Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
“I’d like to try on that red dress in the window.”
“Of course, but it’s couture—” and this is where she said the designer’s name, but it was all French and hard to understand, so I nodded along like I knew all about Pastrami Organza (or whatever his name was) and said, “Yes, that’s the point. I only wear custom couture.”
Oh, it was ace.
Yasmine and Kat kept high-fiving me while we waited in the dressing room for the woman to bring me the dress in my size. It was meant to be a bit of fun. Try it on, snap a photo of what I could look like if I had a few gazillion dollars to spare on clothes, and then immediately dash out of here.
That was before the zipper got stuck.
Before Yasmine and Kat both tried to pry me out of this thing.
I’m growing desperate. If the A/C weren’t cranked down to arctic temperatures, I’d be sweating bullets.
“How are you girls doing in there?” the sales associate asks in her chipper tone from the other side of the door.
“FINE!”
“GREAT!”
“GOOD!”
We all shout over each other in a wave of panic, and she laughs like we’re adorable before telling me to let her know if I have any issues with the dress.
Once she’s gone, I do a good bit of pacing, which is relatively hard in the confines of the dressing room. Yasmine and Kat have to dart out of my way every few seconds.
“Okay, tell me again what this dress costs,” I insist.
“$2,200.”
“Right. But converted to British pounds, it’s less, right?”
Kat looks like she’s about to cry. “What does that matter?”
“I’m trying to find some silver lining! Now, Kat, you try the zipper again.”
“I can’t! My fingers have got blisters from the last time I tried!”
“Yasmine?”
She’s the calmest out of all of us, sitting down on the bench and scrolling through her mobile now. “That zipper isn’t budging. I’ve tried for ages already. Just tell the lady and see what she suggests we do. Surely, this sort of thing happens all the time.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that’s going to be a real issue. This never happens.” is what the sales associate tells me when I cave and finally bring her in on my crisis.
Somehow, I find that very hard to believe. I’m the first person in the history of fashion to try on a dress and get stuck inside of it?
“On the plus side, it looks absolutely stunning on you. Red is definitely your color.”
“That’s what I told her!” Yasmine agrees.
My anger grows horns. “Right, of course. I am very glad it looks so amazing. The thing is, I’ve got about three pennies and some lint in my purse right now, so I won’t be buying this dress. Please get it off me.”
She does a good bit of trying with the zipper too, using all her tricks of the trade. The dress stays on, and the color drains from my face.
“I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a pickle.” She laughs.
I do not laugh.
“What are my options then?”
“Well…if you walk out of the store wearing the dress, I’ll have to consider it shoplifting.”
A horrid mugshot of me comes to mind—all bug-eyed and slack-jawed—and I shiver at the thought. I will not go to prison over this!
“And if we cut it off you,” she continues, “you’ll still have to purchase it. You’re familiar with the ‘You break it, you buy it’ policy, I’m sure.”
Which leaves the third option.
Fifteen minutes later, I slide my credit card across the counter toward her, trying not to cry.
“I’m so happy you decided to purchase the dress. It really does look lovely on you.”
This is all my fault. This is what I get for not becoming some high-powered attorney or sugar baby or something. What about those girls whose sole job is to be “it”—y’know, just a girl who’s always in fashion, or in the know, or in the cool spots around town. She gets paid just to live. I really should have applied to that job after school.
Once we cross the threshold of the store, I forbid either of my mates from discussing the dress any further. We’re already late returning to our flat so we can get ready for the party. Normally, we’d walk, but I insist we spring for a cab instead since I can’t exactly shower when I get home. They agree without much convincing; I think they’re nervous I’m a hair’s breadth away from a real breakdown.
In the cab on the way home, I calculate all the overtime hours I’ll have to do at District to cover the cost of this dress. It makes me so queasy, I have to roll the window down and stick my head out. That really irks the driver. He’s worried I’m going to get decapitated by an oncoming car, so I groan and bring my head back in. Probably for the best. Don’t want to tempt the birds again.