Chapter 43
Ambra looked at the rows of clothes with indifference. The light in the store was giving her a headache. Or maybe it was the heavy perfume in the air. Or the fact she had just left work and was completely exhausted. After a shift, she usually felt more dead than alive, even without the added burden of shopping. She wished she’d had the nerve to cancel this date with Jill, but she hadn’t.
So, here she was.
“But what does he mean? What do you think it means?” she asked Jill.
This was what she hated. Not understanding what things really meant. Having to interpret what was hiding behind words, acts, and gestures.
She liked Tom, and the sex was incredible. But sex was just sex. It was far too easy to read your own feelings and hopes into a smile, a hot kiss, a passionate weekend. Because the weekend they’d spent together was passionate. They’d made love and made love, and now she was full of feelings. But what did Tom feel? What would happen now? And what did it mean that he’d asked her to that party?
“I think it means he wants you to go to a party with him,” Jill replied drily. She pulled out a dress, the fifth or sixth, or maybe tenth, Ambra couldn’t bring herself to care. She wanted to think about Tom and sex.
“What about this one?” Jill asked.
Ambra looked down at the dress. Lace, with an open back. She pulled a face. “I hate lace.”
“Maybe something more demure then.”
The air was stale, and there were far too many people inside the store, whatever it was called. No matter where she turned, she saw upper-class girls with the same hairstyle, clothes, and body language.
She didn’t want this, could feel it in every untreated pore and unwaxed body part.
She glanced longingly toward the entrance, but Jill shook her head in warning. “Don’t even think about running off.”
“Then can we hurry up a little?”
Even in ordinary situations, Ambra wasn’t particularly keen on shopping for clothes, especially not in boutiques. But going shopping with Jill was even worse. A bit like going out with your own personal heckler.
“We could if you would actually choose something.” Jill held up a glittery dress consisting of string and sequins. Ambra studied it suspiciously.
“Are those feathers?” She shook her head. No feathers.
With a look of exaggerated torment, Jill hung the creation back on the rack. “Should we do this another day, Miss Journalist?”
She was going to a party with Tom (God, she felt a thrill just thinking his name), so she had to find something to wear. Plus she had promised Jill a shopping trip, so she might as well kill two birds with one stone.
“No, I’ll do better,” Ambra said, trying to look energetic while a large part of her wanted nothing but to jump through the window.
How could people enjoy this? Everyone in the store looked like they had just stepped out of a fashion spread. Even if Jill was the biggest celebrity in the room, Ambra saw several others. The reporter in her would have much rather been interviewing people and ferreting out secrets than trying on clothes that would just make her look like she was playing dress up.
Jill ignored the stolen glances she was being given and held up two new dresses. One red and one yellow. Ambra shook her head.
“You’re hopeless,” Jill said. She was starting to look irritated.
“I’m tired,” Ambra protested.
She had barely slept the past few days, just had incredible sex with Tom and worked like a madwoman. She got up early when she worked, and he had gotten up with her. Bought breakfast while she showered, made her sandwiches and coffee. Kissed her, walked her to work. Smelled so insanely good when they said good-bye. Acted irresistible.
“The sex was amazing,” she said as Jill continued to search among the hangers. She pulled things out, studied them, hung them up again. Over and over.
Ambra traipsed after her. She needed to talk to someone about this. She lowered her voice. “It was so damn hot. I’ve never come so many times, and the orgasms . . . Unlike anything I ever experienced.” She followed Jill. “Have you ever had an orgasm like that? One that feels like the best thing you’ve ever experienced, like you didn’t think existed?”
“Mostly on my own,” Jill said absentmindedly, taking out a dress with a delicate pattern and frills at the bottom and studying it critically.
“I came several times,” Ambra said. She was usually just happy if it happened once. Half, even.
“Ugh, I don’t want to know,” Jill said, holding up the dress to Ambra.
“But you talk about that kind of thing constantly. You don’t have any boundaries.”
“When it’s about me, yes. Keep your multiple orgasms to yourself.”
Ambra glanced around to check no one was eavesdropping. “Do you come from the sex itself?”
“You mean the old in and out? Nah.”
“Is that normal? To come without any hands, I mean?”
“Why are we talking about this?”
“Because I had to show him. He seemed to think that’s how it is.”
“His last girl probably made him think that. Some do. Ruin things for everyone else.”
“You mean she faked it?” She had to say that the thought of Ellinor faking an orgasm perked her up enormously.
“I’ve done it so many times. Gets them to stop fumbling. But he’s still with her, right? Ambra, you can’t be hoping this is going to turn into anything if he is.”
“But he seems interested. And I’m not hoping anything,” she lied.
Jill seemed skeptical, but she changed the subject. “What about this? It would be better if you had breasts, but it should work.” Jill waved the dress encouragingly.
Ambra automatically started to shake her head at the slinky blue dress—it looked expensive and a little slutty, not her style at all—when Jill said, in a low voice, “And before you say no, if you don’t try this one, I’ll film you, upload it to my Insta, say you’re my sister, and tag everyone at Aftonbladet.”
Ambra snatched the dress from her.
“Then we’ll buy some shoes.”
Ambra groaned.
Jill followed her toward the changing room. “And jewelry. And a coat. I saw one from Dior that would suit you. If you don’t eat for a few days.”
“I’m not buying a coat. And I refuse to starve myself. Coats should be roomy.”
“Refuse all you like. But you can’t wear a leather jacket or that ugly winter coat on top of an evening dress. Even poor people don’t want that kind of thing. We’re buying you a coat.” Jill cocked her head, the way she always did when she wanted to manipulate someone and get her own way. “Let me do this for you. I forgot your birthday and I’m ashamed of that, so let me overcompensate.”
“I’d prefer you be ashamed,” Ambra said, still annoyed about her birthday. But she knew the discussion was over. She didn’t have the energy to argue with Jill, not when her sister was in this kind of mood. Plus, her head was full of Tom Lexington.
Tom, Tom, Tom.
It was official, she’d fallen for him, she thought as she went into the changing room, undressed, and carefully pulled on the blue dress.
“And underwear. We need underwear. Are you still in there?” she heard Jill shout from the other side of the door.
“I’m here,” Ambra said. The room was big and luxurious, with a little couch, several hooks, and gentle lighting. She could stay here. Rest.
Jill banged on the door. “Ambra?”
“Yeah yeah yeah.” She struggled with the shoulder straps, adjusted the neckline. Jill was probably right, she would need different underwear with this.
She turned around in front of the mirror and studied herself from various angles. She didn’t actually hate this dress.
“Try these shoes.” Jill opened the door, studied her, and then held out a pair of shoes. Slim, high heels, pointed toes.
“I won’t be able to walk in those,” Ambra said, but she took them anyway. They were the right size and were neither old-fashioned nor stupidly young. They were elegant, modern, and edgy.
It sounded as if they were whispering: wear us, wear us. Jesus, they were incredible. If she practiced every day and spent most of the party standing still, maybe it could work?
“Which hairdresser do you go to?” Jill had opened the door and stuck her head around the edge.
“Why?” Ambra looked in the mirror. She was pale and had dark circles beneath her eyes, but her hair looked normal. There was nothing wrong with her hair.
“So I know who to avoid. Doesn’t matter. Ludvig can book you in with mine.”
Ambra opened her mouth to protest, but she closed it again when she saw the mood Jill was in. Instead, she ran her hand over the shimmering blue fabric. She didn’t dare look at the price tag. Would Tom like her in this? Would his eyes glitter dangerously when he saw her in the underwear Jill had handed into the changing room as a suggestion? Ambra took the bra and panties and studied them. Pale gray silk. A little lace. Tom was surely a man who liked lace.
She hung them up and stepped out of the changing room, still wearing the dress.
“Admit it, you think this is fun,” Jill said.
“Though it feels wasted on me.”
Jill held up two necklaces and squinted between them. “What do you mean?”
Ambra nodded toward her reflection. “As you’re always pointing out, I’m not exactly a model,” she said; all she could see was her lack of breasts and her soft stomach muscles.
“You’re shit hot,” Jill said, sounding unfocused. She put down the necklaces and picked up a pair of glittering earrings instead. They looked like snowflakes.
Ambra rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
Jill looked at her in amazement. “Are you serious now? You really think you’re ugly? I thought we were just joking.”
Ambra shrugged. She knew she shouldn’t let Jill’s comments bother her, regardless of whether they were serious or not. But Jill had been incredibly gorgeous since she was just fourteen. Hanging out with her, becoming invisible whenever Jill turned up, that kind of thing left its mark. It wasn’t something she usually thought about, wasn’t something she was proud of.
“Do you know how often I get negative comments about my appearance?” Jill asked.
Ambra gave her perfect sister a skeptical look. “Weren’t you voted Sweden’s sexiest woman a few years ago?”
“You’ve read what they write on my Insta? I’m too fat, too dark, too fake, too made up. And that’s with me blocking the worst of them, the people who think I should kill myself for being too fat and too ugly.”
“Ugh, I know, it’s awful.” It was so depressing. As though Jill had to be put in her place just because she was a woman and dared to be seen. “But do you let it affect you? Really, I mean?” she asked. Jill often boasted that things like that just bounced off her.
“Sometimes.”
“I know it’s hard work,” she said, thinking that Jill didn’t really understand what it was like for mere mortals. Plus, Jill never really took a position on anything, never had important opinions on anything. Everything was superficial.
“Ambra, you’re so beautiful. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you see what I see? A beautiful woman with perfect skin, great hair, fantastic eyes, and a completely normal woman’s body.”
Ambra squirmed uncomfortably. “Jill, you always get attention when we’re out, but I’m invisible. You can’t compare us. There are so many times we’ve been out and people have come up to you, said you’re beautiful, given you compliments.”
“People check you out too. Men.”
Jill was about to put down the snowflake earrings, but Ambra grabbed them. They reminded her of Kiruna, of Tom, of the snowmobiles. “No, they don’t,” she replied.
Jill nodded firmly. “Yeah. They look, you just don’t see them. You’re so busy being prickly, angry, pretending you don’t care about anything.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Either way, you’re really cute, and we’re finally getting somewhere here. You taking those earrings? Good, then we just need to choose a bag to match. Something glittery.”
* * *
When Ambra got home, she unpacked the various bags and boxes. Jill had paid the astronomical sum without even blinking, with a flashy credit card Ambra had only ever seen pictures of before. It was difficult, but Ambra decided to let herself be treated for once in her life, without immediately offering something in return.
Once was nothing.
She looked down at her treasures. Expensive costume jewelry in flat boxes, an evening bag; a glittery, unbelievably expensive clutch, still in its luxurious canvas pouch. The pale evening coat from Dior, which she would probably never wear again; the silk underwear, the dress and shoes.
Embarrassingly enough, she felt a lump in her throat. She had never received so many presents before, and she was clearly more superficial than she thought. What she felt for these things was pure love.
It could be fun to dress up after all. She ran her fingers over the thin, rustling tissue paper sticking up from an extravagant, glossy bag bearing the Prada logo.
Maybe even a lot of fun.