Faking It. Stefanie London
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The only time I come to the “Paris End”—aka the section with all the fancy stores—is to have the odd drink with friends. But Owen whisks me into the Gucci store like he’s done it a thousand times before.
We bypass the shoes and bags and head into the quieter part with the clothing. “This is excessive,” I say under my breath. “Can’t we go to Myer?”
Department stores are a little more my speed. And I’m already wondering what kind of payment plan I’ll need to buy a dress here. I love my job, but it isn’t for the thickly padded pay cheque.
“You need to grab everybody’s attention. We’re drawing them to us, remember?”
We walk into a room with huge screens playing footage from a runway show. The models are wearing strange, avant-garde creations and they all look terribly unhappy. Biting down on my lip, I glance around the store.
I walk over to a simple dress in emerald green with a ruffle draping from one shoulder all the way to the hem. It’s not my style, but it looks like something my undercover alter ego might wear. But when I glance at the price tag, I almost faint.
“We need to leave,” I say under my breath as a well-heeled sales assistant approaches us. “Please.”
“Hannah, it’s fine.” Owen touches my arm like we really are a married couple and that only makes my stomach swish harder. I’m going to send myself into life-long debt for a cocktail dress.
“Can I help you?” The woman has a cool confidence that I immediately envy. But maybe I could learn a few things from her to help bolster my persona.
“My wife is looking for a cocktail dress,” Owen says when I remain stubbornly quiet. “We’ve got an important event to attend.”
The woman’s gaze sweeps over me, assessing my size and shape. Her fingers drift over a rack of clothing, and she pushes the hangers to one side to reveal a hot pink monstrosity that looks like some cruel fashion joke. When she notes my expression, she immediately moves to another rack.
“What kind of an event?”
“A gallery exhibition.” I can barely find my voice. I hate feeling so out of my depth, and over such a stupid thing, too. I’ve had a gun pointed directly at my face and yet I’m scared of a few metres of silk?
“Ah, so you might want something artistic.” She taps a well-manicured finger to her chin. “How daring are you?”
Not very. Not even a little bit. “Uh, I’m probably more classic than daring.”
“She’s very daring,” Owen says, his gaze scorching me from the inside out. “My wife doesn’t see it in herself, but I do. She’s got a spark like nobody else.”
Does he really see that in me? Or is it part of the doting husband act?
My head and heart have been a jumbled mess ever since Owen set foot back in Australia. I thought I’d gotten over it all—over the desperate desire and humiliation. Over the way he’d looked at me, with clear eyes while mine were glassy with champagne, as he’d told me that he wouldn’t sleep with me because he valued our friendship. The humiliation had burned me to ash, and it made his act now all the more painful to swallow.
Because despite the time that had passed, I still wanted it to be real.
The woman’s face lights up as she pulls another garment from the rack. It appears to be a blazer made of reflective black material. “Is there a pair of pants to go with that?” I ask.
She ushers me to a changing room. “It’s a dress made to look like a blazer. It’s classic and daring, to suit both what you see and what your husband sees.”
When she closes the door behind me, I stare at myself in the mirror. Even with the flattering gold tones of the change room and the specially engineered lighting, I don’t love what I see. I’d never call myself ugly, but I wouldn’t say I’m anything special to look at, either. Brown hair, brown eyes, eyebrows that could do with some TLC. I’ve always viewed my body for what it can do—for speed and strength and agility—rather than looks. And I’ve told myself over and over when relationships fizzled, that it was because men are intimidated by strong women.
But now I wonder if I’m a bit...boring. Unsophisticated.
“How’s it going in there?” Owen’s honey-smooth voice jolts me out of my negative thought spiral and I shuck my jeans.
“This is my worst nightmare,” I admit. Somehow, without having to face him, it’s a little easier to be honest. “I can’t afford anything in here and I feel like a little girl playing dress-up.”
The silence stretches on for a beat more than is comfortable.
“Firstly, the dress is my treat. And secondly...” The lock rattles lightly and I can tell he’s leaned against the door. “You need to stop being so hard on yourself.”
I raise a brow at my reflection. It’s the most un-Owen-like thing he could have said. I’m down to my bra and undies now, and pulling the blazer/dress thing off the hanger. It’s surprisingly heavy, and I notice it’s covered entirely in glimmering beads.
“You deserve to be where you are because you work harder than anyone else. Because you’re smarter than anyone else. Maybe more people should be like you, rather than you trying to be like someone else.”
The statement warms my heart, kindling an old fire. I can’t help the goofy grin that stretches my lips as I slip into the dress. The sales assistant was right—it is the perfect mix of classic and daring. The long sleeves and padded shoulders give a structured, powerful vibe and the short hemline and plunging neck are sexy as all get-out. But the fact is I am a girl playing dress-up. Because I would never wear this dress, and I would never be with a guy like Owen who flits from one thing to the next, always chasing a new whim.
I like him. I always have. But I need to remember what I told myself all those years ago—it’s a good thing he rejected me. Because a guy like him would chew me up and spit me out. I need to find a relationship where I’m an equal partner, where the other person is invested as much as I am. And unfortunately, I’m always more invested than the other person.
When I open the change room door, Owen’s eyes widen. “Wow.”
He’s looking at me like it’s the first time he’s seen me. But I don’t want to have my She’s All That moment right now. Because this transformation is a lie—like the ring on my finger and the apartment we’re sharing. I’m never going to be the “after” picture in some “ugly duckling to swan” advertisement.
I’m not sure I want to be, either.
“Thanks.” I swallow my awkwardness. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be back in leggings tonight.”
I refuse to let his reaction affect me. If there’s any attraction here, it’s not because of who I really am. I can’t afford the delusion that there will ever be anything between us...no matter how much I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.
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