Sometimes. But I try not to think about it. And I don't want to talk to her about it.
Paloma seems nice, but she's not my friend. She's Ty's assistant.
"What does that have to do with clothes?" I ask.
"It's called conversation. Are you familiar?" She laughs. "You're a lot like Ty."
"How's that?"
"You don't suffer fools."
That is Ty to a T.
"I'm surprised he puts up with my enthusiasm."
"He needs a little enthusiasm."
She smiles. "He does." She looks me over again. "There's something about you… I can tell you have that in you."
"Enthusiasm?"
She nods. "A well of passion. One you only share with people you trust." She looks to a rack of black dresses. "You don't trust me. That's fine. But I have to imagine… you'll share it with him one day."
Maybe. Or maybe she's projecting.
"In any case, people are going to want to know your story," she says. "What will they say if you keep working at that awful bar?"
"What's wrong with being a waitress?"
"Nothing. But it's not you. And it's not…"
Fitting for someone of my new station. I know. That's in the contract too. I have to quit before my next shift.
"You want more. I can sense that. It's just there. Maybe it's your—"
"Resting bitch face?"
She laughs. "Dramatic features. You're very angular. And your haircut—"
"I like you so far, Paloma, but if you insult my haircut—"
"No." She smiles. "It's perfect for you. But it's not a low-effort style."
"So?"
"You blow dry it straight. You always wear winged eyeliner. Maybe you choose this outfit because it's comfortable, but you choose it intentionally too. Because you want to look a certain way."
"And what is that?"
Her eyes flit to my black boots. My jean-clad hips. My tight tank top. "You want to drive Mr. Hunt crazy."
"That's not really—"
"I organize Mr. Hunt's schedule. I schedule his dinners, send his gifts, cancel his morning appointments when he's indisposed. I'd know if you were seeing each other."
Oh.
"It's none of my business. I'm not going to pry. Even if I wanted to tell someone, the nondisclosure agreement I signed… I'd basically give up my firstborn." She looks me in the eyes. "Are you sleeping together?"
My cheeks flush. "Not now."
"But you have?"
"A few years ago. We spent the summer together."
She nods with recognition. "Of course. The girl from the bar. I've heard that story." She lowers her voice to a whisper. "You know how it is, working with rich men. You stay invisible. They forget you're there. You hear things."
I nod. "I pick up a lot. At the bar."
"Enough to go away for insider trading?"
"If I had the money for it."
She smiles. "You do now." She leads me into one of the mini-stores. "And people will talk. They'll see your ambition. If you don't have a story about what you're after, they'll think you're after his money."
"Is that so bad?"
"You want people calling you a gold digger?"
"Won't they? No matter what?"
Her frown drains the color from her face. "People will wonder why Ty is marrying you. If you stick with the down on your luck waitress story…"
They'll fill in the blanks. I'm marrying him for money. Or maybe because he knocked me up.
But that's worse. The idea that I somehow tricked him. Trapped him.
Which is bullshit—it takes two people to have sex, especially unprotected sex—even if it's hard to get mad at Ty for something that hasn't happened.
That would never happen—
He was adamant about using protection.
Is he still? Is he safe? He's been with a lot of women.
I shouldn't judge, I know, but it's hard not to feel irrelevant.
I've only been with two guys since Ty. One attempt at a boyfriend. And an ex from high school after my mother's funeral.
I thought it would help make me feel something, but instead I felt more alone.
"Ms. Simms? Are you all right?" Paloma pulls a jumpsuit from the rack. It's a long, black thing with a deep v-neck. Sexy. In a boss bitch way. "Have you thought about how you want to present yourself?"
"A rock star," I say. "I want to look like a rock star."
"Perfect." She smiles.
I have to hand it to Paloma—the woman knows style. She sends me to the dressing room. Pulls items. Asks me to model them.
I let her adorn me in jeans, blouses, t-shirts. Even a few sundresses.
Soft black fabric with a square neck and a high slit.
Short emerald chiffon.
Stiff white sateen.
Then clothes for dinners. She deems jumpsuits perfect. Formal but rebellious. A fuck you to the rich men who expect women to wear dresses at all times.
I change into a fuchsia one-piece with a high neckline and a low back.
Sleek silk.
Expensive enough to cover two weeks of rent.
Is it me? I don't know. I trust Paloma to tell me if it fits into Ty's world, but she doesn't know me. Not really.
I pull out my cell. Snap a pic for Sienna.
She responds right away.
Sienna: OMFG, Indie! Explanation.
Indigo: Am I pulling it off?
Sienna: Mr. London is dressing you. It's a sick fetish of his.
Indigo: Uh-huh.
Sienna: It's a pretty sweet fetish. For you. You can get a lot of free stuff out of it! What's that cost? Oh my god, don't tell me. Not until it's in the closet and we can put it on ThreadUp.
Indigo: Since when do you know about ThreadUp?
Sienna: Since always. Where do you think we live? And yes! You look hot. You just need some dramatic makeup to match. And shoes. But, no offense, Indie, can you walk in heels?
Indigo: I've worn them to work.
Sienna: And sprained your ankle.
Indigo: Only the one time.
She's right, of course. I can barely walk in heels.
But it's not like I'm planning to walk in these clothes.
Or wear them for long. Necessarily.
Indigo: I'll figure it out.
Sienna: Has he seen it?
Indigo: Not yet.
Sienna: You're seeing him again?
Indigo: I am.
Sienna: I want you home at the crack of dawn. Not a second sooner.
Indigo: Maybe I want to make him wait.
Sienna: Carpe Diem, Indie. You might die tomorrow. Would you rather die satisfied or horny?
A laugh spills from my lips. God, I love her so much. She's just… Sienna. Loud and brash and completely sure of what matters in life (soccer, sex, sugary drinks, in that order).
Talking to her, I can imagine Ty is some rich guy I like.
Maybe I can hold on to that. To some hint of normalcy.
Something.
I do want this to be a surprise. But I want to tease him too.
I turn to the mirror. Hold out my cell.
Try a few angles. Click, click, click.