Page 40 of Perfect Assumption

She opens her mouth before snapping it closed. “That’s an excellent point.”

I point to an asymmetric pleated dress with a rounded collar in a bronze color. “What about that one?”

Her mask of serenity transforms into one of amusement. “Well, we can certainly try it.”

A few moments later, I face the mirror. Even I cringe. “I look like a cross between wrinkled wrapping paper and a sack of potatoes.”

Irina bursts into gales of laughter. “That may be the nicest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say about that dress. And trust me when I say you look the loveliest of anyone I’ve ever seen wear it. Now, do you trust me to pick out something suitable?”

“No.”

She rears back as if I’ve mortally offended her.

“Well, yes,” I recant hesitantly.

She pulls me over to one of the chairs and takes one of my hands in hers. “If you were picking a dress out for yourself, it would be something like this. Why?”

Without thinking, I answer bluntly, “I don’t like people noticing me.”

“Angela, people are going to notice you regardless of whatever you’re wearing.” But she squeezes my hand as she says the words. “I do understand what you’re trying to say. You’re trying not to draw undue attention to yourself.”

A sigh of relief escapes me that she understands what I’m getting at. “Yes. That’s it.”

“Have you thought you may be drawing more attention to yourself because you do not dress as you’re expected to?”

Expected to? I laugh cynically. “It doesn’t matter how I dress.”

“I see.” And maybe she does because she quickly flits past a few dresses that make me internally cringe. Her hands stop on a buff-colored, ruched dress. “Come. I think this will work.”

“Isn’t it a bit…small?” I critically eye the dress which looks like it belongs on a tween, not a woman fast approaching her thirties.

“It stretches” is all Irina says.

Within moments she has me zipped into the body-contour-hugging dress that appeared so tiny on the hanger. With its sheer arms and an exposed back, it’s demurely sexy without giving me heart palpitations just by looking at myself in it, let alone imagining a roomful of people seeing me in it.

Hugging every inch of me from my shoulders to just below my knees in a material that almost matches my skin tone, it might be the singular most sinful article of clothing I’ve ever owned. And while the part of me that’s so scarred is cowering in a corner, there’s a large part of me that’s tempted to ask for a picture of myself in it because I know I’ve never looked so beautiful.

“Now, this? This is how a woman should feel when she puts on a dress. Powerful and confident.”

“Do I get my money back if it doesn’t work?” I deadpan. But even I can’t help twisting and turning at the way the dress flatters my body without making me feel cheap. My eyes close. I brace. “How much does it cost?”

“Four hundred and ninety-five dollars.” Before I can formulate words, Irina’s quick to add, “Plus, there’s a twenty percent discount.”

“Why?” I ask suspiciously, but not ungratefully.

She flips up the inside of one wrist, showing me where a few stitches have come undone. “Since the only one that would fit you is off the mannequin and it was somehow damaged, I have the authority to discount the dress.”

I twist and turn a final time. I move over to the chair in the corner of the room and sit, then stand. Finally, a small smile curves my lips. “What do I wear underneath?”

Irina lifts the hanger from the hook discreetly placed on the wall. I thought it was empty before. Now, I notice a small scrap of material hooked over the top. “These.” She lifts up the tiniest excuse for a thong I’ve ever seen.

“And what about here?” I gesture to my chest area.

She frowns. “Is the built-in bra not enough?”

“Well, it’s fine. I just…I never…”

Her bejeweled hand squeezes my arm slightly. “You look elegant. Classy, Angela. Why, with a little lingerie tape over your nipples…”