“I doubt you had time to do everything, McPherson.”
She only calls me McPherson when she’s pulling rank, or showing off in front of other people. I can hear voices, the tinkling of glasses and I join the dots.
“You owe me for the dry cleaning too, by the way. My gown, they had to spend an extra half hour cleaning it,” she slurs, and I begin to wonder why she’s even calling.
I wished I’d let it ring out.
But it might’ve been Mason.
“I’d better get going if I wanna make it on time,” I hear myself saying, trying to sound cheerful.
Karen grunts and hangs up.
I just shake my head, telling myself again it could have been Mason calling, and that I have to get ready.
There’s no time to go all the way home and shower then change, plus I haven’t even tried to get into that damned dress yet.
I hope a day’s worth of not eating helps.
I know I can use Karen’s bathroom only because I just spent an hour cleaning it myself. There are fresh towels and a hairdryer there too.
I lock the office doors from the inside, just to be double sure I won’t be disturbed, and have what must be the shortest shower of my life, followed by an even quicker blow dry.
Something about using work bathrooms, especially Karen’s, makes me cringe but I make it.
Now for the dress.
Grateful I gave myself the best part of an hour to get ready, squeezing into the dress takes longer than I thought and makes me all sweaty.
Dirty all over again
There are no real mirrors, but the glass door of Karen’s office gives a pretty good ghostly reflection of my shape squeezed into something that must be at least three sizes too small now.
I suck my tummy in, take a few steps, and then try and sit down.
Crap.
This is terrible.
If I was home, I’d change, or just call the whole thing off. But I tell myself I’ve come this far, so why not?
Because I don’t have shoes or a matching purse, and now I smell like a jock after trying to squeeze into this damned thing.
‘I wished you’d stayed.’
I hear him again. It makes me jump a little and I get that same shiver all over.
Mason.
I feel a warmth rush from my chest to my groin, even past the constricting, straining fabric of my dress I can feel a flush of heat for him.
I pull myself together, a final glance at the time telling me it’s now or never.
A quick rummage through Karen’s wardrobe in her office reveals a pair of shoes, still in the box that fit and will do. My purse too, who’s going to be looking at me anyway?
A quick spritz with her perfume too and I pass for…
“You okay lady? You need me to call someone?”
…half decent.
The cab driver looks me up and down, concerned. Maybe thinking I’ve been attacked, or worse.
I politely ignore his concern and handing him the second to last of the bills from my purse, I ask him to take me to the Thorne building.
Similar story at the door, with security only letting me in because I have a ticket, and my Thorne Industries ID.
I don’t think it’s that bad, I tell myself.
Then I catch a glimpse of myself, side on in the foyer mirrors, a whole wall of them, transmitting an infinity view of myself in a dress that’s way too small and makes me look like… I dunno.
Like I need someone to call somebody to come get me.
I try and suck my stomach in some more, but I have to walk at the same time too, and the two inch heels aren’t making it any easier.
It’s okay, I’m sure it’ll be pretty dark in there.
Not.
I’m fashionably late, but it looks like so are half the people who should also be here by now.
Most are congregating around the bar area, with only a few people seated.
I spot Karen, who looks like she’s tossing back glass after glass of whatever free booze they have at the table.
She spots me, and for once seems friendly enough. She waves her hands in the air, beckoning me over.
Not even noticing my dress, her shoes, or her perfume.
She’s drunk.
I’m not sure yet if that’s a bad thing or a good thing, but I fall into the seat next to hers, grateful to hide behind something and having at least one person in the room who wants to talk to me.
The complete opposite of witch Karen at work is drunk Karen at a social function.
She puts an arm around me, telling me how great I look, wagging a finger at me for lying to her about finishing all my work when she knows I haven’t.
I get the distinct impression that she drinks a lot, and also that she has no real friends.
I almost feel sorry for her, but she’s not acting crazy or out of control. Just very, very relaxed. And a kind of friendly which I find unnerving more than appealing.
I decline the offer for a drink, instead, I ask about Mr. Thorne for some reason, hearing myself saying quite loudly how I wonder where he is. When he’s going to make an appearance.
Luckily, the rest of the table arrives, back from the bar, faces from work mostly, not that I have a lot to do with any of them.
Karen promptly ignores me, latching onto a man who’s sitting next to her, leaving me on my own.
I turn to the woman next to me, and she herself turns a full one and eighty, away from me.
Point taken.
I sit like that for a full fifteen minutes, until the lights finally go down.
The huge ballroom with around three hundred tables goes eerie quiet and our host for the evening introduces himself.
He’s some minor celebrity, although I have to admit, I’ve never heard of him.
He promises the show will be underway soon, and that, unfortunately, the guest of honor, Mr. Thorne hasn’t made an appearance yet.
Called away
