Sabrina’s house, the notion seemed altogether less brilliant. Sabrina lived in Venice, a small neighborhood south of Santa Monica. An ambitious developer in the thirties had built a neighborhood of houses along a series of narrow, criss-crossing canals dug into the California soil. Now, newly dredged and fashionable, the neighborhood held echoes of the real Venice or Amsterdam, with its small arched bridges and houses next to the water.
It definitely didn’t go with dominatrix-wear. “I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea,” Trish murmured, pulling futilely at her skirt as they made their way up the walkway to Sabrina’s house. It was one thing to be wearing the outfit in Cilla’s bedroom; it was another to wear it in public. Not even the silk duster she’d thrown over the top helped.
“Stop picking at your clothes,” Cilla scolded.
“It’s too tight.”
“It’s Gaultier. It’s supposed to fit like that.”
“How come I’ve never seen you in it, then?”
Cilla shrugged and twirled her stethoscope playfully. “You know couture. You can get away with wearing it once, but that’s about it.”
“So this is my one big chance?”
“Make the most of it,” Cilla advised, then groped in her candy-colored Louis Vuitton Murakami bag as her cell phone burbled for attention. “Hello?”
Trish walked a few steps away, adjusting her bustier. Okay, so maybe she felt like the lead actress in some 1960s French sex farce. She just needed to get into character. It wouldn’t be her walking into the party, it would be her alter ego, the one who loved being outrageous and living at the center of the whirlwind. It would be okay.
“You have got to be kidding,” Cilla burst out from behind her. “What happened to the escort? On second thought, I don’t care. Send her a limo. I’ve got a party to go to.” Cilla paced a few steps, tension vibrating in every line of her body. “All right, all right, fine,” she said shortly. “I’m in Venice. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” She ended the call and cursed viciously.
Trish stared. “What was that about?”
Cilla turned to face her. “Apparently our designer for the couture show tomorrow isn’t satisfied with our events coordinator picking her up at the airport and taking her to dinner. She’s insisting that I do it.”
“Why you?”
Cilla blew out a breath of frustration. “We’ve met once or twice at her shows.”
“Not to mention the fact that your family owns Danforth’s and the entire Forth’s chain and has more money than God.”
“Please.” Cilla rolled her eyes. “The show coordinator says she’s threatening to walk. I don’t really have a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got to go get her.”
“But…but what about the party?” Trish asked with a spurt of panic. “I thought we were going together.”
“I have to do it,” Cilla said apologetically. “It’s only for a little while. If necessary I’ll haul her back here—there is no way I’m missing Sabrina’s documentary.”
“Maybe I can go with you,” Trish tried, despising the tone in her voice.
Cilla shook her head and buttoned up her coat to hide most of her costume. “I can only imagine the fit she’d have if you show up in Gaultier. Prima donna doesn’t begin to cover it. Besides, someone has to tell Sabrina. Hey, you look fabulous.” She gave Trish a quick hug. “Go in and find the rest of the gang. You’ll be fine.”
Trish watched Cilla hurry off to her car and she glanced down the alley to the canal bridge glimmering at the end. If she could only snap her fingers and be back in her nice, quiet apartment for the night. She’d light some candles, pour a glass of wine, and maybe watch a movie or work on the screenplay she was writing.
Instead, shyness was going to smother her in rooms full of strangers, while she tried to look as though she had something more to do than go to the bathroom again and again because it was a place to hide for a few minutes. Home, even if she had to walk, sounded infinitely more appealing.
But Sabrina was expecting her. More to the point, Sabrina was expecting them, and Trish really ought to go explain.
And one way or another, she had to find a ride home or at least get a taxi.
All the good reasons in the world didn’t mask the fact that walking through Sabrina’s door was about the least appetizing prospect she could imagine. If she’d been in her normal clothes, it would have been bad enough, but going inside all alone, wearing the most revealing outfit she’d ever worn in her life? Looking at it from above, the bustier was outrageously low-cut. Her breasts billowed up out of it like newly risen bread. Cilla couldn’t expect her to do this, Trish thought desperately. What if she were the only person in costume? What if she looked as ridiculous as she felt? The memory of the Trish she’d seen in Cilla’s mirror receded to a pinpoint and the Trish in the now just stood on the porch and swallowed, feeling miserably conspicuous.
Sabrina, she reminded herself. This was Sabrina’s special night and she wanted her friends there to celebrate with her. It wasn’t about Trish, it was about Sabrina.
It was about being a good friend.
“Oh, don’t be such a wuss,” Trish muttered to herself. No one was going to care what she looked like. They’d probably all be too busy worrying about themselves. Besides, odds were she’d never even see most of these people again. “Just do it,” she told herself fiercely.
And rang the bell.
When the door opened, though, it wasn’t Sabrina there. It was a sandy-haired boy who looked no more than sixteen or seventeen, the top of his head approximately at her eye level.
She couldn’t possibly in her panic have walked up to the wrong door, Trish thought wildly. Please, God, let her be at the right house.
“Wow,” he said appreciatively. “I guess you’re here for the party. My name’s Lee. Wanna run away and elope?”
Despite herself, she laughed. He looked barely old enough to drive, let alone put the moves on her. “Give me a minute or two to get the prenup in order.”
“Fair enough. Come on in and we can discuss it.” He stepped back and swung the door wide.
Sabrina’s living room surged with activity. A woman in neck-to-ankle red latex was tangoing with a man wearing a dog collar. A Wild-West saloon girl leaned over a shirtless construction worker sprawled on a couch. There were hookers, police officers, Catholic schoolgirls, sheiks, a pizza-delivery boy, and even what Trish assumed was a Marquis de Sade in a pale-blue frock coat and wig.
“Let me take your coat,” Lee said, whisking it off her before she could protest.
And then she stood in front of the room in just her outfit.
One head after another turned to look at Trish. She stifled the urge to flee. Maybe a seam had split, she speculated, feeling her face heat.
