Sam could see Anna was impressed. Good. She was about to prove that she knew Anna better than Anna knew herself. She'd been very careful with Gillian, very specific, in describing what kind of gown should be brought for each of her friends and Maddy. She was a director, dammit, and a director had to have an eye for that kind of thing.
There were six possibilities for each of them. Anna eyeballed the dresses and narrowed the choice down to two: a sleeveless black silk Oscar de la Renta that fell in a chic narrow column almost to the floor and a strapless Chanel haute couture gown of the palest silver, pleated over the bust and very fitted, which dipped in the back to the waist.
“Try the Chanel,” Gillian instructed. She stood off to the side with her arms crossed, as if she could divine the proper dress for Anna just by observing her.
Anna did, and then stepped in front of Sam's 270-degree full-length mirror.
“That dress looks as if it were made for you.” The stylist was pleased. “Have you ever considered modeling?”
“I'm only five-eight,” Anna demurred. She turned her back to the gold-gilded mirror that had been imported from Germany and looked over her shoulder.
“I know you're not worried about the butt view,” Sam opined. “You look perfect coming and going, for which you should die a slow and painful death.”
Maddy, whose head was now bathed in chemicals and covered in a robin's-egg blue Gore-Tex wrap, admired Anna from across the room. “Wow. I would
kill
to be as skinny as you are.”
Gillian took a small pad of paper from her back pocket, scribbled the gown's price on the top sheet, and passed it to Anna, who nodded at the four-figure price tag. Like her mother always said, you got what you paid for.
“Lovely. I'll take it.”
“Excellent.” Gillian pocketed the paper. “Well,
you
were easy. Who's next?”
“Let's get it over with,” Sam muttered as she stood up and started to pull off her clothes. What the hell. All her friends knew what she looked like in her pink silk La Perla underwear—a prizewinning pear that not even stomach stapling could improve.
Sam had insisted on black. Gillian had followed her instructions … partly. Four of the dresses were indeed black. Another was midnight blue, and the sixth was forest green. The green Monique Lhuillier was out on principle—in sixth grade Sam had worn a green skirt and her so-called friend Blu had chortled that her ass looked like the Jolly Green Giant on steroids. It had taken a full year of psychotherapy with Dr. Fred to get past that one. She worked her way through the hip-hiding black dresses: an off-the-shoulder drop-waisted Lanvin and a John Galliano bias-cut chiffon number with pleats that began at various places between her waist and her thighs. Neither of them was right. Nor were the Bill Blass and the Stella McCartney that followed.
Shit
.
“You're not happy,” Gillian surmised. “Try the midnight blue one for me.”
Sam dubiously fingered the soft, blue textured silk gown.
Gillian nodded. “I know what you're thinking. It'll make your hips show. Trust my instincts, Sam. It's why you hired me. That's the very first one that I pulled for you. The cut is amazing, designed to show off your manubrium.”
“The upper part of your sternum,” Anna translated.
“From which your clavicle and your first two ribs articulate,” Sam added. “I didn't sleep through biology, thank you very much. Fine. I'll try it. Although I don't know what's so fucking hot about exposing your manubrium.”
Gillian helped her slip the blue Emanuel Ungaro over her head. A layer of braided chiffon encircled her neck and continued down the center of her chest to the tops of her breasts. The three inches of chiffon across the bust were skintight, but then the dress fell into floaty folds of material, disguising Sam's lower body and emphasizing her upper body.
“Get it made for you in every color,” Cammie decreed, as Gillian zipped Sam up.
Sam admired her reflection.
Damn
. She looked good. Possibly even … really good.
“That is an amazing dress,” Anna agreed warmly.
Huh
. Sam checked out the always-dangerous rear view. Her butt and hips were hidden. Her crappy-ass fat legs were hidden. If only Eduardo could see her in it tonight.
“Sold,” Sam declared. “You're a genius, Gillian.”
“The price.” Gillian scribbled on another piece of paper.
“Screw the prices Gillian,” Sam declared. “Since when do we care about price?”
“How nice.” Gillian smiled. “And Sam, that dress is a size—”
“Don't tell me!” Sam interrupted, clapping her hands over her ears. “Don't ruin the moment! I don't want to know.”
Gillian held up eight fingers.
Sam lowered her hands. “You're shitting me.”
The stylist shook her head. “The only place the dress is fitted is where you're small.”
“I
should
get this made in every color,” Sam chortled. “We so need champagne to celebrate.”
Gillian unzipped her; Sam stepped out of her dress and picked up the portable phone on her 1930's antique French Art Deco nightstand. A moment later, she'd called the kitchen and arranged for refreshments. Meanwhile, Maddy returned from the shower in Sam's floral cashmere robe, having just washed the Yuko chemicals out of her hair.
“I wish I was you,” she sighed.
Huh
. What a strange comment. Sam considered all the times she'd looked at other girls who were prettier or thinner or who had hotter boyfriends and had thought exactly the same thing. Then she realized what Maddy had meant—to live in a place like this, with stylists and manicurists who came to your house, where money was no object and anything you wanted was at your beck and call.
She shrugged inwardly. Life was weird. Sometimes you were the windshield of the Jensen Interceptor, sometime you were the bug. This was her world. She hadn't asked for it, hadn't done anything to merit it. It was just the way it was. That she could welcome Maddy into it for an afternoon made her genuinely happy.
When Anna went into the bathroom for her facial from Katarina, Sam took the manicure seat to watch Cammie choose her prom dress. Cammie's selection was instantaneous—a draped white satin Versace so tight that it would be impossible to wear underwear, not even a thong. Casually, she stripped down to the buff, careful not to smudge her fresh manicure, and then let Gillian do the dozens of tiny hooks hidden by a row of pearls that fastened the dress.
One glance in the mirror was all Cammie needed to approve.
Christ
. Cammie looked like every guy's fantasy: luminous, pouty-lipped face; strawberry blond Boticelli curls down her back; high, full breasts; tiny waist; curvy hips; and no underwear. Sam was tempted to call the kitchen and cancel the food order, vowing never to eat again.
As Cammie took another moment to admire herself, Suki flatironed Maddy's hair—the second-to-last step in the process before the chemical neutralizer. Meanwhile, Dee stepped forward to choose her gown. Gillian had intuited that tiny Dee would be easily over-whelmed by too much fabric, so she suggested a simple but fitted strapless pastel pink Roland Mouret gown with a white overlay.
Sam's BlackBerry rang. “Yeah?” she answered, eyes on Cammie prancing around in that damn gorgeous dress. If it was the kitchen, she would cancel the food order.
It wasn't. Instead, it was Monty, out in Palmdale, giving her an update on the filming. Everything was going according to schedule. He'd interviewed the caterer, the band's manager, the florists, the parking attendants, and the security people, just as Sam had directed.
“You asked them all the questions I gave you?” Sam queried, now all business.
“Check,” Monty replied. “Do I get an AD credit?”
“We'll see. How about Fee and Jazz?”
“I just talked to them,” Monty reported. “They're having a blast with their handhelds.”
Sam smiled. Everything was covered. She was so busy that she wasn't even obsessing about Eduardo. She had a dress that fit her. It didn't get any better than this. Well, it did. She could be going to prom with Eduardo. But this was a very, very nice second best.
The food—caviar and hand-cracked sesame wafers, melted Brie with slivered almonds, a fruit platter of sliced kiwi, passion fruit, tangerines, and peaches
and
Taittinger compte de champagne rosé—had been delivered and consumed, and Maddy's hair was finally done. Sam had the stylists and her friends remove or cover all the mirrors, decreeing that Maddy could not see herself until the makeover was complete. Sam knew that what they were doing was goddamn archetypal.
“I can't fucking believe that we're doing
Clueless
,” she told her friends.
“
Ten Things I Hate About You
,” Cammie chimed in.
“
She's All That
,” Dee commented.
“
Drive Me Crazy
,” Cammie added.
“
Never Been Kissed
.”
“
Pretty in Pink
.”
Anna spoke up. “I get it. Like
Pygmalion
.”
Cammie shot her a withering look. “
Pygmalion
? No, Anna.
Pygmalion
is not the topper to that list. The topper to that list is
Not Another Teen Movie
.”
“How does my hair look?” Maddy asked nervously.
“Sensational,” Dee assured her, nodding her head vigorously. “When my hair grows out I'm going to do it too. I swear.”
“Remember, you must keep it absolutely dry for the next forty-eight hours,” Suki reminded her, as she pumped her own vanity-brand glossing spray over Maddy's new-look straight 'do. “Don't even sweat around your hairline. I'm serious.”
“I promise.” Maddy gave Sam an uncertain look. “I'm sure this costs a fortune.”
Sam waved her off. “I told you. Money is no object today. It feels good to do something nice for a change.”
“Don't worry,” Cammie immediately chimed in. “Her inner shrew is still alive and well. And for what it's worth … I'm glad we did this for you, too.”
Sam laughed. “Geez, I hope someone recorded that comment for posterity.”
Gillian moved to the clothes rack. “Maddy, Sam described your style as Anna Nicole Smith with taste.”
“I wish.” Maddy gazed anxiously at the selection of prom dresses. “They all look too small.”
“You think you're bigger than you are, probably,” Anna assured her. She poured a small glass of champagne and offered it to the girl, thinking it might calm her a bit. “Why don't you just pick your favorite?”
Maddy waved off the champagne and surveyed the dresses. “I just … I have no idea.”
“Mind?” Cammie stepped in front of Maddy and held up a jewel-toned floral print silk gown by Tashia. “Out—it will make you look like fat walking wallpaper.” She tossed the dress onto Sam's bed and moved on to the next, an Asian-inspired aqua-and-black cashmere gown with a wide satin sash just below the bust. “Also out. You'll look pregnant. Let's see … the red Ya-Ya is
definitely
out.” She shot Gillian a disdainful look. “No one over a size six should wear red, for God's sake. The purple Emanuel Ungaro just all around sucks, which leaves us with …”
Cammie lifted a two-piece lavender silk top-and-ballgown combination by Marc Jacobs. “Ah. This.”
“I like it,” Anna declared.
Maddy hesitated. “Lavender? Won't I look bigger in lavender?”
Cammie thrust the padded, scented hanger toward Maddy. “Rarely do I say anything remotely supportive, but if this doesn't look hot on you, I'll go to prom naked.”
“Cammie, you're an exhibitionist. You'd
like
to go to prom naked.”
Sam stifled a snort and grinned at Dee, who was sitting on the floor by the food, nibbling on a piece of passion fruit. Since when was Dee Young funny on purpose?
Maddy shyly took the hanger. “Can I change in the bathroom?”
“Be my guest,” Sam told her.
While Maddy was changing, Gillian opened a large steamer trunk that contained dozens of pairs of shoes in various sizes. With her excellent taste, she'd brought Manolos, Jimmy Choos, Gravatis, and Baldinis that perfectly complimented all of their gowns, in sizes from five to ten. “When you're done with everything else, knock yourselves out.”
“Here goes nothing!” Maddy called from the bathroom.
“Hold on!” Sam instructed. She quickly double-checked the mirrors. They were still all covered. “Okay, come out.”
Maddy stepped into a room rendered speechless.
The lavender bustier top showed off her impressive cleavage and creamy shoulders. It ended an inch above where the full-cut floor-length skirt began. The combination was a miracle. There was skin, but no adipose tissue.
“Well?” Maddy asked anxiously, as she stood just outside the bathroom door.
“Wait until you see.” Anna grinned, motioning Maddy toward the mirrors. “You look like a princess.”
“A big, fat princess?” Maddy worried. “When can I see?”
“Soon,” Sam assured her. “After Valerie is done with you.”
“Who's Valerie?”
Sam clicked open her BlackBerry and pressed speed dial. “Roger? Send Valerie up, please.”
Two minutes later, the renowned eyebrow queen of Los Angeles stepped into Sam's room. Slim, blond, and in better shape than most women ten years younger, Valerie had done the brows of anyone who was anyone in Hollywood. And she was about to do Maddy's.
“I don't do house calls; this is a favor to your father,” Valerie told Sam disinterestedly, gazing around at the group. Her eyes landed on Maddy. “You, with the unibrow. You're the one, right?”
Maddy, who still stood by the bathroom door in her prom dress, nodded and rubbed the faint pelt between her brows self-consciously. “I tried waxing. It hurt.”
“Suffer for beauty,” Valerie insisted. “Go change. Love the outfit, by the way, and your hair is to die for. Let's make your face match.”
A half hour and several yelps of pain later, Maddy had elegant, perfectly arched eyebrows two shades lighter than her new straight hair.
“That makes an amazing difference,” Anna announced. Sam had told her many times about the powers of Valerie. Now she was a believer. “You're going to love it.”