On the day of the awards Natasha wakes feeling more nervous than she has in weeks. She has a flaky patch of psoriasis on the side of her nose, and she takes that as an omen of what the day has in store. She tells all of her classes where she’s going that evening, and their enthusiasm lifts her a little. She meets Lucia in the café for a few final words of encouragement.
“Come on," Lucia rolls her eyes, "It’s just a fucking circle jerk. Just hold her hand, don’t be weird, make sure she makes the most of the free champagne and make sure you bang her before she pukes.”
Natasha mimes writing down Lucia’s points in an imaginary notebook. Lucia takes Natasha’s hand, squeezes it tight.
“It’ll be fine, Natasha. You’ve done this sort of thing before. Your first yoga class, opening the cinema, the first show we put on here. Just enjoy being proud of Sawyer, it must be exciting for her. God knows why, but she’s the type to get excited about this sort of shit. You’re going to look so hot, and Sawyer is going to be desperate to get you home. You’ll be serving high femme, hard fucking realness.”
Natasha takes a deep breath, and feels the knot in her stomach begin to unravel.
Natasha dresses at her own apartment. She eventually picks out a long black dress with a tiered skirt, each tier made of translucent fabric and getting narrower as they reach her ankles. Her sleeves are long and fluted, and the breast of the gown is embroidered with the outline of a bird.
She puts on so much foundation that she can barely see her pores, or the greenish discoloration under her eyes. She’s even managed to cover her patch of psoriasis. She goes for red lips as usual, selecting the orangey red that Sawyer bought her for Christmas.
The subway is packed, and Natasha feels the prickly heat of the eyes of others all over her. She runs her hand down her high ponytail and clutches her purse close to her chest. Her heart starts beating faster. A woman has brought a little dog on to the carriage and it sleeps peacefully in her lap. Natasha fixes her eyes on the dog’s twitching ears. If it can sit quietly, so can Natasha.
When she finally gets to Sawyer’s apartment, Sawyer collects her at the door in her dressing gown, a towel wrapped around her hair and twisted up into a turban. She bursts into laughter at Natasha’s outfit. Natasha’s breath catches in her throat, and she feels like she’s been kicked down the stairs.
“Sorry,” Sawyer says, “you look beautiful – you really do. You always do. But are you a fucking psychic? Long sleeves, high neck! That silhouette! Wait until you see mine. Mikaela has gone all out, feeling her Bob Mackie fantasy.”
Natasha crosses her arms over her stomach. She knew she'd fuck it up, “Sorry, do you want me to change? Is it too similar to yours?”
Sawyer immediately takes Natasha's hands, “No, you look beautiful, Natasha. We’ll just complement each other. I can’t wait, I'm sorry.”
Sawyer kisses Natasha on the cheek and disappears, shouting at Natasha through the door that there’s iced tea in the refrigerator.
Natasha lounges on the sofa for a few minutes, texts back and forth with Lucia. She’s not used to the dress restricting her movements. If she was wearing literally anything else, she’d be doing some stretches by now.
“Did you remember to bring your business cards?” Sawyer shouts from the bedroom.
“Yeah, of course,” Natasha answers, making a face. She grabs a bit of paper and tears it into rough rectangles. She starts sketching some tiny self-portraits on each of them, making up little personas and stories to go with them. It takes the edge off her nerves.
Sawyer re-emerges into the doorway. Her face is half in shadow, but Natasha can see that her tall frame is gilded. Her body is a sheaf of wheat in the sun, a strand of honey falling from a spoon. The fabric swaddles Sawyer from throat to the fine veins of her wrists. It hugs her hips and then tapers sharply. She’s a rusalochka, Natasha thinks. A siren, here to pull anyone who watches her to shipwreck.
Sawyer steps into the light, and Natasha gasps at how her face seems lustred too. Her lips are nude, eyes outlined in the sort of rich, earthy tones she never usually wears. Against all this gold, her eyes are huge and dark, like a Coptic icon. There’s something new about her blush, too. Sawyer knows she looks incredible, Natasha can tell by the way she keeps her body still, letting Natasha’s eyes drink her in while she smiles impassively down.
The dress is the most audacious garment Natasha thinks she’s seen. It’s printed with peacock feathers, filled in with topaz and amber hues, and a soft blushing pink. Sawyer’s hair is teased and backcombed at the top, and then pulled back into a loose twist of curls.
“God, you’re stunning,” breathes Natasha while she circles Sawyer. Sawyer was right, Mikaela is a diabolical genius. The dress clings to Sawyer’s tits and ass perfectly. She wraps her hands around Sawyer’s waist, which feels a lot harder than normal.
“Oh, don’t,” Sawyer squirms away, “I’ve got the world’s most vicious Spanx on, worse than you can imagine. Mikaela sent them with the dress.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. She moves one of
