“You need something bold but classy,” she said. “Something that compliments your naturally golden complexion. How do you feel about wearing white?”
“White? Seriously? No one can get away with white unless you’re a bride.”
“It’s hard to pull off,” Tiffany agreed. “But I think you’re cut out for it.”
“If you say so,” I muttered. “Tiff, hold on a second. I can’t afford Folson’s. I can’t even afford Target. How am I going to—”
“I’ve got an account with Folson’s. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Stop telling me not to worry about it,” I hissed. “This feels very…I don’t know. What’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Like charity?” she supplied.
I glared at her. “I was going to say sketchy. There’s something sketchy going on here.”
“What do you mean?” Her eyes were open wide with sham innocence.
“I mean, what aren’t you telling me?”
“A lot. I’m not telling you a lot,” she admitted. “But it has to be this way. You have to be a blank slate; you can’t know anything when you first talk to Gen.”
“Why all the mystery when it comes to The Rex?”
“You’ll understand after your interview. We can talk about it all then.”
Without another word about it, Tiffany changed focus and waved down a department store retail attendant and told the woman what she wanted, gesturing to me.
Before I knew it, Tiffany was ushering me back to the private dressing room and the attendant was carrying a few dresses by their hangers.
She hung them up and told me if I needed anything in a different size to let her know.
I quickly closed the door to the dressing room and looked at the options hanging in front of me. They were beautiful gowns and demurer than I expected.
“Have you got a dress on yet? I want to see.”
“Hold on,” I said, quickly grabbing a garment on a hanger.
“Too many ruffles,” Tiffany said, when I opened the door.
The next dress was a fail, too. The asymmetrical hemline cut me off mid leg, and she immediately rejected it.
By the time the attendant returned with a pair of three-inch white patent leather pumps, Tiffany had given me the stamp of approval on the last dress. It was a form-fitting contraption that made me look more hourglass than I was, with a modest neckline. It hit just at the knee, so it wasn’t scandalously short, but timeless and sexy.
Even the retail attendant—Rachel—agreed it was perfect.
“She has to wear her hair down with that dress,” Rachel said, giving her opinion.
“Yes,” Tiffany agreed. “I think…long waves. Old Hollywood come back to life. It needs a good trim and a salon shampooing. I want her hair to gleam.”
Rachel nodded. “I’ve called down to Macy in the makeup department. She’s expecting you now, and I’ve made an appointment in the Salon for Ms. Miller.”
“Thank you so much,” Tiffany said, as Rachel handed her an appointment slip for the salon. “Sterling, let’s get you out of that dress. We’ll have it—and the shoes—sent to my place. Jerry will sign for it.”
After I got dressed, we headed to the makeup department. The price tag on some of the products made my head spin, but after the dress and pumps, I realized it was useless to protest. We spent some time finding the perfect colors for my complexion and after a short while, we said goodbye to Macy and then headed to the elevators.
Tiffany pressed the “up” button.
“We’re not going to the salon?” I asked.
“Not yet. The appointment isn’t for another hour.” She shook her head. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”
The buzz of champagne had worn off and I’d burned through the eggs. “Yeah. I could eat, actually.”
We rode the glass elevator to the fifth floor and walked to the patisserie café. The tables were covered in lace tablecloths and white china. Each of them had a tea service set and a three-tier cake stand. Tiffany sashayed up to the hostess, who looked us over.
“We don’t have a reservation. I’m Tiffany Bristol.” Tiffany absently touched the key pendant around her neck.
The hostess’s eyes settled on Tiffany’s neckline and her flat lips curved into a smile. “We have just the table for you, Ms. Bristol. Right this way, please.”
We followed the young woman through the room to the back corner and arrived at a table tucked near a large window. It was private and intimate.
“Your server will be right with you. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
She inclined her head and then stalked away, the sound of her heels fading as she retreated back to her hostess stand.
Two servers arrived. One carried a tea tray complete with a teapot, two cups on saucers, sugar cubes, and milk. The other brought an elegant three-tiered cake tray.
Tiffany thanked them and then they left. She took her napkin and rested it in her lap. “Have you been to high tea before?”
“No.”
“Start with the tea.” She held up her strainer and set it on her teacup. “We’re drinking loose leaf.” She lifted the teapot and poured it over the strainer and then set the pot down and gestured for me to do the same. “I like milk and sugar in my tea, so I’ll add both.” She grasped the tongs and picked up a sugar lump and gently eased it into the tea, avoiding any plop or splattering. She then took the creamer and added a splash of milk, as elegantly as if she had been born and raised by a prestigious family from Chelsea in west London.
“When you stir,” she explained. “You don’t do it in a circular motion, but in a six-twelve motion. This prevents the clinking sound and it also dissolves the sugar quickly.”
She demonstrated and I nodded.
“We’ll eat the finger sandwiches on the bottom tier first—with our actual fingers.” Tiffany grinned. “And then we move onto the scones. And I’ll show you how we do it when we get to it. Sound good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But why are you showing me all this?”
“It’ll come in handy when Gen appraises you.”
“Appraises me? I’m not a piece of jewelry. This is making me uncomfortable.”
She peered at me over the delicate china and tea. “I’ve never wanted to tell you the truth more than I do right now, but I can’t…”
“Do you really work for The Rex, Tiff? Or have you gotten yourself into a situation—”
“I work for The Rex, and there is no situation. Now drink the tea before it gets cold.”
Chapter Four
Tiffany reached out to smooth an errant curl over my ear. “There. Now you look perfect.”
I grinned. “Are you sure the red lipstick isn’t too bold?”
“Oh, it’s super bold, but it makes you look fearless. Besides, it’s the only color you’re wearing. The white dress makes it pop.”
Tiffany had given me a mild sleeping pill the previous evening to ensure that I’d rest the night before the interview instead of tossing and turning, wondering about what I was walking into. I’d had a solid eight hours of sleep, and combined with the magic of high-end concealer, I looked my best.