navel. The back plunged daringly low, as well. The skirts were full, long and ruffled, but asymmetrical, rising nearly to the thigh on one side, reminiscent of a flamenco dress. The fact that the silk and sequin confection was a deep ruby red was just a coincidence.
She fingered the soft fabric lovingly. Lacking friends and all but the most awkward romantic prospects, Emma had never attended a formal school dance, or even gone to her own prom. The most dressed up she’d ever gotten was—she struggled to recall—six years ago. She smiled, recalling one of Todd’s elaborate lies to a high school buddy. Her little brother had been roped into some scheme (according to him; Emma thought it more likely that he was the instigator) and, in a frantic attempt to extricate himself, he claimed he had to go to his sister’s wedding. When that excuse was brushed aside, Todd called her in a panic, begging for her help.
Emma had been almost twenty then, away at college, but she’d dropped everything (including her term paper) to run to his rescue. She raided Aunt Margaret’s attic and found a truly atrocious wedding dress from the 80’s, complete with shoulder pads, hoop skirt and thousands of seed pearls. It fit passingly well after inserting judicious bra padding. She fixed the veil crookedly atop her head and slathered on copious amounts of mascara. It had been a lot harder to make herself cry than she had thought, but by the time she reached Todd’s friends’ house, tears had left smeary black streaks down her face. She’d run into the garage barefoot and wailed—
“Excuse me, miss, are you going to try that on?”
Emma jumped, startled by the saleswoman’s voice. “Oh! Well, I’m not sure. I’m not really—”
“You should. It would look just lovely on you, I can tell.” The woman beamed at her, revealing blindingly white teeth. “I have an eye for these things, you know? It’s a real asset in this job. I can just look at a woman and know what will work on her. And this will work.” She plucked the hanger from the rack and began ushering Emma toward the dressing rooms. “Trust me.”
Emma thought about arguing, but decided it wasn’t worth it. She’d try it on just to appease the smiling, chatty saleswoman. She wasn’t going to buy it. She didn’t need a fancy evening gown. And she certainly couldn’t afford one. But trying it on didn’t cost anything.
“Didn’t I tell you?” crowed the saleswoman, whose name turned out to be Beatrice, as Emma emerged from the changing room. Beatrice clapped her hands and stepped aside so Emma could see herself in the full-length mirror.
Emma blinked, staring stupidly at the reflection. That couldn’t be her . The woman in the mirror was tall, with a long white neck and about a mile of leg. Her hips and breasts curved invitingly in the red silk, and when she turned around, the slope of her bare back and the swell of her butt looked erotic and alluring.
“Of course, you’ll need a bit of double-sided tape to keep everything in its right place,” Beatrice was saying as she fluffed out the skirt. Emma shook her head and cleared her throat.
“No, I. . . .” She trailed off as the price tag, which was dangling under her arm, caught her eye. “This isn’t right, is it?” There was no way this vision of a dress cost only $200. Emma’s business suits cost more than that.
Beatrice glanced up from her crouched position. When she saw that Emma was indicating the price tag, she nodded. “That’s right, all right. A lady had it custom-made and then decided she didn’t want it after it was finished. Demanded a whole new dress. It was already mostly paid for, so I said ‘what the heck?’ The two hundred dollars covers what was left on the tab.”
Emma gasped. “You made this?”
“I told you knowing what will look good on a woman comes in handy in this line of work,” Beatrice said,
She fingered the soft fabric lovingly. Lacking friends and all but the most awkward romantic prospects, Emma had never attended a formal school dance, or even gone to her own prom. The most dressed up she’d ever gotten was—she struggled to recall—six years ago. She smiled, recalling one of Todd’s elaborate lies to a high school buddy. Her little brother had been roped into some scheme (according to him; Emma thought it more likely that he was the instigator) and, in a frantic attempt to extricate himself, he claimed he had to go to his sister’s wedding. When that excuse was brushed aside, Todd called her in a panic, begging for her help.
Emma had been almost twenty then, away at college, but she’d dropped everything (including her term paper) to run to his rescue. She raided Aunt Margaret’s attic and found a truly atrocious wedding dress from the 80’s, complete with shoulder pads, hoop skirt and thousands of seed pearls. It fit passingly well after inserting judicious bra padding. She fixed the veil crookedly atop her head and slathered on copious amounts of mascara. It had been a lot harder to make herself cry than she had thought, but by the time she reached Todd’s friends’ house, tears had left smeary black streaks down her face. She’d run into the garage barefoot and wailed—
“Excuse me, miss, are you going to try that on?”
Emma jumped, startled by the saleswoman’s voice. “Oh! Well, I’m not sure. I’m not really—”
“You should. It would look just lovely on you, I can tell.” The woman beamed at her, revealing blindingly white teeth. “I have an eye for these things, you know? It’s a real asset in this job. I can just look at a woman and know what will work on her. And this will work.” She plucked the hanger from the rack and began ushering Emma toward the dressing rooms. “Trust me.”
Emma thought about arguing, but decided it wasn’t worth it. She’d try it on just to appease the smiling, chatty saleswoman. She wasn’t going to buy it. She didn’t need a fancy evening gown. And she certainly couldn’t afford one. But trying it on didn’t cost anything.
“Didn’t I tell you?” crowed the saleswoman, whose name turned out to be Beatrice, as Emma emerged from the changing room. Beatrice clapped her hands and stepped aside so Emma could see herself in the full-length mirror.
Emma blinked, staring stupidly at the reflection. That couldn’t be her . The woman in the mirror was tall, with a long white neck and about a mile of leg. Her hips and breasts curved invitingly in the red silk, and when she turned around, the slope of her bare back and the swell of her butt looked erotic and alluring.
“Of course, you’ll need a bit of double-sided tape to keep everything in its right place,” Beatrice was saying as she fluffed out the skirt. Emma shook her head and cleared her throat.
“No, I. . . .” She trailed off as the price tag, which was dangling under her arm, caught her eye. “This isn’t right, is it?” There was no way this vision of a dress cost only $200. Emma’s business suits cost more than that.
Beatrice glanced up from her crouched position. When she saw that Emma was indicating the price tag, she nodded. “That’s right, all right. A lady had it custom-made and then decided she didn’t want it after it was finished. Demanded a whole new dress. It was already mostly paid for, so I said ‘what the heck?’ The two hundred dollars covers what was left on the tab.”
Emma gasped. “You made this?”
“I told you knowing what will look good on a woman comes in handy in this line of work,” Beatrice said,
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