Chapter Nine
Melody
“We’re not done, yet,” Julian says, once we get back to his car.
I’ve hardly been paying attention during our walk back to the car from the jewelery store. I know I shouldn’t be flaunting my ring in public like this, but I just can’t stop gawking at the thing.
Who cares if it’s all fake? Right now, it’s real and it’s sitting on my finger and it’s elegant and beautiful and it, somehow, always seems to be catching the light just right so it has this shimmer.
“What?” I say, still dazed.
“We need to get you some clothes,” he says, opening the door for me.
I sit. I’m still staring at my ring.
“Ok,” I feel like a puppy on tranquilizers, the most malleable, cooperative thing on earth.
“You like the ring?” he says, sitting down next to me.
“What do you think?” I say.
There’s a glint in his eye that I can’t quite figure out, and a smile twisting his lips that I haven’t seen before. He doesn’t answer, instead, he turns the key and presses the gas, letting the Jaguar purr as we peel away from our parking spot.
We aren’t driving long, hardly enough for the Jaguar to stretch it’s legs, before we pull up in front of some boutique. There’s hardly a sign on the place — just a small scrawl above the door saying ‘Lilliana’ — but the place doesn’t need a sign. What’s in the windows speaks for itself.
We enter and my jaw drops.
Brands that I’ve heard of but never even indulged in the idle fantasy of owning, like Versace and Valentino, sit side by side with Italian and French fashion labels that I don’t know, much less even have any idea about how to pronounce.
“Are you sure about this?” I say to Julian in a breathless whisper.
I feel like even the air in this place has got to be expensive.
He just chuckles, places his hand on the small of my back, and ushers me forward.
“Can I help you? Or, maybe, I should say, can I help you find the store you’re looking for?” a saleswoman says to us when we’re not more than ten steps in the store. Her accent’s hard to place, but it’s every bit as snobby and condescending as I’d expect. I’ll bet she calls herself ‘madam’ even when she’s alone.
But I try not to take too much offense to it, because I’m still wearing the same shirt and jeans that I washed in the hotel bathroom this morning.
“You can,” Julian says. “We’re here to get my fiance several new outfits, both formal and casual. But, first, can you tell me, do you work on commission?”
The woman, Jaqueline, by her name tag, frowns. “Yes, sir.”
Julian nods, but doesn’t respond otherwise. He takes out his wallet, opens it, and pulls out several solid black credit cards and shuffles through them, completely ignoring Jaqueline, who now has eyes the size of saucers.
Finding the card he wants, he hands it over to me.
“Buy whatever you want, spend as much as you want, because you deserve it and I want to see how fantastic and sexy these clothes look on you,” he says, his voice intense and earnest. I can feel my cheeks start to turn pink. “But not with Jaqueline — don’t ever accept disrespect like that. Go talk to one of the other saleswomen, and the first that gives you a genuine smile and the respect you deserve, shop with them. Spend all you want. If none of them treat you right, fuck ‘em, we’ll leave.”
I take the card and wrap him in a hug, and he squeezes me back.
The next saleswoman I go to — a brunette woman, tall, slender, and maybe ten years older than me, with a kind smile — is perfect.
“Hello, how can I help you?” she says in a voice that’s refined and classy and then her eyes flicker to the sparkle of my ring and her voice gets warm. “That is a stunning ring. Can I take a look?”
I hold out my hand and smile. “Of course. Thank you,” I say.
The nametag on her shirt says ‘Stephanie’.
“So — and sorry for getting distracted, your ring is just fabulous — what can I do for you?” Stephanie says.
“I really need to add to my wardrobe. I need some formal outfits, dresses, and some casual stuff,” I say.
I feel like entirely the wrong sort of person to be shopping here, and I have no real idea of what I want, but there isn’t a single hit of judgment coming from Stephanie.
She looks me over with an appraising eye, then nods.
“And how much time has he given you?”
I shrug. “The whole day, if we need it. He hasn’t really set a limit. As long as we get the job done is all he cares about. Oh, and he gave me this.”
I hold out the black card and suppress a smile as her eyes widen a bit.
“Your fiance must really, really love you,” she says.
“I’m a lucky woman,” I reply.
“Well, let’s find you some clothes. I’ve already got a few outfits in mind for you. And, if there’s anything you see that you really like — let me know. We have a tailor and a dressmaker on staff, both trained in London. Everything you buy will be made to fit you exactly as it should.”
Stephanie treats me like I’m a queen, and the hours of haute couture whisk by in a whirlwind of dresses and skirts and blouses and cardigans and, at one point, even a cape.
I buy more than I should, which I’m sure is about what Julian expects. It feels extravagant and excessive and yet, it’s exactly the kind of thing I’ll need to get used to if I’m going to live in his world for a while.
I know I shouldn’t get too adjusted to this sort of thing, because in a month I’ll be back to my old life, but for now? It feels good. It makes me feel confident just being around him.
We get back to the front of the shop and Julian is there, shooting the breeze with a man wearing the kind of suit I’d expect to see on a 1930’s bartender. There’s a tape measure dangling from his pocket and he has a handlebar mustache.
“—So, then he says to me ‘on the other hand, you have different fingers’ —,” Julian says, then he stops, noticing me. “We can finish the story later, Oscar. Darling, are you ready?”
I nod. “I am. Thank you.”
He shrugs, but there’s a lighter, kinder version of the usual smirk on his face. “I enjoy seeing you treated well. Besides, this is necessary — you can’t have a piece of fine art in a crappy frame, it’d be a crime.”
“Sir, there’s just a matter of the bill,” Stephanie chimes in quietly. She pauses for just a moment, taking a second-look at Julian before proceeding. “And there are a couple pieces our dressmaker is going to make some minor adjustments to. It should only take a few hours, but we’ll need an address for our courier to deliver them to.”
Nodding, he signs the receipt and gives her his address. Stephanie flips over the credit card to the signature strip and compares Julian’s John Hancock to one on the receipt.
“Wait. No. Hold on. Excuse me, sir, are really you —?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“And she’s —?” Stephanie says, blushing and stuttering.
He smiles mischievously. “Yes. She is.”
Stephanie looks at me for a second, open-mouthed, gaping, and for the first time since meeting him, I’m starting to understand just what kind of reputation he might have.
She takes a look around the store to make sure no one’s watching and then leans in conspiratorially. I can barely hear her whisper, and I’m standing right behind Julian.
“Do you think I could get an autograph?”
He laughs in a way that’s genuinely delighted. “Of course.”
“Would you sign my chest?” she whispers, handing him a sharpie. Then, apologetically, she looks over at me. “If that’s ok with your fiance?”
“Knock yourself out,” I say, more amused than anything.
Stephanie undoes the top couple buttons to her blouse and pulls them aside and Julian signs her chest. It’s well above her breasts, so it’s pretty modest as far as chest signatures go, and I get the feeling that the only reason Stephanie is being so restrained is because I’m here.
We leave the store carrying a bundle of clothes and I wait until we’re almost a block away before I say anything. “Just what kind of reputation do you have?”
He shrugs and rolls his head from side to side. “A complicated one. But, like I told you, I’m pretty well known. If you read anything other than veterinary and professional journals, you’d know.”
“Yeah, but, you signed that woman’s chest.”
“It’s not the first time. A few years ago, I signed four different asses at the Davos conference. One of them was a guy’s.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I was. But that thing is seared into my memory, it was so damn hairy. We had to shave a spot for me to sign.”
“You shaved a man’s ass, just to sign it?”
“It was a wild night. Plus, he was Italian minister of finance. Or maybe it was Greece. Either way, I wasn’t going to say no to him. It was pretty flattering, actually.”
“I really don’t need to hear anymore. Thanks.”
“Then I won’t tell you about the time Warren Buffett and I got tattoos.”
She frowns at me. “You’re joking.”
“Do you think it’s possible for a man to be that much of a boy scout? Warren’s got a wild side, you just need to get him in the right environment.”
“Then what tattoo did he get?”
“Like a good Nebraskan, he got an ear of corn tattooed right above his ankle.”
“For real?”
“It’s the only other thing Nebraska’s famous for. What else is he going to get?”
We get to the car and I sit down in the comfortable leather seat. I’ve got a ring on my finger, a new wardrobe that’s being tailored just for me, and a man by my side who’s willing to treat me like a queen — even if it all is just for show.
“There’s just one last thing to do,” he says to me, once we’re back on the road.
“What’s that?”
“We need to relax. I’m thinking a nice dinner, a few drinks, and maybe we call in a few masseuses. Because tomorrow night, we’re going public.”
“Public?” I say. There’s a feeling of dread that dawns over me. It sounds ominous, serious, like something beyond shaking a few hands and changing a Facebook status.
“Tomorrow night, one of the board members of Stone Capital, Gordon Cunningham, is holding a charity event at his place. It’s very exclusive, and it’ll probably be insanely boring, but I want to start the rumor mill churning.”
“Do we have to?” I say. I can’t imagine being in some room with a bunch of rich people who are probably going to poke and pry into every detail of our lives. I can already see our fake relationship crumbling under their interrogation.
“Do you want to get paid?”
He says it so flippantly, so point-blank, but there’s a threat there that’s barley buried in his words. I’m catching a glimpse of the other side of him, the side that’ll roll up his sleeves and use whatever tool — including people, including me — at his disposal to get things done.
I grit my teeth. “Yes.”
“Then we’re going to dinner. I made an investment in you, Melody. We have a deal. And I expect to get a return.”