by Nancy Warren
The sofa sat on top of some kind of white fabric, so it had a dreamy, airy look to it. Dylan caught sight of her and came forward. A grin spread across his face and she thought he was happy to see her. The way her heart banged against her ribs, she knew that she was very happy see him, too.
“Hey,” he said. “You made it.”
“I did.”
“Come and meet my mom. She's upstairs.”
He led her behind the cash desk to a door that he opened, revealing a flight of stairs. He ascended and she followed. He called out, “Mom, Meg is here.”
When she reached the top the stairs she found herself in a cozy apartment. It was simply furnished and contained a few mannequins and racks of clothing. The woman who walked forward to greet her had an arresting face, with amazing cheekbones and huge eyes. She had to be six feet tall, and was dressed all in black. She looked Meg up and down, then said, “It's nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
She turned to speak to someone behind her, a short blonde woman wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt advertising a band Meg had never heard of. She said, “Nikki, check out this hair and these eyes.”
Meg had always been slightly embarrassed about her eyes. They were dark brown but close together so that when she looked in the mirror she always thought she looked slightly cross-eyed. But the two women didn't seem to think so. “Oh, what I can do with those eyes. They’re fascinating. The color and the depth—I’m thinking smoky shadow, maybe some gold.” She patted Meg. “We’re going to have some fun.”
Yet another person came forward. Joe introduced her as Gabriella, the hairstylist. She was from Argentina and around Meg’s age. Gabriella pushed her hands into Meg’s hair, arranging it one way and then another.
Dylan watched for a moment and then said, “I'll be downstairs if anyone needs me.”
For the next forty-five minutes, Meg was creamed and powdered and made up. She’d never had a professional makeup application before, so it was strange to feel like a canvas being painted with no idea of the results. The hairstylist meanwhile seemed quite accustomed to working at the same time as a makeup artist and she found herself wearing hot rollers while her eye makeup went on, and then having her hair combed out before Nikki put the finishing touches on her lips and cheeks. Gabriella said to Joe, “Do you want the hair up?”
Joe narrowed her eyes and considered. “I don't want anything too formal. Can you do a sort of updo with curls spilling down?”
The woman nodded briskly. “What I'm thinking myself.”
When the hair and makeup were done, Joe asked “What size are your feet?”
“Size seven.”
“I’ve got some pretty silver shoes that are an eight. Maybe a nine. They’ll do. It's not like you have to walk.”
Finally, she was allowed to rise from her sitting position and Joe helped her into the wedding gown. This time, she’d at least had the sense to slip into some pretty underwear. The woman efficiently did up all the covered buttons at the back and she couldn't help but recall how much nicer it had been when Dylan did them for her.
Joe stepped back and looked at her from top to bottom. Then she smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
It was Gabriella, the hairstylist, who led Meg to a full-length mirror and said, “What do you think?”
What she thought, for one surreal moment, was that someone truly had waved a magic wand. Her hair was like something out of a magazine. It rose on top of her head in a coppery twist while a couple of curls touched her cheeks and one lay against her shoulder. Her hair was both sexy and romantic at the same time, and what Nikki had done with her makeup was amazing. Where she always played down her eyes, Nikki had emphasized them with eyeliner, smoky shadow, and a touch of gold.
Her cheeks were faintly flushed and her lips looked full and silky under a pale pink lipstick. Finally, she felt that she looked pretty enough to wear this gown. In fact, she had never felt so pretty in all her life.
That magical wedding gown urged her to throw caution to the winds, to dance through life instead of putting one foot ahead of another, cautiously, as she always had done.
“The shoes are downstairs, and the photographer should be all set up by now,” Joe said. “Let's go.”
She floated down the stairs in her stocking feet. And when she got back into the main store, Dylan turned to look at her. She felt the impact as he took her in. His jaw didn’t drop, exactly, but she knew she’d blown him away. He stepped forward hastily. “You look beautiful,” he said.
His mother overheard him and she said, in a slightly acidic tone, “Yes, Meg. When you get married you'll have to make sure to get your hair and makeup done in a similar fashion. I’ll give you both Nikki and Gabriella’s cards if you're interested.”
Dylan blinked and took a step back at his mother’s words.
She wanted to cry out, “No, it's not true. I'm not engaged.” But she couldn't. There was a reason she never told lies: she was no good at it. Now she had to let Dylan think she was engaged or risk looking like a fool.
Joe’s cell phone rang and she said, “Good, the rest of the girls are here.” She walked to the front of the store and let them in and brought them back to where the photographer was posing Meg in front of the screen.
Four tall, thin young women who all walked like dancers arrived and seemed to know everyone. Except Meg.
They’d arrived already looking camera-ready with hair and makeup done. Joe sent them upstairs anyway where Nikki and Gabriella would touch them up. The selection of bridesmaid dresses was also upstairs and the real models, as Meg thought of them, would wear those.
Joe had told her that she’d invited four aspiring models to take part in the shoot. It was a great way for them to get portfolio pieces and some practice. They’d also get store credits instead of cash.
The photographer had Meg stand here and there, and put her arm in this position or that, and an assistant would run around and make sure the dress draped properly. It would have been pretty boring except that she could see Dylan behind the scenes watching. “Imagine you’re a woman in love,” the photographer directed.
With Dylan in the background it wasn’t so hard.
When Joe returned with the four bridesmaids, they all posed together until Joe stopped the shoot.
“Too much estrogen.”
Everyone stared at her.
“A bride needs a groom,” she stated and then turned to Dylan, “Where’s the Armani tux that we got in a couple of weeks ago?”
“In the rack of men's formalwear,” he said in a flat tone. “Why?”
“Because I want you to put it on and pose with the girls.”
“I've always said he should model,” said one of the bridesmaids. Meg thought her name was Laci, but they’d been introduced so fast she wasn’t sure. Laci, or whatever her name was, looked like she’d be happy to do a lot more than pose with Dylan. Meg knew exactly how she felt.
“And I've always said no,” Dylan replied firmly.
“Dylan, this was your idea,” his mother reminded him, “and every bride should have a groom.”
She thought he was going to refuse and then he looked over and their gazes connected. She thought that Dylan standing beside her in a tux, while she modeled this fabulous gown, would complete her fantasy. Maybe instead of payment she should ask for one of the photographs. She thought she’d keep it forever, and, if June was right, which she probably was, and Meg ended up a sad old spinster, at least she could show the cats her one shining moment.
He mumbled something, and then headed off into the store and in a few moments returned holding a gorgeous black tuxedo. “You know it's too big.”
“Do you think I modeled for fifteen years without knowing how to make clothes look like they fit?” his mother asked. She walked upstairs and he followed, carrying the tux. While they were gone, the photographer snapped a few more shots of her and her bridesmaids and then Dylan strode in wearing the designer tuxedo. He looked amazing. Tough and
rugged in that perfectly tailored suit. His eyes glowed green like a gorgeous jungle cat’s.
Dylan settled beside her on the couch. “Good,” Joe said. “You make a very handsome couple.”
He grinned at her, showing even white teeth, and she couldn't help but smile back. She heard the click of the camera shutter.
“We need some action, some romance,” the photographer said.
For a moment Dylan’s gaze slipped to her lips and she thought, oh, yeah, some action would be good. Then Joe’s voice intruded. “Good idea. What about a ring. Why don’t you put a ring on her finger?”
She had never been so glad that she had taken the time to have a French manicure. Especially when Joe inspected her hands and she had the pleasure of knowing she had made one former model very happy. “Oh, perfect. Let me look in the vintage jewelry case and I'll see what I can find.”
She returned a couple of moments later with two sets of rings. “I notice you don't wear an engagement ring?”
“No,” she said. And then she racked her brain for a reason why an engaged woman would not be wearing a ring. “We haven’t picked one out yet.” That sounded reasonable.
“In the meantime, do you mind wearing this one?”
It was a vintage engagement ring, and she loved it immediately. It was a simple platinum band with a line of diamonds in a Deco style. She imagined this ring was exactly what she’d have chosen if she were engaged. “It’s so beautiful,” she gasped.
“We have a small selection of jewelry. I only take in pieces I love,” Joe admitted. “It has a matching band. The rings probably won't fit you, but that doesn't matter.”
She handed Dylan the engagement ring and he practiced slipping it onto the ring finger of her left hand. The ring, like the dress, fit perfectly. This was getting spooky. The ring winked up at her from her newly manicured hands.
“Now, Dylan,” the photographer said as Joe handed him the wedding ring and stepped away. “I want you to slide that ring onto her finger and look at her as though she is the woman you've been waiting for your whole life.”
“That won’t be difficult,” he said, but so softly she wasn't sure she’d heard him correctly. When he raised her hand, she felt she was trembling. His hand was so warm and steady. He took the ring and slowly slipped it onto her finger, all the while looking deeply into her eyes.
She knew they were changing the level of the lights, and she heard the click of the camera, but all she saw was him.
“Oh, my,” Nikki said, standing beside Joe to watch. “That is so romantic I think I'm going to cry.”
The photographer said, “Dylan, this time I want you to lift your bride up. Scoop her up in your arms, let's see if we can get the action in the movement. I want the maids gathered round and watching.”
“Ready?” Dylan asked her.
“As I’ll ever be.”
The photographer got set up and then said, “Whenever you’re ready.”
Dylan scooped her up in his arms. Oh, she wanted to stay there forever. Without even being directed to, she leaned her cheek against his shoulder and one arm crept round his neck. She felt him breathing, his chest rising and falling, she felt that he would never drop her once he had her in his arms. She was as weightless a soap bubble.
The camera snapped. The moment stretched. And then, suddenly, it was over.
The photographer said, “I think we got some great shots. Joe, anything else you'd like to see?”
“No. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”
Meg wanted to throw out some ideas simply to keep the shoot going, but of course she didn't. And, like every perfect dream, this one ended. Joe led her back upstairs, and once more helped her with the tiny buttons. She got back into her street clothes. The last thing she did was slip those beautiful rings off and give them back.
“You did a great job. You’re really natural with the camera. Would it be okay if we call you again?”
“Oh, yes. I really had a good time.”
She went downstairs and she thanked both the makeup artist and hairstylist. “You made me look so pretty,” she said, still amazed at the transformation.
Nikki said, “All we did was make you look more like yourself.” Then she added, “Here’s my card. I'd be happy to do your makeup for your wedding.”
She felt like a horrible person letting these nice women believe she was getting married. “Thank you.” If she ever did get married she’d definitely call Nikki and Gabriella.
She was almost ready to go, but she couldn't leave without saying goodbye to Dylan. Of course, he had to change as well. She chatted pointlessly with the photographer for a couple of moments and then, when she couldn’t think of another inane question to ask, she heard pounding feet on the stairs and the next thing Dylan was back in his jeans and shirt looking like himself again.
“Oh, good,” he said. “You’re still here.”
She felt herself blush. “I was just leaving.”
“Right. Saturday night. You probably have plans.” Was it her imagination or did he look disappointed?
“No,” she said eagerly. “No, actually I don't.”
“Aren’t you seeing your boyfriend? I mean your fiancé?”
“No. He's, um, out of town.”
“Well, I don't know about you, but I never had dinner. Do you want to grab something?”
Oh yes, oh yes, she wanted that about as much as she wanted the earth to keep turning. She said, “That would be great.”
He said a casual goodbye to everybody and then held the door open as she walked out ahead of him.
Chapter 4
“There’s an Argentinian place just down the block. Will that be all right?” he asked her.
“Yes, that sounds perfect.”
She felt good just walking beside him. They chatted about the photo shoot and dodged pedestrians. And then they were there.
The restaurant was busy on a Saturday night but they were able to get a table for two in the center.
He said, “I can recommend the steaks, the sangria, and the empanadas. That's all I've ever eaten here, but probably everything is good.”
A skinny guy who looked more Cuban than Argentinian came by their table. “What can I get you folks?”
She was too nervous to choose food. She said, “Empanadas and sangria sounds amazing.”
Dylan nodded, “Make that two.”
“Glass of sangria or a jug?”
“We’re celebrating,” he said. “Make it a jug.”
When the sangria arrived it glowed deeply red and was full of fruit. Their waiter poured them their first glass and Dylan raised his and said, “To the prettiest bride in Los Angeles.” The waiter was still in earshot. He turned, and said, “You guys engaged? Congratulations.”
She blushed and shook her head. Dylan was a lot cooler. He said, “She's engaged to another guy.”
The waiter looked at the two of them and shook his head. “Bad luck, man.”
Dylan chuckled. “Tell me about it.”
For a woman who hadn’t dated in almost two months, this was too much.
She glanced up and caught his gaze on her and quickly turned her attention back to her drink. There was a tiny pause and then he said, “So, tell me about yourself.”
She hated that question because the answer was so uninteresting. “I think I’ve lived the most boring life in history,” she said at last. “I grew up in Northern California. I have one brother. My dad is a pilot and my mom is a schoolteacher.” She paused. “I won a spelling bee in fifth grade.”
He chuckled. “And you say you haven't led an exciting life?”
She began to relax. He was so easy to talk to and he seemed genuinely interested in her boring life. She continued, “I always loved to read and so I studied English literature in college. I planned to be a teacher like my mom but I’m more interested in books than kids. I decided to move to LA or New York and get a job as an editor. But an opportunity came up here in LA for an agent's assis
tant at a really good literary agency, and I thought, why not? I got the job and I’ve been there almost two years.”
“That’s cool. Do you represent anyone famous?”
She shook her head. “Well, our agency does. But my job is mostly to read through all the submissions. I'm looking for two things: first, authors that we might like to represent, and second, books that might make good film or TV.”
“I'm guessing it's a good thing you love reading.”
“Honestly, we’re so busy in the day dealing with the clients we have that I do most of my reading on my own time. But I keep hoping and dreaming that one of those books will be the one. You know, the book that makes the difference. That could become a classic.”
His eyes twinkled, but she saw sympathy there. “And how’s that going for you?”
“It's like everything else. There's a reason a book becomes a classic. It says something new, or says something profound in a way that's never been said before, and you read it and you say, yes, that's how life is.” She shrugged. “There are not a lot of books like that coming in the slush pile at my agency.”
“Is that important to you? To find the next great novel?”
“That's how I'll get promoted. They're going to create a position for another agent, and there are three of us who all want it. The one with the best clients or who signs a successful project is probably going to get the job.”
“Sounds like stiff competition.”
“It is.”
“What is your favorite book?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Pride and Prejudice.”
A look of pain crossed his face. “Is that the one where the hot Brit guy jumps in the pond so his shirt becomes see-through?”
She shook her head vehemently. “That’s a modern TV adaptation. I’m talking about the original Austen novel. Brilliant social satire with a fantastic love story.”
“What is it with women and romance?”
“Let me guess. Your favorite book is Hunt for Red October.”
“No.” He had a way of tilting his head and looking up at her from under his lashes when he was teasing. “That’s my favorite movie.”