Ripped (28 page)

The elevator dinged as we arrived on Tiff’s floor of her apartment building, and we entered the foyer. It was just your average foyer, nothing grand or elaborate. In fact, it looked as though it could do with a fresh coat of paint.

Her apartment was not much bigger than mine, but as I looked more closely at the furnishings, I realized that what I was seeing wasn’t mismatched op-shop pieces, but eclectic antiques. They were well crafted, sturdy, and made from solid wood. The upholstery was thick and still vibrantly colored with no worn threads or fading to be seen.

We entered the bedroom and I jumped on the bed. Now it was my turn to lounge around as she went through her wardrobe to find me something suitable.

“Ah, don’t sit down. Come take a look and tell me what you like.” She pulled open a single door, and I expected to see a tiny wardrobe packed with dresses. Instead, that one door led into a room that was almost as big as her entire bedroom.

“Oh. My. God!” My jaw hung open as I stepped into what was every girl’s fantasy. A walk-in wardrobe that was big enough to get lost in. “I could live in this room.” I pointed to one corner. “I could set up my bed there.” I spun around, taking in the opposite wall. “Have a couch and fridge over there.”

Tiffany laughed. “Well for now just take a look at the rack on the left wall and try on anything you like.”

I didn’t know where to begin. There were designers including Givenchy, Valentino, Alexander McQueen—you name it, she had it—and everything from sheer to silk to embellished with gems and feathers. As I skimmed through gowns that I could only ever dream of owning, she pulled open a cupboard door, displaying at least one hundred pairs of shoes, all sorted by color and style.

“Now you’re just being mean,” I exclaimed. “How can one girl own so many pairs of shoes?” I left the gowns to ogle the footwear that ranged from pumps to stilettoes to strappy sandals and boots. If I lived to be ninety I would never own as many pairs of shoes in my lifetime as she owned at that very moment.

We finally pulled out three gowns that I just had to try on—a red satin strapless number, an emerald green sheer gown, and a black chiffon dress. They were all gorgeous and made me feel like a princess as I twirled in front of the mirror, but my main criteria was that the dress be elegant and understated, and to not show too much flesh in case Pierre got the wrong idea. In the end, we agreed on the simple black chiffon gown with delicate beading and a one-shouldered Roman toga-style neck line that draped and flowed without clinging too much.

“Next we need shoes, jewelry, and a wrap.”

Tiff had everything and was so gracious. Her jewelry was lavish and expensive, and I balked at the idea of borrowing any for fear of losing it, but she wasn’t worried. Simple diamond drop earrings and a matching bracelet set off the gown beautifully, and teamed perfectly with the embellished stilettoes. A warm but lightweight wrap completed the outfit. By the time my makeup was painted on and hair styled, I hardly recognized myself.

“This doesn’t look like me,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“But it is you. Wait …” Tiff rushed to her bag and pulled out her phone. “Let’s take a photo. You can send it to Baxter to remind him what a hot babe you are.” She held up the phone. “Come on, smile.”

But I couldn’t. Just the mere mention of Bax had my eyes welling with tears. I missed him so much my heart ached from loneliness.

“Hey, no crying. It took you ages to get your war-paint on.”

I forced a smile.

“That’s better.” She snapped off a photo. “One more for good luck. This will get Baxter running back with his tail between his legs.”

Shaking my head, I stayed silent. I didn’t want him running back because of a photo, or something he thought I may or may not have done. I wanted him to miss me as much as I missed him. For the heaviness in his heart to be so unbearable that the only way to ever feel whole again was to be with me. Because that was exactly how I was feeling.

I
T WAS
time to go. I’d messaged Pierre to tell him to pick me up from Tiffany’s instead of my place. At least she could keep me company and help calm my nerves until he arrived, and it meant that we wouldn’t be alone in my apartment, so there was no chance of him trying to get into my pants at the start of the night.

The security door buzzed, and my stomach backflipped. Not the excited backflip that Baxter would have given me, but a nervous dread that threatened to rise into my throat and choke me.

“Good luck, Jaz,” Tiff said on a hug. “You’ve got my number. If he gets out of hand, and you really can’t fend him off, just call me, okay?”

The elevator dinged and Pierre stepped out, dressed in a tux that fitted so perfectly I was sure it had been made for him. No rental for this man. From his slicked-back hair all the way down to his shiny black shoes he oozed charm and sophistication.

“You look magnifique,
mon ange
.” He kissed my cheeks lightly, and my skin flushed, which made him smile smugly. He may have taken my fluster as some schoolgirl crush, some sort of excitement on my behalf, but for me it was purely from the fact that he made me feel so damn uncomfortable.

“Good to see you, Pierre.” Tiff stepped up, grabbed both his shoulders roughly, and kissed his cheeks with gusto. “Always a pleasure.”

I sniggered behind my hand. I so wished she was coming to the ball as well. She had a way of diffusing any situation, and I had a feeling there would be quite a few moments throughout the course of the evening that would require her special kind of intervention.

I slid as far across the limo seat as I could and buckled up. Pierre had spared no expense, and I wondered if this was how he always travelled or if he was purposely trying to impress me. Between the tux and the limo, complete with champagne and canapes, I should have been swept off my feet and ready to drop my panties, but I wasn’t. As I pressed my hip into the car door, tapping my fingers impatiently against the soft leather seats, I wondered how long the car ride would be and when I could get out of this confined space and among people. I wanted to be lost in the crowd, to be invisible and ignored instead of feeling Pierre’s intense gaze burning through the fabric of this gorgeous gown until I felt naked and vulnerable.

“You look lovely tonight, Jasmine.” He edged closer along the seat.

“Aren’t you supposed to wear a seatbelt, Pierre?” I couldn’t move away any farther, and he was gaining ground inch by inch.

“Don’t be silly.” He was right beside me. “Have some champagne to celebrate.” He poured two glasses then passed me a glass and held up his in salute.

“What are we celebrating?”

“Why, the beginning of a beautiful and beneficial friendship of course. How does the saying go? Ah yes—you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”

“My back doesn’t need scratching it’s not itchy.” The bubbles tickled my nose as I drank the full glass down in one mouthful. “And I have no intention of scratching yours.”

His smirk did nothing to reassure me that he understood my position. “We will see, my little dove. If you want to have a long and successful career …” he shrugged nonchalantly, “you may have to make sacrifices.”

For the rest of the ride I gazed out the window, the cold night air frosting the glass and making everything appear soft and surreal. There was no way out. If I wanted to dance and have a career that I could build on after
When the Ship Comes In
, there would be choices to make. Decisions I would have to stand by and live with, and in time I may even be able to sleep soundly at night when the results of those choices had shaped my future for better or worse.

When the car stopped, I stayed staring out the window. When Pierre had said we were going to a ball I hadn’t imagined it would be
this
ball. The New York Museum Winter Ball was renowned for being a place to be seen for artistic types, and also for being a black-and-white-only occasion.
Thanks for telling me, asshole
. This could have gone so terribly wrong if I’d chosen one of the other gowns I’d tried on, but thank goodness we had decided on the black chiffon. I wondered if he had deliberately not told me to wear black or white, or if he had just assumed that I would know that this ball was on and of course drawn my own conclusions. I’d had no idea. I’d never travelled in these circles but more importantly, I’d never wanted to. Celebrity of this kind held no interest for me.

Guests posed for photographers as the driver opened my door, and I emerged from the car. Pierre came to my side and waved to a middle-aged couple who had just been photographed. “That’s Yvonne and Bernard Weston,” he whispered from the side of his mouth.

The names meant nothing to me.