Masters for Hire

by Ginger Voight

  Eventually I found myself in boutique shop that catered exclusively to a younger, hipper clientele who just happened to wear extended sizes. I was drawn to the store called Tempestuous by the loud club music that reverberated from the speakers overhead. Their brand was all about owning your sex appeal, flaunting those curves and embracing every delicious inch, built to make every Diva, size-12 and beyond, feel like a rock star.

  Or so the banners said anyway.

  Though I was as young or even younger than the other women crowding the tiny shop, I felt like a mini-van driving mom in her stretchy pants (in black) along with a tunic top (also in black, but made less boring by a barrage of tiny yellow and white flowers.) These clothes were designed to be timeless, constructed by the best material and the best craftsmanship in the business. In this store, however, they were completely duds.

  The clothes offered by Tempestuous were all kinds of bright, vibrant colors. There was black, of course, but there were halter tops and strapless dresses and knee high boots. These patterns came with skeletons and rhinestones, instead of the flowery, middle-age friendly fabrics I had been forced to pick between. There was even cleavage! On purpose!

  #BoobsFTW

  All around the store were large posters of curvy women, models who actually fit the expanded sizes they sold. I walked up to the most recognizable model.

  “That’s Jordi,” a nearby salesgirl told me. I turned to face her. Her two-toned hair was styled around her face, and she sported some designer jeans and a sexy top. We were probably the same age, weight and height, but she looked about ten years younger.

  “Excuse me?”

  She nodded to the poster. “Jordi Hemphill. She was a Fierce finalist a few years back. She’s one of our most popular models.”

  I glanced up to the size-20 diva, with dark hair tinted with shades of blue, and owning the stage like the pop icon I already knew she was, courtesy of a popular reality TV talent show. “Oh, right. I remember.”

  “Can I help you find something?”

  I glanced around the various racks of clothing. “I… um,” I trailed off helplessly. Honestly, I wanted it all. Back in a truck and load ‘er right up.

  “New here, huh?” she said and I nodded. “No worries. I can totally help you. What were you looking for?”

  I felt naughty as I said it. “Do you have any formal wear?”

  “Some,” she said. “Some of it is special order. We have a few pieces in the store thanks to prom though.”

  I fought the impulse to roll my eyes. Prom? Egads. I didn’t want to look 45, but I didn’t want to look sixteen either.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asked.

  I opened my mouth to say “fundraiser,” but the word “wedding” came out instead. I almost clasped my hand to my mouth, as if I had committed the ultimate betrayal. And, of course, I had.

  Her face quickly fell. “Not sure about anything as fancy as a wedding. Sadly that’s a niche that still needs to be filled. I can refer you to some of the wedding designers, perhaps.”

  I shook my head. I’d already gone that route. They, like Cabot’s, offered extended sizes that were merely “normal” sizes that were made a little larger, including that puce nightmare of a dress that was from the same dressmaker as Lucy’s gown. It simply wasn’t made to flatter the fuller curves of a double-digit sized body, particularly one as top-heavy as mine. My only recourse now was online shopping, which was a crap shoot. There was no trying on several outfits and deciding between the bunch. There was taking a gamble that what you saw in the picture matched your expectations of how you’d look in the dress.

  Let’s just say I had been burned before.

  “Well, if you find someone, let me know,” she said. “That’s one of the number one questions we’re asked. Everyone wants us to do a bridal line.”

  “Think you ever will?”

  She shrugged. “It’s hard to say. Our brand is pretty specific. We cater mostly to the single girl. Young adults. They party. They date. They’re not really at that place in their lives to settle down.”

  Once again I glanced around the crowded boutique. Girls shopped with other girls, picking out outfits they could wear on the town. One had brought her gay bestie, and he picked everything from the shoes on her feet to the hat on her head. They were all so gloriously free that I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” she offered. “I tell you what. I’ll let you look around and if you see anything you like, I can assign you a fitting room. What’s your name?”

  I fingered the fabric of the shirt hanging on the rack nearest to where I stood. It was forgiving, flowing fabric that breathed and clung to all the right spots. “CC,” I said at last.

  She grabbed a dry-erase marker from a sparkling Diva mug on the counter. “Great. I’ll get you started.”

  I felt deliciously naughty as I brought her hanger after hanger. There were casual clothes, club wear, jeans and pop culture T-shirts I could finally find in my size. Unlike smaller clothes, these were designed to be forgiving around fuller areas, which meant I could even try on a button-down shirt of all things. It was a virtual treasure trove. Finally I stopped in the back, under the racks of sexy bras and bins of flirty, sassy panties, all of which I had always wanted, but had defaulted to our Cabot’s line of lingerie instead.

  This meant I had three colors of underwear: nude, black and white. And they all fit the same way, binding and uncomfortable and in no way, shape or form “sexy.” From bras to “shapers” (which is modernspeak for girdles,) these undergarments all had the same function: compress and conceal all the faults of a naked fuller figure.

  “Would you like to get fitted for a bra?” my salesgirl named Emma asked. “A lot of women wear the wrong-size bra, and it affects everything, the way the clothes look, the way you stand, the kind of pain you’re in when you take it off at the end of the day.”

  I grinned to myself. I knew that pain well. I felt like my shoulders had permanent crevices on either side. I literally shouldered my full cleavage with wide, padded straps that tried to keep me in place but gave me one unattractive uniboob by the end of the day.

  And underwires? I couldn’t even talk about it. I had been poked, jabbed and stabbed by so many that I was sure I could use some of my bras as a method of self-defense if it ever got right down to it.

  “Sure,” I finally agreed, and she led me towards one of the dressing rooms for privacy.

  I had always stuffed myself into a 44-D because that was the largest bra I could buy from Cabot’s. When Emma measured me, it turned out that I actually wore a 46-C. The first bra I tried on that actually fit nearly made me weep with joy. It was amazing what a couple of extra inches could make, not just in how I felt wearing it, but how the clothes I wore over it looked when I tried them on.

  It was like stepping into a whole new, albeit forbidden, world.

  I spent two hours in Tempestuous, but when it came to actually buying anything, I sent almost all of it back. Though almost every item fit, and I felt sexy and confident wearing several of the styles that Emma had recommended, there was no way I could buy any of it. My Father would have had a stroke if I sported a competitor’s brand.

  “How can it be a competitor if we don’t carry the product?” I had asked him once in one of our many heated battles about it.

  “If you’re not advertising for Cabot’s, you’re advertising for someone else.”

  I had rolled my eyes at the non-answer, but didn’t pursue it in the moment. Dad could run it his way while he was the boss. I had bigger plans. One day Cabot’s would be mine. Little did the salesgirl realize but I was ready to bring extended sizes to my bridal line, as well as our junior line. I couldn’t wait to dominate that market, finally showing dear old dad that I knew what I was talking about all along.

  I was collecting all the hangers to give back to Emma when she brought a final piece back to the dressing room. It was a b
lack swing dress with sapphire blue satin across the bodice, which made the cleavage-baring dress even sexier. It fit close along the torso, but flared out to a skirt, its hem stopping just below the knee.

  Since it was retro chic, Emma brought me some black pumps with a bow on the ankle strap. All together the effect was striking. I certainly no longer looked like some forty-something mother of the bride. I looked like I was ready to paint the town red, leaving a trail of broken hearts in my wake.

  I couldn’t send back that dress, or those shoes, or the sexy undergarments I had collected in every color of the rainbow, even if I wanted.

  This was what I had been waiting for. The excitement of fitting in, of, dare I say, standing out; of feeling pretty or, dare I say, sexy, was as heady as any glass of champagne. I finally got what I wanted, and that was a powerful thing.

  Altogether it cost about the same as the outfit I had yet to pick up from Cabot’s, but I felt a lot better about what I got for the money. I still picked up the sequined suit from my store, though I wished I could wear my new dress to the benefit instead.

  I had to chuckle as I headed home. Showing up in the new dress would make such a splash that Lucy’s daily fits about the wedding would seem tame in comparison. Good girl that I was, though, I couldn’t do that to Father, or to Aunt Margot, or even Sylvia.

  But just because I couldn’t wear it to the party didn’t mean I couldn’t wear it at all. I spent the twenty-minute drive hatching a plan. I called Oliver as I put my car into park. “How about dinner at my place?” I asked as I quickly hid my Tempestuous bag inside the Cabot’s bag.

  “Sure,” he said. “What are you feeling? I can pick it up on the way over.”

  I bit my lip to contain my smirk. Little did my Good Guy know, but I was on the menu tonight.

  It was time to see just how big Oliver Lavoie’s appetite was.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Though I had over 12,000-square feet at my disposal in the main house of our two-acre estate, dinner at “my place” meant an intimate meal for two in my 2500-square-foot private one-bedroom house, located across the grounds from the other private quarters where Gretchen had lived for twenty years.

  We’d kept this second spacious bungalow for guests for most of my life, and in fact Margot had lived there in between a couple of marriages. After Aubrey hit adolescence with a vengeance by age twelve, they needed to branch out in the main house; otherwise they probably would have killed each other.

  I began eyeing the secluded house Mother had long ago nicknamed Petit Paradis for my own place as soon as I understood the concept of ‘playing house.’ When we were little, Lucy and I would play there, away from the prying eyes of adults charged with making ladies out of us. As I got older, I realized it was the perfect retreat when I needed an escape from being mistress of the manor.

  Father had always been strangely agreeable whenever I wanted to utilize Petit Paradis, and on my twenty-first birthday I found out why. Once I was old enough, and Father decided I needed to worry about things like husbands and kids, I took over as sole occupant. It was the perfect size for a single person or a couple, with enough privacy that I could live on the grounds but still keep to myself if I wanted. “Eventually you’ll live there with your husband,” he told me as he handed me the silver box containing the key. “At least until the kids came and you need more space. By then you can take over one of the wings in the main house.”

  Father couldn’t stop planning my life for me if he tried.

  I could have immediately turned it a bachelorette pad, but with Father’s health, there never seemed the right time to leave him. Staying in the big house, a few rooms away from his master suite just made sense.

  That didn’t stop me from decorating it the way that I wanted. I didn’t have to keep the aesthetic with the rest of the traditional French-inspired, which was nearly wall-to-wall paint in a neutral apricot, broken up only with the occasional accent wall in navy blue, or in rooms that were heavily paneled with rich redwood. This included the more masculine hideaways in the estate, i.e., father’s office, the den, the library and our private pub/theater.

  Orange had been my mother’s favorite color, but it wasn’t mine. I experimented with several kinds of color palettes in my cozy little bungalow, settling on purples and blacks for my bedroom, where I shamelessly decorated with a couple of lava lamps and movie posters. Despite what my father wanted for me, I wasn’t ready to adult yet. I wanted to explore what it meant to be in my early twenties, when I set trends instead of followed them, when everything was an eclectic blend of style and color as I tried to sort out exactly who I was in the process of filling the space between four walls and a roof.

  In my private residence there were vinyl records and bean bag chairs and video games. None of my dinnerware matched. My kitchen included all the colors of the rainbow, with a purple toaster and a red microwave and a cobalt blue mixer.

  I’d had a few parties there, and Lucy used to stay with me on the regular, little impromptu sleepovers where we could watch chick flicks, drink cocktails (and smoke a little herb,) and talk about s-e-x without worrying about the prying eyes (and ears) of the more conventional adults in my family.

  The main house of our estate was Cabot through and through. My little private bungalow was 100% bona fide CC.

  Needless to say, it was where I retreated immediately with my forbidden bounty. I could store all those new beautiful things in my spacious walk-in closet without fear that somehow, someway, Father would sniff out the traitorous label.

  After a sumptuous bubble bath, I changed immediately into my new underthings. I opted for a matching bra and panty set in rich, bright fuchsia, covered in bold, black polka dots. Matching underwear. What a concept. I felt so sexy I didn’t bother wearing anything over them as I unpacked the rest. I spied myself across the room in the large mirror over my dresser, and giggled in spite of myself. Oliver would drop dead of a heart attack if I opened the door looking like this, and yet I was freakishly tempted to do that very thing.

  I took a little time preparing for our date, moisturizing my freshly bathed skin with a shimmering, fragrant lotion before slipping into the retro chic dress that made me look sexier and sassier than I normally felt. I wore a little more makeup, trying my hand at a smoky eye, and styling my hair with a dramatic flip in keeping with the “swinger” theme.

  I painted my toenails with dark blue polish with a glitter overlay, thinking of how sexy my feet were going to look when I kicked off those pumps and slid my foot along Oliver’s leg.

  Dinner, schminner. I wanted to get laid.

  Scratch that. I needed to get laid.

  I was a vibrant young woman in the prime of her youth. I’d read the articles. I’d bought the gadgets. I’d learned about scratching my own itch so that I wasn’t dependent on any man. But sometimes I just wanted to be held… to be wanted. I wanted to be romanced, seduced–swept completely off my feet, both literally and figuratively.

  I wanted to get the fish on my hook and reel him in. I wanted to topple on rumpled sheets, giggly and sweaty and completely, utterly, physically fulfilled. I wanted to be slammed against the wall and kissed like he would die if he didn’t.

  And now I had the perfect bait. I studied my reflection in the mirror with a self-satisfied grin. Everything fit just like it was supposed to. Nothing pinched or rode up, reminding me with every inch of movement that there was something wrong with me, that I didn’t fit in, in my clothes… in society.

  I truly felt like a diva. A goddess, even. I honestly couldn’t wait to go back to Tempestuous to see what other goodies I could find. This was what inspired customer loyalty. With all the industries built around the idea of making women feel inadequate, this one small thing, making me feel valued and accepted on my terms, made all the difference in the world.

  I was doodling fashion ideas, something I hadn’t done since I gave up sewing my own clothes years before, when Oliver arrived a little after eight o’clock.<
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  He’d stopped to pick up some Kung Pao chicken on the way, so he was juggling bags full of food containers when I opened the door. His bottom jaw nearly clanked on the threshold when he spied my new look.

  “Wow,” he said finally. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said as I pulled him into the foyer. “As long as you like it. Do you?”

  “I…,” he stammered as his gaze landed on my cleavage. He’d never been that big on my most prominent assets, claiming more than once that he wasn’t a ‘boob guy.’ But I knew even he was struck mute by the creamy white flesh liberated by my sexy new dress, which emboldened me even more. “It’s different,” he offered with an embarrassed chuckle.

  I smiled as I leaned in close, creeping up his body to lay a kiss on his mouth. “Wait till you see what’s underneath,” I teased as I pulled away. This made him stammer even more.

  “The food,” he said as he pulled away and promptly headed straight for the kitchen. I suppressed a sigh as I followed.

  He busied himself with preparing our plates, so I pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge. He started for the table, but I shook my head. “Let’s eat in the living room.”

  This perplexed my straight-laced suitor even more, but he followed along quietly until we got to the large living room with paneled walls and vaulted ceilings. I had already started a fire in the fireplace, and there were candles spread out on all of the tables, including the coffee table where I set the bottle of wine and two glasses. I scooted down to sit on the floor next to it, motioning that he should do likewise. He hesitated only a minute before he shrugged out of his jacket and joined me.

  I used the remote to turn on some music before I turned back to him with a smile. “Thanks for getting dinner.”

  “Thanks for…,” he started, but didn’t know where to go from there. “Inviting me.”