CHAPTER FOUR
“You’re back? So soon,” Tabitha said. I nearly fell into her arms. She had an annoying habit of opening the door just as I was entering.
I headed to the fridge for a juice. Tabitha followed at my heels. “So, are you going to tell me what happened? Did you meet him?”
With a thirst equally as impatient as Tabitha, I fell onto the sofa and emptied my glass. “I signed a contract and was taken to a charming little cottage where I’m expected to live during weekdays.”
Tabitha knitted her thin, well-plucked eyebrows. “You’re moving out?”
“No, I just won’t be here weeknights. But I’ll be back weekends.” I touched her hand.
“Oh…” Tabitha reflected. “It will be lonesome without you here.”
“You can visit, you know. I am allowed to have visitors.”
A smile dissolved her frown. “Seriously? Does that mean I can stay?”
“I can’t see why not.” I dragged the contract out of my bag. “Here, read this. It will answer everything. I have to pack. Then I’ve got to go shopping.”
Tabitha gaped at me. “Shopping?”
“I need to buy work clothes. I have a charge account,” I said, keeping a straight face, unlike Tabitha, whose eyes were bulging out of their sockets. “Greta gave it to me.”
Tabitha’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? A charge account so soon? I mean, you haven’t even worked there yet. What happens if they’re not happy with you?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, friend.”
She tilted her head and smirked.
Placing the contract down, Tabitha screamed. “Oh my God, Clary. Six ball gowns, and designer, I bet. Fuck. You’ve won the lottery.”
“It certainly feels that way,” I said with a permanent grin that was making my jaw ache. “Do you want to come?”
“Who else is going to advise you?” said Tabitha springing up off the sofa.
“Let’s do lunch first. I’m starving, and it’s on me,” I said, upbeat and buoyant.
Grabbing my arm, Tabitha trilled, “This is so exciting.”
That was us. With a tendency to share in each other’s highs and lows, we were more like sisters than friends.
****
“Oh my God, Clary, a $10,000 limit,” crooned Tabitha.
“It must be for the formalwear and work clothing combined,” I said, equally stunned.
“They don’t expect you to buy the gowns today, do they?” Tabitha asked as we sprinted towards the fashion district.
“I doubt it. Let’s focus on office clothes for now. Not that I’m sure what to buy,” I said, happy to have my fashion-savvy friend in tow.
“Leave it to me, Clary. We’ll have you looking sexy and professional in no time.” She looped her arm in mine and was all bouncy.
“Not sexy, only professional,” I said.
“Don’t lay that virgin crap on me. You’re working for the hottest guy in town,” she blurted so loudly people’s heads turned.
“Tell the whole of LA, why don’t you?” I snapped.
“You’ve got a figure to die for and a face like Natalie Wood’s,” Tabitha said, dragging me along by my hand.
“Tabs, need I keep reminding you that I’m employed as a PA?”
“I know, I know. But there’s no harm in making the most of your assets,” she said, sounding more like an ambitious mother by the minute.
We passed “Yesterday’s Child” my favorite vintage shop. Instincts fully aroused, I headed for the doorway. Tabitha pulled me back. “No vintage, Clary, only contemporary, stylish, and sexy.”
“Vintage can be super classy and fashionable,” I argued. Although she was right, I had a pathological addiction to 1960s clothes. Tabitha said it was because I was trying to emulate my late mother. I couldn’t disagree. My mother and I were so alike in build that I still wore her clothes. It was an obsession that had caused much trouble at college, at least until vintage became fashion. Then the bullies suddenly regarded my Mondrian-inspired mini worn over white patent-leather boots with envy.
“Let’s go there.” Tabitha pointed to an enormous department store. I followed along submissively.
Inside, there were racks everywhere. I frowned. “Where should we start?”
“Isn’t this fantastic?” Tabitha was in her element. “Let’s begin with shirts.” She selected a cream-colored cotton fitted shirt. “This is a flattering shape.” She held it against me. “Three in varying shades should do it. That way, you can mix and match.”
“It’s very fitted. Couldn’t we go more for this?” I pointed to a silk, loose-fitting shirt with a necktie.
“Clarissa, you’re going all vintage again,” Tabitha sang, selecting three more of the fitted variety. “These are just right. They’ll look swish— trust me.”
“I don’t know, Tabs. I think I’d prefer loose.”
“Stop being so damn bashful. You’ve got nice big boobs.”
“I don’t want to look cheap, Tabs. Greta made it clear they expect modest and professional-looking clothing.”
“Hello. A high-waisted pencil skirt with a crisp cotton, well-tailored shirt is hardly skank-wear.” Tabitha pulled one of her many silly faces, making me giggle.
“Okay, then, but I’m taking one of those.” I selected a loose silk shirt with tiny pale-pink polka dots. The price-tag read $500. “Shit, this is pricey.”
“Classy means expensive, Clarissa.” Grabbing me by the hand, Tabitha led me to the skirts. “This is cool.” Tabitha held one with a slit to the thigh.
“I’m not going there to perform an Apache dance, you know where I leap from my desk and end up in the splits on the floor,” I said with a chuckle.
Tabitha laughed. “You’re a nut-job.”
After we settled for three skirts, Tabitha dragged me over to a rack of short sheath dresses.
“I can see what you’re doing, Tabs. You’re dressing me in alluring clothes. These are hardly professional,” I said.
“Hello. One can be sexy and professional. You have a stunning figure and dancer’s legs. You should show them off.”
“Yes. But not at work.
Ignoring me, Tabitha flicked through a rack of knee-length sheath dresses, selecting a red one. She placed it on my body. “Hmm, yes. Red’s your color.”
More mother than friend, Tabitha was bossy. But then, considering my incurable indecisiveness, it was a practical arrangement.
Without waiting for my approval, she popped the dress in the shopping cart
“Now for some nylons.” Stroking a silk camisole, Tabitha purred with delight.
“I’ll get you one,” I said.
Her face lit up. “Really?”
“Why not? Pick two. If they complain, I can always pay it back. I’m about to be properly waged,” I said, lifting my sternum with pride.
While Tabitha chose cream and pale pink, falling for the irresistible feel of silk, I selected two as well.
“Shit, suspenders?” I exclaimed as she dangled a lacy ensemble in front of me.
“Coming from a girl who’s still living in the sixties.”
“Mm…point taken,” I said, watching her pop it into the shopping cart.
“We need to buy some shoes,” Tabitha said, extracting most of the joy from our expedition.
“What’s wrong with my new Mary-Janes?” I asked.
“Nothing, I guess. But we need some heels, sexy spiky ones.”
“I won’t wear those during the day. They’re hard enough at night.”
“Come on,” she said, stubborn as always. “Your Mary-Janes make you look like a spinster.”
“Does anyone even use that word anymore?” I asked, rolling my eyes.
“Whatever. You need spiky heels. Not too high, but stiletto-thin. Come on.” She dragged me off to the Shoe Emporium. Half an hour later, we walked out with three boxes.