I’m at home in front of my mirrored closet, admiring the results of Brittany’s efforts of these past two days. She has become my official personal shopper. I have her number, she has mine, and whenever I am in need of her services I simply text her half an hour in advance and she’s promptly available for me.
I’m undoubtedly her best client, and she’s jubilant every time she sees me. I suspect it doesn’t have much to do with my charming personality, but more with the commissions she gets on all my purchases. I must’ve given her income quite a boost.
Brittany, who by now knows my tastes and magically improved body-type to perfection, selected a ton of different outfits for me to try on. After two three-hour try-on sessions, I finally chose an outfit for tonight.
I’m wearing a black strapless jumpsuit with a gorgeous peplum detail. I went for it because it clings to my body flawlessly, giving me the sexy-but-classy look that I was going for. Looking at myself now, I’m confident I made the right decision.
To complete my styling, I’ve opted for an essential makeup style that will enhance my “natural” beauty and loose hair arranged in soft, voluminous waves, all magically obtained. To add some sassiness, I am pairing the suit with an outstanding pair of black leather Louboutins with an elegant T-strap, a peep toe, killer stiletto heels, and—my favorite—a petite bow detail at the top of the strap.
I put the shoes on and practice a few tentative steps. Uh…maybe an almost five-inch heel wasn’t the best of ideas; I am not used to such heights. I hope I’ll be able to walk in them without tumbling.
“What would you like to wear?” I turn toward the genie holding a magnificent dress in each hand.
“Nothing of the like,” he says, eyeing the garments in my hands, disgusted.
It’s clear that he doesn’t have an eye for fashion, because I’m offering him a choice between two statement pieces. The first is a sleeveless silk tunic in magenta with a loose drape fit. The second is a long-sleeved, lace sheath dress by Nina Ricci in a pale shade of blush with a jeweled neckline, ruched lace seams, and an asymmetric tulle hem. I bought them along with my jumpsuit; they’re from last year’s collection so I got them at half price, but I’m not completely sure I can call it a bargain since the Nina Ricci alone was still worth a month’s salary.
“Well, you have to choose one. I need you to be my wing-woman tonight,” I explain.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My wing-woman,” I repeat, enjoying the look of pure shock on his face. “Your job is to keep Bruce entertained while I talk to James.”
“And why should I wear a woman’s dress? I would appear ridiculous.”
“Not if you are a hot chick.”
“A what?” he asks, shocked.
“A beautiful woman! Capisce?” I say, exasperated. I need to add Urban Dictionary to his book collection.
Horror appears on his face as comprehension finally dawns on him.
“You would not ask such a humiliating thing of me,” he says with disdain.
“Yes I would, and I am,” I say firmly. “So which one is it going to be?” I ask, shaking the hangers with the two fabulous and very short dresses dangling from them.
He assumes the brow of a sulky child refusing to speak. He’s so handsomely boyish when he does that.
“Okay, I am choosing for you,” I say, putting the lacy dress back in the closet. “Now look—Bruce has a thing for blondes, if I remember right.”
“You are not seriously expecting me to go around wearing that pink rag,” he protests.
“First, this is not a rag, but a very expensive dress, and second, yes, I do expect you to wear it. You said that when we were in public together you could be any person I needed you to be. Well, tonight I need you to be a sexy blonde.”
“Could I at least have the mercy of wearing something more covering?” he asks, desperate.
“No, that would be counterproductive,” I reply ruthlessly. “Here, you should look something like this,” I say, handing him a magazine. “You should be at least five-feet-eight, because I’m giving you low heels.” Not just any heels, in fact; a beautiful pair of silver metallic-leather Prada ankle-strap sandals.
“Anything else I can do for you, milady?” he asks, vitriolic.
“No thanks. Here’s your outfit and underwear,” I say, pulling a pair of plain, no-show Victoria Secret hiphuggers out of a drawer. “You can change in the bathroom if you need some privacy.”
Lingerie is the last straw; he storms away, slamming the bathroom door loudly. I don’t care if he throws a tantrum. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t really need his help.
While I wait for him, I check my reflection in the mirror one last time before I declare myself totally hot and ready to rock.
“Are you done?” I shout at the genie, who hasn’t emerged from the bathroom yet.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this farce?” he asks pleadingly from behind the closed door. “Is it absolutely necessary?”
“Yes. Come on, don’t be shy.”
He finally comes out, presenting me with the most ridiculous sight on earth. He is wearing the pink dress, but he still looks like himself. There is chest hair emerging from the neckline that is impossibly stretched over his broad chest and shoulders; his hairy arms and legs appear bizarre coming out of the silky dress, and his masculine feet are bursting out of the sandals like stuffed sausages.
“I thought I made myself clear when I said I needed you to be a W-O-M-A-N.”
“Everybody else will see me as a woman—everyone but you,” he hisses with nothing less than cold wrath. He then grabs the pochette I prepared for him and heads straight for the door and into the elevator.
I follow him, and from the look of admiration he receives from my neighbor in the hallway, I really have to believe that he looks like a hot chick to others. I barely manage not to giggle in the elevator, as I think it would be too much for him.
“So, Bruce likes to talk a lot. All you’ll have to do is to pretend to be interested in what he’s saying.” I instruct him/her. “Just get him started on his job and you’re good.”
He nods without raising his gaze from the elevator floor.
“We should prepare a basic background story and pick a name.”
He snorts loudly.
“I see I can’t expect collaboration from you.” I give him a mean side-glance.
I ponder a little while before telling the genie a brief credible tale to use with Bruce. I’m getting better at this kind of stuff. I choose Melissa for his name, informing him that I am going to call him Mel.
He doesn’t comment and gives me the silent treatment for the entire taxi ride, but the closer we get to the bar, the less I care about his hurt feelings, and the more I worry about mine. As usual, the first victim of my emotional status is my stomach, which is becoming more clenched by the minute. It’s a bit like before an important exam; my palms are sweaty and sticky, and I keep rubbing them against my tights in a vain attempt to dry them.
I am already regretting my decision. I wish I were in my apartment comfortably nestled on the couch in front of the TV, watching something funny. Except that if I were home I probably wouldn’t be paying attention to the TV; I would be obsessing over James and Vanessa. So, better find out whatever there is to find out and rest in peace. I have to be brave and confront him face to face.
“It’s twenty dollars, miss,” the taxi driver informs me when we arrive. I pay him with trembling hands and step on the curb in front of the entrance door.
I stumble awkwardly across the curb in my heels and anxiously push my way into the bar. “Melissa” comes in right behind me.
Inside, music is playing loudly, giving me some rhythmic courage. I take in the scene, quickly scanning every table to locate James. My stomach does a tribal dance when I spot Bruce instead. He’s tall and beefy just as I remembered him. He’s holding a beer in his left hand while talking drunkenly to… James.
I can only see his back, but I’d recognize that nape anywhere. For a moment everything goes silent, and there’s only him and me. My body is refusing to obey my brain. I want to step forward, but I am rooted to the spot, paralyzed, and I am just looking at his back from forty feet away! How will I manage to talk to him if just seeing his backside, and not even the best part, affects me so badly?
The spell is broken by a bulky guy bumping into me and almost knocking me down.
“Hey, watch out!” I yell, while struggling to remain on my feet. The Louboutins aren’t helping.
“I’m sorry, babe. H-h-eeey, you’re hot, wanna drink sumthing?”
He’s clearly had too much already. I push him aside, disgusted, refocusing my attention on James.
Two girls are freeing a table right behind him. It’s time to act. I grasp Mel’s hand and drag her/him with me. Now that I think about it, this is the first time I actually touch the genie. Luckily for me we’re not alone, and I won’t freeze to death.
I pick a stool and position myself shoulder to shoulder with James. Our backs are so close they’re almost touching.
“The noise in here is atrocious,” the genie complains. He seems pretty distraught by this whole evening.
“Shh. We’re not here for the musical entertainment.” I shout-whisper to him. “Now it’s your turn.” I pause a moment for emphasis. “You must stare at Bruce intently, batting your long lashes while smiling seductively.”
“What?” he cries out, incensed.
“Shhh. You’re acting weird—you need to be natural and in your element. You have to lure Bruce over here so that James will follow and I’ll be able to talk to him. Please, Genie, please.”
“It is not enough that I had to dress in this repugnant tatter that you call a dress—now you are whoring me out like a common tart. Never in my life!” he states, crossing his arms on his chest and pouting.
Of all the genies of the world, I had to get one too full of himself and with no self-irony. I have a feeling forcing him won’t work, so I resort to pleading.
“Genie, please, I’m not whoring you out. I’m asking you to do me a favor as a friend. I’m begging you. All you have to do is look pretty, bat your eyelashes, and make some conversation.” I do my Puss-in-Boots supplicating eyes.
“So be it, I will do as I am bid,” he replies seriously, but mollified.
I mouth a silent “thank you” and sit back to enjoy the show. Given the fact that I see him as a six-foot-two man dressed in a pink tunic, it is hard to keep a straight face while he’s smiling coquettishly at Bruce.
“Is he looking at you?” I ask him eagerly.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now you have to smile at him and then ignore him.”
“Is this how courtship works nowadays?”
“Precisely.”
His smile comes out more like a suffering grimace, but I’m hoping it appears better on his female face.
“Do you see what they’re doing? Don’t look at them directly,” I add quickly. “Just do a quick peek,” I instruct, glad to spot a server arriving with our cocktails. I immediately take a long sip of my martini. Some Dutch courage may help as well.
It’s funny to watch the genie go undercover. He’s so obvious, but I hope Bruce will simply think that “she” is really into him.
“So?” I ask, impatient.
“Bruce is talking to James, and James is shaking his head. Bruce is shrugging and…” He stops, aghast. “He is coming here. What do I do?”
“Perfect. Remember, stay calm, smile, and ask him questions about himself. You’re hot, you’ll be fine.”
“Hi. I’m Bruce.” He throws a quick glance at me and then directs all his attention to “Melissa”.
I don’t think he has recognized me…good.
The genie seems a bit reticent, but I am sure they’ll be just fine. “Mel” will probably pass for a hot but shy girl. So cute!
So far my plan is working. Bruce has taken the bait, just as expected…will James?