Chapter Three

      Window Dressing

      That night, I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, obsessing. Everyone at work saw that nasty picture of me, legs spread in a wide, domineering stance, my hand gripping the riding crop above my head, my nipples practically visible as the corset pushes my breasts up, forcing them so high they nearly spill over. I recall the way Dylan’s eyes dipped down to my cleavage when he came over to give me shit about it, the thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip as he leered.

      It’s not as if I’m all that concerned about what Dylan Mackintosh thinks of me. I don’t even respect him; why should I care if he thinks I’m a slut?

      That’s when it occurs to me: I’m not lying awake because I’m worried about my reputation. I’m lying awake because I’ve inadvertently awakened the bad girl in that picture. In spite of the person I’ve become for work, the pathetic office drone who tries to please Felicity at any cost, there’s still another me alive and well. A retro sex kitten. An old-fashioned vixen.

      And she’s stirring.

      I climb out of bed and go to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Nero, my cat, opens one eye and glares at me from where he lies half-buried under the duvet. He’s named after Nero Wolfe, the grouchy, obese detective from Rex Stout’s mysteries. The resemblance is striking; like his namesake, my Nero is about twice the size of a normal cat. He’s also cantankerous, condescending and brilliant. Unlike the detective, though, who dines on only the finest culinary masterpieces, my Nero is a crazed omnivore. He’ll eat anything: banana peels, coffee grounds, plastic bags. I bought the cutest bonsai tree last month, but he chewed it down to a nub. Now he follows me to the kitchen, paunch swinging, and blinks up at me as I make myself a mug of chamomile.

      “I’m jonesing for a cigarette,” I whine. Nero looks back at me as if to say Give me some kibble and we’ll talk.

      I smoked in college, quit a few years ago; it had to be done, though I still miss cigarettes like a lover I can’t quite get over. My nana died of lung cancer the year I graduated from college, and after that I was filled with self-loathing every time I lit up, so I forced myself to quit. Now all my drawers and purses carry an arsenal of nicotine gum. I pop a piece in my mouth, even though it doesn’t exactly go with chamomile.

      The fog’s rolled in and I feel a draft, so I go to my closet for another layer. Flinging open the doors I’m struck by how segregated it is. On one side there’s my work wardrobe. Everything in that clump is boring and bland. Felicity’s given me such a complex about my failure to fit into a size two, my work clothes now operate as a kind of camouflage. I’m an elephant among tigers and panthers. My best bet for survival is to blend in with the furniture. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not obese, but I’m buxom. I’ve got a huge rack and hips you could land helicopters on. I flip through my work clothes listlessly. Just looking at that side of the closet makes me feel a little sick.

      And then there’s my other wardrobe—my secret wardrobe. Most of the clothes in that side of the closet I inherited from my nana. She pretty much raised me. Mom got pregnant with me when she was sixteen, and she was totally unprepared for a kid. Dad was never in the picture. So Nana brought me up, and though she was hardly a conventional parent, she did her best. She was a nightclub singer in her youth, a feisty vixen who didn’t get married until late in life—thirty-four, which was “last call” for her generation. She always had a cigarette burning in one hand and a story about the good old days spilling from her lips—some yarn about a gangster she used to date, or a movie star who sent her flowers back in 1958. I loved her. She was colorful, eccentric and just a bit crazy. In the end she became a wheezing ghost of her former self, but I try not to remember her that way. I prefer to imagine her in her youth sporting sequins, red lipstick and Chanel No. 5.

      Looking at the clothes crammed into the left side of my closet, I sigh with pleasure. There are emerald-green wiggle dresses, red satin cocktail shifts, blue velvet swing coats and luxurious fur stoles. Elaborate hats made of beaver and trimmed with ostrich feathers sit inside pink striped hatboxes. Dainty kitten heels and patent leather spectator pumps sit side by side on the floor. This is who I am inside. These are the colors and the fabrics that spin through my dreams. I’m built just like nana, and in her day she was the bomb.

      I open my underwear drawer and pull out the lingerie I wore for Wanda’s photo shoot. On a whim, I decide to put it on. Nero watches with a dubious expression as I shuck off my frumpy pj’s and don the sleek black Bettie Page gear. It’s funny how 1950s’ style underwear, high-waisted and granny-ish, can be so much sexier than a thong or bikini in the right context. This pair is made of amazing black figure-slimming fabric, satiny to the touch but steely in its ability to firm up flab. The second I pull them on I feel tingly, alive. Slowly, I do up the corset, sucking in my breath as I cinch it tight. Lastly, I pull on a pair of sheer black thigh-high stockings, hook them to the garters and slip into Nana’s patent leather spectator pumps.

      I survey myself in the mirror, pushing my dark hair forward, finger-combing my bangs. My reflection stares back with mischievous eyes. I admire the exaggerated hourglass lines of my figure, the fullness of my breasts hoisted up by the gravity-defying corset.

      “Va-va-voom,” I whisper.

      In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of someone behind me and spin around, startled. There’s a man standing on the balcony across the street. He’s draped in shadows. I can just make out his silhouette and the burning orange tip of his cigarette.

      He’s smoking, the lucky bastard.

      I go to close my curtains, but hesitate. As I stand there before the window, my breath fogging the glass, something happens. I know he can see me, know he’s taking in my bad-ass curves, my stockings, my creamy cleavage. For a moment I’m reminded of the red-light district in Amsterdam, where the whores display themselves in the windows, tempting potential customers with provocative poses and smoldering looks. I’m surprised at how much the thought of being that whore turns me on.

      Before I can stop myself, I reach a hand up and run my fingers through my hair. The luxurious feel of silky strands between my fingers sends a shiver of pleasure through me. I glance back at the shadowy figure on the balcony. He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the railing, watching my every move.

      Shocked at my own audacity, I lift one foot and prop my spiked heel on the windowsill. Slowly, my fingers trembling, I reach down and unhook the garter. My heart races as I roll my silk stocking down, revealing the milky white of my bare thigh.

      Is it my imagination, or did the silhouette just adjust himself?

      Okay, this is insane. What am I doing? I can feel my panties growing wet, though, heat gathering low in my belly, and I know I’m not going to stop. An exhilarating rush of power courses through me. I’m tantalizing a stranger, a man whose face I can’t even see, whose name I’ll never know. My body, the same one that feels so wrong and ungainly as I march through my workday trying hard to be invisible, suddenly feels deliciously visible. I’m a force to be reckoned with. The man on the balcony wants to touch me. He’s imagining what he’d do to me if only we weren’t separated by all this