Brown-Eyed Girl

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m taking you to Neiman’s. We have to find something decent off-the-rack and get it altered by Friday.”

“I’m not spending money on a new dress when I’ve already got a perfectly good one,” I protested.

“Look, if you want to dress like a parade float on your own time, it’s your business. But when you’re networking and trying to land a high-profile client, it becomes my business. Your appearance reflects on the studio. And your personal taste is a tragic misuse of some fine genetic endowments.”

I directed my outraged gaze from him to Sofia and Val, silently commanding them to back me up. To my disgust, Sofia had suddenly become preoccupied with checking her text messages, and Val was intently straightening the piles of magazines on the coffee table.

“Okay,” I muttered, “I’ll get a new dress.”

“And a new hairstyle. Because that one does you no favors.”

“I think he’s right,” Sofia ventured before I could reply. “You wear it in an updo all the time.”

“Every time I get my hair cut, it ends up looking like a Darth Vader helmet.”

Ignoring my protests, Steven spoke to Sofia. “Call Salon One and ask them to squeeze in an appointment for Avery. If they give you any problems, remind them that they owe us a favor after we found a last-minute caterer for the owner’s wedding. Also call Avery’s optometrist for a contact lens fitting.”

“No way,” I said. “No contacts. I have a problem with touching my eyeballs.”

“That’s the least of your problems.” Steven found his keys. “Come on.”

“Wait,” Sofia exclaimed, pulling something from a drawer. She hurried to hand it to Steven. “In case you need a backup,” she said.

“Is that the studio credit card?” I asked indignantly. “That’s only supposed to be used in case of emergency.”

Steven gave me an assessing glance. “This qualifies.”

As I picked up my bag and Steven ushered me to the front door, Sofia called out after us, “Don’t let him in the dressing room, Avery. Remember, he’s not gay.”

I hated trying on clothes, hated it, hated it.

More than anything, I despised the department store dressing room. The three-way mirror that magnified every little indulgence and unwanted pound. The fluorescent lighting that gave me the complexion of a bridge troll. The way the salesgirl trilled, “How’s everything working out for you?” right at the moment I was tangled up in a garment that had turned into a straitjacket.

When trying on clothes was unavoidable, a dressing room at Neiman Marcus ranked above all others. From my perspective, however, deciding on a favorite department store dressing room was about as appealing as choosing my favorite way to be executed.

The Neiman Marcus dressing room was spacious and beautifully decorated, with lit columns on either side of the full-length mirrors and dimmable ceiling lights.

“Stop,” Steven said, carrying in a half-dozen gowns he had pulled from the racks as we walked through the premier designer apparel.

“Stop what?” I hung up the two black dresses I had picked out in defiance of Steven’s objections.

“Stop looking like one of those caged puppies on the SPCA commercials.”

“I can’t help it. That mirror with the pedestal in front of it makes me feel threatened and depressed, and I haven’t even tried anything on yet.”

Steven took a few garments from a helpful saleswoman, closed the door, and hung them on the double wall rack. “The person in that mirror is not your adversary.”

“No, at the moment that would be you.”

Steven grinned. “Start trying on dresses.” He took the dresses I had chosen and began to walk out.

“Why are you taking those away?”

“Because you’re not wearing black to Hollis Warner’s party.”

“Black is slimming. It’s a power color.”

“In New York. In Houston, color is a power color.” The door closed behind him.

The saleswoman brought a long-line bustier bra and a pair of high heels and left me in privacy. I undressed as far as possible from the three-way mirror, hooked the placket at the back of the bra, and twisted it around to my front. The bra, with its boning and angled seaming, hoisted my breasts to shameless prominence.

I took the first dress from the hanger. It was a canary-yellow sheath with a beaded bodice and a stretch satin skirt. “Yellow, Steven? Please.”

“Any woman can wear yellow if it’s the right shade for her coloring,” he said from the other side of the door.

I struggled into the gown and reached back to the zipper. It refused to budge. “Come in, I need help with the zipper.”

Steven entered the room and gave me an assessing glance. “Not bad.” Standing behind me, he closed the back of the dress with difficulty.

Tottering toward the mirror, I struggled to breathe. “Too tight.” I was suffused with gloom as I saw the strained and distorted seams. “Could you get me the next size up?”

Steven lifted the tag dangling from one armhole and frowned as he read it. “This is the largest size it comes in.”

“I’m leaving now,” I informed him.

Steven unzipped me decisively. “We’re not giving up.”

“Yes, we are. I’m going to wear the dress I already have.”