Page 63 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
I’m practically hopping from foot to foot with nerves when I see Paige parked outside the station. But, as I’m beginning to understand, nerves don’t have to hold me back from doing anything. Look at what I did to Bernadi, and I wascrappingmyself.
She leans over the seats of her truck and pushes the passenger door. “Get in!”
I slide onto the seat. “Where’s the belt?”
“Isn’t one,” she replies, spinning the car across the street to head in the opposite direction. “So, hang on.”
When we reach her apartment I estimate I’ve lost half a stone in sweat. The girl drives like she has nine lives. Me on the other hand? I think I’m down to seven, and after today, maybe six.
We climb the steps to her place and I ask if I can use her bathroom. I can still feel Benito’s come across my chest and need to be rid of it. When I return, Paige immediately furnishes me with a margarita that is so strong it burns my throat. But after the afternoon I’ve had, I don’t care. I drink half in one gulp and relish the citrussy zing as it takes a layer off my esophagus.
“I’ve dreamed about this day, you know.” She guides me toward her closet.
“What do you mean?” The fuzziness in my head relaxes me and I take in her apartment. It’s dressed uplike an extra from Moulin Rouge. Everywhere I turn there’s a corner filled with bright feather boas, and sequined jackets flung over velvet button-backed chairs.
“I love the whole Wednesday aesthetic you’ve got going on but I would kill to be able to do you over in some color.”
I follow her into the master and the first thing I see, aside from a bed with makeshift four posts embellished with vintage lace piano shawls, is a stunning fifties-style dressing table—all cream and gold and completed with a light bulb studded mirror. It's decorated with enormous old glass jars filled with golden perfumes and cloud-like cotton balls.
It is far from tidy, but that’s what I love. It’s messy and lived-in and filled with heart. There are clothes lines hanging in a crisscross formation below the high ceilings, peppered with lace underwear and chiffon babydoll dresses. She catches me staring and tips her head to one side. “I do burlesque,” she says with a shrug. “To pay the rent.”
All I can utter is, “Wow.” Because never in a million years would Allegra or Papa let me step foot inside a burlesque club, never mind on the stage. “I’m kinda envious.”
She grins at me and clamps a hand over a door handle. “If you’re envious of that, just wait till you see this…”
With true dramatic flair she pulls open two doors, revealing what I can only describe as the closet of dreams.
“Pick whatever you like,” she says brightly, then skips past me to refill our glasses. I stare at the one she just took from me. No idea when I’d emptied that.
I gently draw items of clothing along the rails, inspecting each one, then I find the perfect garment.
It’s a short satin babydoll dress in midnight blue that nips in slightly below the bust and flares out just above the knee. The skirt is somehow weighted down and the hem decorated with feathers. I’ve never seen anything like it before, but the shade is just a touch darker than my eyes.
“I would have picked that one out for you too,” Paige says, reappearing with a refilled glass. “I’d love to see you wear it.”
I take a long sip of the margarita then place it on the dressing table. I strip down to my underwear then step into the dress. It fits like a glove.
“Wow,” Paige says, turning me to face a mirror. “You look stunning. And I haven’t even done your hair and makeup yet.”
I wasn’t expecting her to do my hair and makeup but I don’t say anything because I’m speechless. This dress makes my legs go on fordays. Normally I’m embarrassed by how pale-skinned I am but this dress is a celebration of my porcelain, almost blue-toned hue.
“Are you sure I can wear this?”
“Wear it? You can have it. Now that I’ve seen what it looks like on you, I’ll never be able to do that thing justice again. It was made for you, Tess.”
“I can’t take this,” I say.
She laughs. “You already did. Now, sit. The least you can do in exchange for that dress is let me give you a makeover.”
I bite my lip and glance at her in the dressing table mirror. I don’t usually wear makeup, and the most I do to my hair is wind it into a ponytail, so the idea of being made over is a little disconcerting.
“You look petrified,” she says, giggling. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m no longer bothering to pick my jaw up off the dressing table. I have no shame. Paige really does know what she’s doing. She’s lifted my hair at the roots and curled the ends so that it bounces when I move my head. She’s put various creams on my face to make my skin appear dewy and fair, and she’s applied make-up so expertly, it looks though I’m hardly wearing any, but my face is flawless, my lashes thick and long, my lips full and moist.
I manage to tear my eyes from my reflection and glance up at her. “Can I keep you?”
She puts her arms around my neck from behind and gives me a light squeeze, being careful not to smudge or ruffle any of her work. “I thought you’d never ask.”
