Page 18 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
“So why didn’t you do that from the start?” I asked, dunking my spoon into a bowl of cereal that had already gone soggy.
The question made her falter for a moment. Shestiffened.
Then she raised her chin with a look of divine revelation.
“Because… I’d never thought about it before!” she declared, as if she’d just solved a quadratic equation. “That’s it! It never occurred to me. But now it has. Now it’s like la Contessaherself grabbed me by the collar and whispered, ‘Wake up, darling. You are a Goddess. Act like it.’”
“So we’re all Goddesses, but we don’t show it?”
“Bingo, baby!” she shouted, pointing a triumphant finger at me. “It’s all about awareness and aesthetic expression. Forget what those dime-store psychologists and self-help gurus say—‘Love yourself as you are.’ Bullshit!”
“Fascinating,” I muttered, sipping my now lukewarm milk.
“Listen,” Tess went on, now pacing like a general prepping her troops for battle. “If you’re a pitiful mess like I was until yesterday—walking all crooked, shoulders sagging under the weight of existence, eyes scraping the floor... then no, nothing changes in the real world. Nothing’s gonna fall into your lap. Not even a cookie.”
“I’m guessing you’re building up to some kind of moral here.”
“Damn right I am! You can feel like Princess Leia in your head all you want, but if your body language screams ‘waitress apologizing for the smell ofcleaning spray,’ no one’s going to see a queen. Got it?”
“Crystal clear,” I sighed. “So now, if I see you walking like you’re balancing an invisible crown, should I clap?”
“You don’t clap. You imitate.”
“So,” I asked, scooping up the last soggy bits from my bowl, “what exactly does this new body language of yours involve? Aside from keeping your chin up and walking in a straight line like a Louvre security guard.”
“Oh, a thousand things,” Tess said, sinking onto the couch with the studied grace of a noblewoman who knows she’s being watched.
She arched her back, crossed her legs with glacial precision, then picked up an empty wine glass from the coffee table and pretended to sip it with her eyes closed, like she was savoring centuries of French terroir and post-revolution melancholy.
Every move was calculated. Every gesture choreographed, like by a retired burlesque queen with a pension plan.
“See that?” she said without opening her eyes. “See it? Isn’t this the exact opposite of what your average American girl does?”
“Setting aside the fact that we’re not on a Netflix reality show—go on.”
“I’m not a dock worker, and I’m not a shy, dustylibrarian. I move slowly. With purpose. Like I’ve got all the time in the world. And the most powerful thing?” She opened her eyes. “I’m present, Bea. I. Am. Here. Now.”
She opened her eyes and looked at me—intensely, like she was trying to find my soul behind the dark circles.
“I don’t radiate anxiety. I don’t give off ‘oh no, I left the oven on’ vibes. I radiate control. I’m telling the world: ‘This is my scene. And you are the paying audience.’ You know the difference between someone who seduces and someone who begs?”
“Their bank account?”
“Word choice, Bea. The musicality of language. I don’t ask. I imply.”
Tess had gotten up and was moving around the room like an actress in slow motion, one hand stretched out, the other over her heart.
“Don’t you hear my tone of voice? It’s dropped a full octave.”
She paused dramatically, then continued in a velvety voice, eyes half-lidded.
“It’s still my voice. Just… lower. Warmer. Sexier. You think I’m turning into someone else, but no—I’m still me. Just… deluxe. Like perfume. Eau de Tess.”
I watched her as she tried to find the perfect corner of the room to highlight her profile.
“I move slower now. I speak slower. Becauseevery word I say deserves to be embroidered on a throw pillow.”
“Perfect. I’ll order a cross-stitch set.”
