When Perfect Meets Crazy novel Chapter 14

I knew I was signing up for a proper gala. I had been to a few of those thanks to my parents but I wasn’t prepared for just how proper. There were no flashing cameras and pens with notepads poised to take statements outside the hotel so I figured it would be a low key event where they’d rake in a hundred thousand or so at the end of the night. I was off. Way off. The second I stepped into the suite Ellie procured for dressing me up -a presidential suite- I knew I was having my very own debut as Cinderella, a not so poor kid moonlighting as royalty for a night. Icing on the cake, this was all for a dance and like the fairytale, I had to be home before midnight. All that was missing were blonde hair and glass slippers. Ellie could probably arrange for glass slippers if I asked but as for the hair, I was too attached to my nappy curls to consider anything else.

“Sit,” she ordered, delicately lowering herself into the plush leather chair opposite mine.

I obeyed. This was uncharted territory for me. Not ruffling her feathers was especially important since I needed her willing and pliable for when I pumped her for information.

With a wave of her hand, the swarm of people standing to the side, armed with clothes, flat irons and what I figured were boxes of makeup surrounded me. Damn. My jaw fell open, eyes widening with surprise until my mom’s voice filled my head, reminding me to act dignified, to not slouch or stare too long. To close my mouth and smile politely like it was no more than I expected. To not make mistakes.

I started to sit up straighter and smile before it registered that she wasn’t physically present to assess my behaviour and hiss corrections as soon as the people she wanted me to impress turned away. I let out a deep breath. Get it together. You have work to do.

“So,” I leaned forward as much as the man working on undoing my hairdo allowed and pasted a smile on my face, “how do you know Mask... uhm...” I faltered, forcing a taut laugh as I tried to recall his real name. “Bl... uh... Ian! Ian. How do you know Ian?”

I really needed to stop calling him Masked Idiot. That was fucking close.

A woman with a makeup brush and palette slid between us, obstructing my view of Ellie’s face and by extension, her reaction. I flashed the woman a scowl she didn’t so much as bat a lash at as she proceeded to wipe my face clean with a makeup wipe, then work her way up to powdering my face. Reactions and body language were very important in reading people. In knowing what made them tick and when you were getting warmer. Both my parents swore by it so clearly, it worked. My mom was senior partner and my dad, the sheriff. Plus, it helped me to not be just another socially irrelevant nerd at school. My people handling and troubleshooting skills were what made me, and I quote, ‘the fixer, a real life HBIC.’

Unfortunately, with the unrepentant makeup artist obstructing my view of Ellie, I couldn’t read her to know what was a lie, what wasn’t, when I was getting warmer or completely shooting a blank. Move, damn it.

Despite my efforts to manoeuvre her to the side, the artist staunchly refused to budge. Asshole.

I knew how these galas went. There was a very high probability I wouldn’t see Ellie again for the rest of the night if I didn’t ask her the questions now.

“Ellie, how long have you known Ian?” My tone was conversational, tentative and just in case she could see me, I pasted a smile on my face.

“You know he has a girlfriend, right?” she countered in a tone that was just centimetres away from hostile.

It took all my willpower to refrain from rolling my eyes.

“That’s nice,” I managed.

Information about a girlfriend was useless to me and if I was interpreting her tone correctly, Ellie had me pegged for a boyfriend thief, never mind that she actually couldn’t pay me her entire net worth to date Masked Idiot. His criminality aside on the list of reasons why I wouldn’t go near him with a six foot pole, he wasn’t even that cute. He was normal white boy cute. I had dated guys like him before and it was nothing particularly special.

“We aren’t... We are nothing like that. I would never,” I expanded, in a bid to get her on my side. Babe, the only thing I want from Masked Idiot is his permanent disappearance from my life.

“He loves her just so you know,” she informed.

“That’s wonderful.” My tone was apathetic, dismissive. It said, I couldn’t care less and you’re boring me to tears. “How long have you known him?”

“My whole life.” It sounded like she was smiling but with the makeup artist obstructing my field of vision, I couldn’t confirm it.

“You must know him well,” I said. It was a sentence that usually got people talking. For some reason, most people see it as an invitation to prove just how well they knew the subject.

“I do know him well.”

Her polite, almost curt reply threw me off. In a way, it reminded me of the day Masked Idiot started officially stalking me, after I met with Martha and Emily, when I failed at using one of my tricks on him. Was someone teaching rich people how to sidestep these tricks?

The makeup artist moved away to the table where her equipment was and I finally had an unhindered view of the girl who was rapidly proving to be as helpful as a dead possum. As soon as I met her gaze, she turned her head to side, nodding to one of the seemingly endless army of helpers. Where Cinderella needed mice, lizards and a pumpkin, I apparently needed a small army of makeup artists, hair stylists and everything in between.

The group of three Ellie nodded at stepped forward, rolling a clothes rack with them. Some of the clothes on it were still in their garment bags. Their designer labelled garment bags. My brows furrowed as my gaze involuntarily shot to the girl who brought me into this dimension. ‘Are the clothes for me?’ my eyes asked.

“I narrowed it down to a top three,” she revealed.

The cloth bearers proceeded to hold out the top three for my inspection. The makeup artist returned at that moment but while I hadn’t been able to so much as get her to budge an inch, a flickered glance from Ellie had her standing to the side as she continued her work on my face.

In other words, I had no power here.

With a flick of Ellie’s wrist, the cloth bearers presented the dresses to me. She had great taste. I knew that the second I laid eyes on her. Her silvery obviously couture satin suit practically screamed it but as I laid eyes on the dresses, I found myself being impressed all over again.

An inaudible gasp escaped my lips. I instantly regretted it because my mom’s disapproving frown immediately followed in my mind’s eye, berating the uncouth act. In most aspects of my life like school, my jobs and my social life, I succeeded in separating my parents and their preferences from my actions but in these parts of my life, the parts that were more theirs than mine, parts where I was hardly ever without them because how else would a teenager get invited to such an event, I couldn’t control the switch from normal me to perfect daughter mode.

I sighed heavily. The dresses didn’t seem all that spectacular anymore.

The first one was a beautiful red satin number that changed shade as light played on it. It boasted a plunging neckline that ended at a clinched waist. Upon closer inspection, I discovered a flowery pattern on the dress that had me questioning whether it really was satin or some expensive new material that wasn’t commonplace yet. The front fell in three transverse folds, the first mid-thigh, the second just below the knee and the last formed the end of the gown. The back on the other hand was a completely different design. It fell in overlapping longitudinal folds, like a curtain. I was almost certain I had seen this gown on the Golden Globes’ red carpet.

The second dress was simpler. It was a nude floor length gown with a low neckline and tiny fluffy sleeves. It accented a tiny waist with thin gold embellishments and fell in graceful folds to the ground. The net-like material boasted glittering sea green embroidery that my practical mind discerned must have catapulted the cost from fancy to one percentile. I could already imagine the saleswoman snobbishly boasting, “It’s all hand stitched with the rarest materials shipped in from Egypt” or some other fancy traditional country. The dress, despite its simplicity, was undeniably beautiful.