by T. Torrest
“It’s an escargot tong.”
Ainsley pointed to the utensil in question as Miss Melanie nodded her head in approval.
We’d been at The Etiquette School for two hours already, but Ainsley only needed the first few minutes to make a favorable impression on her instructor. She’d already dazzled her teacher with her impeccable handwriting and unparalleled floral arrangement skills, but now she was seated at a table with a forty-piece place setting.
And she was killing it.
“Very good, Miss Carrington,” Melanie gushed.
The Etiquette School was a relic of a lost time. Finishing schools had all but become extinct by the sixties, and for good reason. But a few survived, and thank God, because they were an integral part of my training process.
I’m not a caveman. Promise.
I only utilized charm school for the security it offered my clients. If a woman was already uptight to begin with, being thrown into a tizzy about table manners wasn’t going to help her. The Etiquette School offered private, one-day workshops as a crash course in proper conduct. Posture, manners, decorating; a multitude of skills only a true debutante would need to master.
Miss Melanie waved “the waiter” over and had him place some soup in front of Ainsley. She picked up her outermost spoon and scooped it through the bisque toward the far end of the bowl before sipping daintily from its rim.
“Very good!” Miss Melanie said, practically beaming. “Mr. Taggart, it would appear you’ve brought me a natural.”
Well, duh. I figured today would end up being a technicality, another check off the list. But I didn’t realize that Ainsley had been playing the part of a refined society gal for so long that every aspect of etiquette was second nature.
After Ainsley displayed exemplary teacup-holding abilities and supreme bread plate comprehension, Melanie came to the same conclusion as I had. “I think we’ve got table manners down pat. Let’s celebrate with a bit of champagne, shall we?”
The waiter came back out with a tray of filled glasses, and we each took one, making sure to grasp them strictly by the stem. Normally, I wouldn’t bother with such formalities, but I did it correctly because I didn’t want to be reprimanded by Miss Melanie. Ainsley, however, did it correctly because it was the proper way to do it.
Miss Melanie turned toward me and asked, “Would you care to make the toast, Mr. Taggart?”
“Of course,” I answered before holding my glass toward the lovely blonde woman in front of me. “To Ainsley Carrington. May she find what she’s looking for.”
Melanie and I clinked our glasses and took a sip as Ainsley stood there with a serene smile plastered to her face. I thought for sure I would’ve tripped her up, but no. Of course she was aware that she wasn’t supposed to drink after a toast made in her honor. I knew it. Ainsley obviously knew it. But Miss Melanie... Jesus. She was practically orgasmic about it.
She lowered her glass, proclaiming, “Bravo, Miss Carrington!”
Once Mel came down from her climax, she announced it was time to move onto appearance.
Smooth sailing, there.
Mel inspected Ainsley head to toe as if she were a show-pony. “Hair is healthy and shiny. Skin? Luminous. Makeup? Natural. And your fingernails,” she added, lifting Ainsley’s hand to her face, “are flawless!”
What the hell was the deal with her fingernails? Who the hell even noticed such a thing?
Ainsley was flattered, though, smiling on a polite, “Thank you.”
Mel beamed as she dipped her head toward her student. “But appearance is so much more than just what you look like, Miss Carrington. It’s about how you carry yourself, conduct yourself, the body language you project.” She tapped the back of her fingers under Ainsley’s chin, commanding, “Head held high! Shoulders back!” Ainsley snapped to attention as Melanie added, “Now smile.”
My jaw twitched as I attempted to keep myself from laughing. Poor Ains.
“Each person you encounter deserves the very best version of you,” Melanie went on. “You must bestow dignity, no matter their position.”
“Even if the guy’s a dick?” I asked.
“Mr. Taggart, I’ll thank you to mind your language in the presence of ladies.”
“Sorry.”
For the record, I wasn’t sorry. It was too much fun to rile her up.
“Now,” she went on, ignoring my attempt at levity. She grabbed a paper fan off a side table and fluttered it in front of her face. “Please observe.”
Melanie proceeded to drop into an exaggerated curtsey, one of her wrists at an impossible angle at her side as the other moved the fan under her chin. She held the pose for a solid ten seconds before standing and slightly nodding to the both of us. “Some people might say that a curtsey is old-fashioned. I say that you must be prepared for any eventuality. What if you suddenly found yourself in the presence of royalty?”
“I’d realize I was in the wrong room?”
I couldn’t help myself. I had to do it.
Miss Melanie bypassed the reprimand that time as she gave a playful snap of her fan against my arm before aiming it at Ainsley. “Your turn, dear.”
Ainsley shot an uncomfortable look at me, causing me to shrug and wave a hand in her direction. “Go for it.”
She sighed self-consciously before dipping into a practiced curtsey, her head bowed toward the floor, her skirt arranged in a perfect circle around her pretzeled legs. I suddenly realized she was embarrassed not because she thought she couldn’t do it, but because she could do it all too well. To make her feel better, I broke out into applause, even going so far as to offer a hearty whistle.
Mel was just as impressed. “Model student!” she said, holding the fan across her heart. “Mr. Taggart, I do believe you’re having some fun with me today. It would seem Miss Carrington is already quite proficient in all the social graces.”
Ainsley stood, smiled modestly, and said, “Social graces, yes. Social skills? Not quite, I’m afraid.”
Miss Melanie clasped her hands and bowed her head, dismissing Ainsley’s concerns as she advised, “Good manners make good acquaintance.”
I had to physically restrain my eyes from rolling at that one. Sure, Mel. All the most popular people got there because of their unparalleled knowledge of fish forks.
Melanie didn’t see the pointlessness to any of this. Instead, it seemed she couldn’t wait to see what other tricks her new pet was capable of. She was already off on a tear, gliding away as if she had roller skates attached to her feet. I shook my head in disbelief as I watched her make a few passes across the expansive room and back again, displaying the grace and posture she expected to see from Ainsley. “Here’s an interesting fact: The way to tell a true lady is that she floats when she walks,” she instructed, rolling her L on the word. “She’s light as a feather. Mysterious. Elegant. Poised.”
A potential debutante might have found that “interesting fact” fascinating, but I sure as hell didn’t.
In any case, this was all starting to seem like a colossal misuse of an afternoon. Ainsley had obviously spent years playing the well-bred lady, and Miss Melanie wasn’t going to be able to teach her anything she didn’t already know.
As soon as Mel was out of earshot, I dipped my head close to whisper in Ainsley’s ear. “I’m thinking this is a complete waste of time. Let’s hop in my pickup and go get some corn dogs.”
Ainsley had to stifle her giggle as she nodded her head in agreement. “I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’d subjected Mia to a full two weeks’ worth of workouts. There wasn’t any noticeable change to her appearance yet, but I knew if she followed along with the regimen, she’d start to see the transformation soon enough.
She had repeatedly postponed our appointment with the nutritionist, and I was getting pretty pissed off about it. She claimed she already ate healthy, but come on. Her diet obviously had room for improvement. I was planning on making a point to nail her down abo
ut it after our workout tonight.
Mia threw her towel onto a nearby weight bench and put her hands on her hips. “So. Where shall we start the torture today?”
I laughed, then directed her to the treadmill. “Let’s start off easy.” Mia hopped onto the machine and I set the workout for twenty minutes of power-walking peppered with intermittent sprints. All week, I’d had her on a steady walking pace, but it was time to up the intensity level. “I’ll be right there on the rowing machine if you need me.”
The complaints didn’t start until minute ten, during Mia’s second sprint. She was sweating up a storm and breathing heavily as she moaned, “Canto de puta! I’ve been on this thing for an hour! This is inhuman!”
I chuckled as I came over to slow down her MPH and give her a pep talk. “You’re doing great. I know it seems impossible now, but I promise, it’ll get easier as the weeks go by. Starting an exercise routine is always hard.”
She tried to catch her breath as her pace slowed. “Hey, I exercise.”
The fuck she does. “Oh yeah? How often?”
“Often.”
“Walking from the subway station to your office isn’t exercise. Any steps count, but—”
“I dance,” she interrupted. “So you can lose the smarmy tone, pal.”
I wasn’t trying to goad her, but if she danced as often as she said she did, she wouldn’t be toting around all the extra poundage. “Dancing is good exercise. But even if you go out every Friday and Saturday night, it’s still not enough. That’s why we’re here. I’m going to get you on a regular exercise routine. These pounds are going to fall right off.”
She hit the button to slow down the machine but didn’t bother to speak until it had come to a full stop. “Luke. I was perfectly willing to follow your instructions, to do what you asked of me. But there are a few things we should get straight right from the start.” She took a swig of her water as I stood there, stunned at the change in her personality. The Mia I was looking at was not the insecure girl who had come to me for help. This was Career Mia, future Vice President of Manhattan Media.
It was pretty intimidating.
“A. I don’t only dance on the weekends. In fact, I rarely go to clubs at all. I’m a sports bar kind of girl, so can it with your pre-conceived notions about me being some sort of Puerto Rican disco queen.
“B. The dancing I was referring to was Zumba. It’s crazy exhausting, and I rock at it.
“And C. I wasn’t complaining about my lack of stamina on this stupid treadmill. I could do this all day if I had to. The fact is, I’m only bitching because it’s so boring.”
She stepped off the machine and stood only inches from my face to deliver, “And lastly, you’ve got some nerve talking about my weight like it’s a bad thing. I happen to like the way I look. I have no desire to be a stick. I’m healthy, I’m hot, and most importantly, I’m happy with myself just as I am. If you’re not okay with that, then I don’t see the point in working together anymore.”
I was practically speechless and I felt like a complete dick. “Look, Mia. I wasn’t trying to insult you. This is just my job. I assumed you were like my other clients. They all want to be made over.”
“Not this client.”
Man, was she pissed. It never occurred to me that she didn’t want to lose weight. I mean, why would it? People came to me to be turned into swans. It was the name of my business, for fucksake. Hell, some of my clients had gone so far as to treat my program like it was nothing more than a fat farm. What better incentive to get into shape than by spending eight solid weeks alienated from their vices?
But Mia’s anger made me realize that I shouldn’t have assumed anything about anyone, especially her. Just because most of my clients wanted to change their looks didn’t mean all of them did. She made it sound as if her excess weight not only didn’t bother her, but that it was an asset. She’d never even mentioned anything about it before today, so why had I been so fixated on it?
It was confusing enough having to adjust my belief system with Ainsley. It was world-shattering to completely reconstruct it for Mia.
We were caught in a silent staredown for a minute until I finally caved. “I’m sorry. You’re right.” Her posture softened after that, so I kept going. “For what it’s worth, I’ll admit that I was wrong to make generalizations about you. Every person has their own unique set of circumstances, and I’ll be sure to remember that from now on. Okay?”
The wrinkle between her eyebrows relaxed and her side-eye turned into a small smile. “Okay.”
“Truce?” I asked hopefully. I held my hand out toward her, and thankfully, she didn’t hesitate to shake it. “Good. Now what would you say to grabbing a drink?”
Her tiny smirk broke into a wide grin as she answered, “I’d say you’re buying.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I had my father’s driver pick up Ainsley from the city as I ran some errands, readying for the day ahead.
Our predetermined location was a non-descript warehouse along the waterfront in Greenhaven, a place I knew all too well. By the time the car pulled into the lot, I was more than ready to see her. I escorted her out of the car as her eyes went huge, taking in the sight of the sign out front:
NEW YORK GRAND
Ballroom and Dance Academy
“Dancing?” she asked, incredulously. “Luke, I don’t think I’ve ever ballroom-danced in my life.”
I smirked and explained, “Hence the dancing lessons, Ains.”
If she noticed my inadvertent slip with the casual nickname, she didn’t show it. “We’re taking dancing lessons?”
“No,” I answered. “I’ve taken enough of them to last me a lifetime. You are taking dancing lessons.”
My father was almost obsessive with the way he raised me to be a “proper gentleman.” He never wanted me to endure the snubbing from The Quality like he had. Along with the dancing lessons, I’d been subjected to years of crew, fencing, martial arts, and horseback riding, all of which were oh-so-useful in New York City.
The most abuse came from Miss Sabrina, my dance instructor here at The Grand. I was hardly a star pupil, but under the tutelage of that patient, scary woman, I managed to pick up a few good moves.
I also picked up a respect for dressing correctly for every situation, a mentality I displayed as I held up the box in my hands. I’d picked up a little something for Ainsley earlier in the morning, and she seemed delighted and surprised that the package was for her. I pulled the long, blue dress out of the box and held it up for her inspection.
“What’s this?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“It’s a dress, Ainsley. Miss Sabrina insists on appropriate attire while in her studio.”
She looked down at her lavender blouse and matching, knee-length skirt. “Is what I’m wearing not okay?”
I’d already learned that anything she wore looked fantastic on her. “It’s perfect. Just not for today.”
I stuffed the gown back into the box as I led Ainsley through the metal doors and into the familiar formal space. The dilapidated exterior contradicted the extravagance contained within. The room was a gilded expanse of rich woods and elaborate, gold-leafed moldings. Turn of the century frescoes had been hand-painted on every paneled wall, crystal chandeliers had been hung from every medallion of the domed ceiling. Classical music was piping in through the speakers, lending even more magic to the breathtaking setting.
I put the box on one of the chairs against the wall and turned to gauge Ainsley’s reaction, just catching the speechless “Oh” emanating from her perfect, pouty lips.
Before I could get caught up in the sight, a loud, echoing “Bienvenue!” interrupted our observation and directed our attention toward an arched doorway at the far end of the room. Miss Sabrina swooshed in dramatically—her arms in the air, her red, floor-length gown billowing as she crossed the expanse of herringbone floor—to come greet us hello.
She was one-of-a-kind, that one. Tall, thin, bottle-br
unette, and a perpetually pinched face as if she were constantly sucking lemons. I’d been her student throughout my teen years, and immediately sought out her services once I started Swan, Inc. She was supremely talented, overly strict, and sometimes, downright rude.
I loved the hell out of her.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” I answered, taking her hands in mine and double-kissing her cheeks. “Thank you for seeing us today.”
“Zat accent needs some work, Monsieur Taggar,” she snipped. Releasing my hands, she held them out to Ainsley. “And who is zis lovely amoureaux you’ve brought for me today?”
“Miss Sabrina, this is Ainsley Carrington.”
Miss Sabrina’s dark brown eyes went large as she held Ainsley’s hands out to the sides for unobstructed inspection. “Oh, she is étourdissant! Simply stunning!”
Ainsley was clearly overwhelmed, but she managed to smile politely at Sabrina’s gushing.
“But zis dress? It will not do.”
I laughed as I pulled the lid off the box, presenting the blue velvet for her assessment. Miss Sabrina smiled in approval before clapping her hands together in two sharp snaps. “Okay then. Viens maintenant! Come! We either dance today or die a thousand deaths!”
I chuckled at Sabrina’s flair for theatrics, though I didn’t doubt her personal stance on the matter. Dancing was her life.
* * *
Dancing may have been Sabrina’s life, but poor Ainsley had no idea how much it would become her life, too, at least for the afternoon. After changing into her new gown, she was subjected to some basic posture cues and body stretches. After that, Sabrina dove in headfirst.
It took about an hour before any of the steps that Ainsley carried out resembled dance moves, but after the initial awkwardness, the two of them were moving around pretty well.
I’d been watching them from my post at the edge of the dance floor, drunk yet again from the sight of Ainsley Carrington. The enthusiastic way her eyes would light up whenever she did something right; the charming way she apologized every time she missed a step.