16
LARA
Week 3: Friday Night
“How about this?” I say, holding out a blue top.
Gabby looks up from where she’s rummaging in my dresser with one hand, glass of wine in the other. She wrinkles her nose. “What is that? A poncho?”
“It’s a flowy top,” I say, holding it against me and looking in the full-length mirror. “It matches my eyes.”
“Perfect, you can wear it to my aunt’s birthday party next week and she’ll love it, but you’re not wearing it tonight.” She holds up a tiny tank top. “What about this?”
“You’re in my pajama drawer. I sleep in that.”
“Yes, and if you wear it out tonight, you won’t sleep alone,” she says, giving the shirt an enticing little wiggle.
“Not all of us are models with taut, perfect skin,” I say. I take a sip of my own wine as I pull a dress out of the closet. “How about this? It covers my arms.”
“Oh, so it’s perfect for a club!” she says sarcastically. She points to the bed. “Sit. You’re wearing what I tell you to wear.”
I do as she says, mainly because my thoughts are too jumbled to manage even the simple task of finding an outfit. She glances at my near-empty wineglass and makes a tsking noise, then goes to the kitchen and comes back with the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
“Okay, what’s the little black dress situation?” she says after she’s topped off my glass.
I sigh and sip the wine. “There are two on the far right.”
She pulls them both out, then gives me an exasperated look. “These are funeral dresses.”
“They’re not!” I protest. “Well, okay, the one on the left is. But the lace one I got to wear to my holiday party my first year at—”
“Honey, no. I mean, good on you in that it looks like a government holiday party dress, with those long sleeves and flared skirt, but . . .”
“Wait, it has a V-cut back!”
“No. To both dresses,” Gabs says decisively, putting them back in the closet. “Jackie O wore dresses more revealing than that, and I’m taking you to Pearl, which means you need to show some skin.”
I groan and set my wine on the nightstand before flopping back on my bed.
She gives me a curious look over her shoulder. “Going out tonight was your idea.”
“I know,” I say, putting my arms over my eyes to block out the ugly fluorescent light. “But I’m rethinking.”
“Well, don’t,” she says, coming to sit beside me, patting my knee. “You had a crappy day, and you’re right to want to forget about it.”
“You weren’t there,” I mumble into my arms, reliving the awfulness in Ian’s office. “I humiliated myself.”
“Well, from what you’ve told me, he was an ass.”
“Yeah, but he was right,” I say, dropping my arms back to my sides in exasperation. “I was acting like a weird, jealous girlfriend. I should have done my homework before going in there. I should have asked that woman first if she knew Ian.”
Gabby gives me a sympathetic smile. “She got back to you?”
I stare at the ceiling and sigh. “Yes. She didn’t remember that night, either. Apparently, it was her bestie’s birthday, and they’d had martinis before even getting to that party. I showed her the picture, and she said, ‘Hot. Who is he?’”
“So then, not his source,” Gabby says.
“Nope.”
“Did you tell him?”
I give her a look. “Wasn’t quite ready for the I told you so lecture.”
“Well, Monday will be soon enough for that,” she says, clapping her hands and standing again. “Tonight, our only agenda involves vodka and flirting.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. Gabby’s one of those effortlessly charming women who makes every man feel like the center of her universe when she talks to him. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s five nine with perfect proportions and cheekbones you could slice a steak on.
She pulls out a pair of jeans. “These are tight-fitting, right?”
I give them a skeptical look. “Yeah.”
She flings them at my chest. “Put ’em on. Now, where’s that slinky strappy top you wear sometimes?”
“I don’t think I own anything slinky.”
“Yes you do. You just usually wear it under one of those ugly boxy things.”
“A blazer?”
“Whatever.” She waves her hand. “It’s yellow and you look hot in it.”
“You’re thinking of my yellow silk shell, which is definitely meant to be worn under something.”
“Not tonight. Tell me it’s not at the dry cleaner’s.”
“It’s not,” I say. But the second she pulls it out of the closet, I wish I’d lied, because there’s no way I’m wearing this out in public. It’s got tiny spaghetti straps and a lace strip on both the top and bottom hemlines. It’s not tight-fitting necessarily, but it’s definitely low-cut. You don’t notice so much when paired with a blazer and slacks, but . . .
“On. Now.”
Arguing with her is pointless when she’s in mama hen mode, so I do as she says. I spread my arms to the side and expect her to see that I was right.
Instead, she grins. “Perfect. Almost.”
She walks toward me and gently pulls the band out of my hair. “Doesn’t your head hurt from wearing all this heavy hair in a pony all the time?”
“Better than having it in my face.”
“It’s your best feature,” she says, fluffing my hair a bit. “Now, let’s talk shoes. That’s one good thing about you spending all that time in fancy corporate offices. You’ve got nearly as many high heels as I do.”
It’s true. I do have a nice assortment of stilettos. I dress conservatively, but high heels are one area where sexy and business casual have plenty of overlap.
She selects a pair of strappy silver sandals and then practically wrestles me into a chair, where she applies a smoky-eye makeup look.
Gabby turns me toward the mirror. “Well?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t even look like myself.”
“Sure you do. You just don’t recognize this version, because she looks like she wants to have fun.”
“I have fun,” I protest.
She pats my cheek as she steps into her own platform heels. “No, sweetie, you don’t. But tonight, you will.”