’s keeping me in this dress that we saw in the window as we were passing by on our way to cheaper shops down the road, the ones that sell panties five to a pack.
It’s a short red frock with thin crisscross straps in the back and a flirty hemline. A real showstopper.
“Oh my god, imagine if I wore that tonight?” is what I said, and Yasmine and Kat were all, “Oh, you’d knock Logan’s socks off for sure,” and then we sort of laughed and watched as this full-on glamazon walked out of the store with three bags in tow, a whiff of gentle perfume assaulting me as she passed by. I had a moment of absolute rage that I’d have to go to the party in a brown paper sack instead of this amazing red dress, so I whisked open the shop’s door and strolled right in to find a sales associate.
“I’d like to try on that red dress in the window.”
“Of course, but it’s couture—” and this is where she said the designer’s name, but it was all French and hard to understand, so I nodded along like I knew all about Pastrami Organza (or whatever his name was) and said, “Yes, that’s the point. I only wear custom couture.”
Oh, it was ace.
Yasmine and Kat kept high-fiving me while we waited in the dressing room for the woman to bring me the dress in my size. It was meant to be a bit of fun. Try it on, snap a photo of what I could look like if I had a few gazillion dollars to spare on clothes, and then immediately dash out of here.
That was before the zipper got stuck.
Before Yasmine and Kat both tried to pry me out of this thing.
I’m growing desperate. If the A/C weren’t cranked down to arctic temperatures, I’d be sweating bullets.
“How are you girls doing in there?” the sales associate asks in her chipper tone from the other side of the door.
“FINE!”
“GREAT!”
“GOOD!”
We all shout over each other in a wave of panic, and she laughs like we’re adorable before telling me to let her know if I have any issues with the dress.
Once she’s gone, I do a good bit of pacing, which is relatively hard in the confines of the dressing room. Yasmine and Kat have to dart out of my way every few seconds.
“Okay, tell me again what this dress costs,” I insist.
“$2,200.”
“Right. But converted to British pounds, it’s less, right?”
Kat looks like she’s about to cry. “What does that matter?”
“I’m trying to find some silver lining! Now, Kat, you try the zipper again.”
“I can’t! My fingers have got blisters from the last time I tried!”
“Yasmine?”
She’s the calmest out of all of us, sitting down on the bench and scrolling through her mobile now. “That zipper isn’t budging. I’ve tried for ages already. Just tell the lady and see what she suggests we do. Surely, this sort of thing happens all the time.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that’s going to be a real issue. This never happens.” is what the sales associate tells me when I cave and finally bring her in on my crisis.
Somehow, I find that very hard to believe. I’m the first person in the history of fashion to try on a dress and get stuck inside of it?
“On the plus side, it looks absolutely stunning on you. Red is definitely your color.”
“That’s what I told her!” Yasmine agrees.
My anger grows horns. “Right, of course. I am very glad it looks so amazing. The thing is, I’ve got about three pennies and some lint in my purse right now, so I won’t be buying this dress. Please get it off me.”
She does a good bit of trying with the zipper too, using all her tricks of the trade. The dress stays on, and the color drains from my face.
“I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a pickle.” She laughs.
I do not laugh.
“What are my options then?”
“Well…if you walk out of the store wearing the dress, I’ll have to consider it shoplifting.”
A horrid mugshot of me comes to mind—all bug-eyed and slack-jawed—and I shiver at the thought. I will not go to prison over this!