Page 65 of The Wrong Vintage
“I’m seeing him tomorrow,” I add, more to myself than to them. “We’re going out.”
A terrifying, thrilling thought crashes in.
“Oh God,” I whisper. Louder, then: “I need lingerie.”
My sisters howl with laughter.
“Of course you do.” Alba is scrolling on her phone as she talks to us on her computer.
“Nothing uncomfortable,” I warn weakly.
“Relax. You like La Perla and you like Pucci,” she replies.
“Pucci is too colorful.”
They both ignore me.
“Alba, get her a purse to go with the outfit,” Toni adds. “Her bag game is tragic.”
“I don’t need a bag!”
“I have two Birkins,” Alba says dryly. “What do you think I do with them?”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with one,” I mutter.
My closet is black, beige, and white. It’s practical. I am, after all, a pragmatist. But maybe for tomorrow night….
“Okay,” I announce. “I want something feminine. Flowing.”
Alba’s brows lift. “Hmm.”
“And sandals, maybe? Though I haven’t had a pedicure in forever.”
“I’ll send someone,” she replies immediately, furiously typing away on her phone.
“I’m busy tomorrow?—”
“Noon. Skip lunch. A manicure and pedicure.”
“No nail polish.”
I refrain from putting anything on my hands beyond olive oil to moisturize, and sometimes not even that, to avoid contaminating the wine. Nail polish can chip and fall into the wine. No one needs that.
“Obviously.”
Fifteen minutes later, she announces, “Done.”
“What?” I gape.
“Pucci chiffon dress. Prada flats. Chanel purse.”
Toni whistles. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’m efficient.” Alba preens. “And I have an excellent buyer on retainer.”
I exhale, dazed.
I’m excited. Terrified. Thrilled.
