out curtains. But the clothes were …
Bree had lost her adjectives. That’s how fantastic the clothes were. And the accessories? Good Lord, she’d died and gone to heaven. Even though the shoes tortured her feet, she couldn’t breathe in the two dresses that were honestly a size too small, and she was turned and bent and paraded around like a show pony, but the torture was totally worth it because she got to keep everything.
Even the bit where the silver-haired dresser from Prada stuck his hand down her bodice and lifted her bare breasts. Now there was a blog entry.
All this done at the speed of a montage: cabs were hailed seconds before they stepped out doors, clothing selections were made preternaturally and perfectly, and she finally understood the worth of a good stylist.
The only thing missing was Charlie. She kept wanting to tell him things, to see his reaction, to feel his hand on the small of her back, but he was working, and she was, as well. Only this work made her feel like a model—despite the fact that every article of clothing had to be shortened—and like a prom queen. But mostly like someone had made a mistake that would be corrected momentarily.
Charlie wasn’t the kind to make mistakes of this magnitude. Yet it would have been better if she could have talked to him. She’d texted in cabs—the only time she’d been able to—but he was in a meeting, so his response would have to wait.
CHARLIE HAD TO WORK TO KEEP his expression mild, to speak as if his parents dropping by wasn’t something unwelcome and entirely too coincidental given his talk with Rebecca last night. He’d always liked Rebecca so much. She’d been his ally, his cover, his friend. Her betrayal hit hard and low. Shit.
“We’re not here to take up much of your time, Charles,” his father said, his gaze scrutinizing the living room. He—both his parents—were busy cataloging every change, the new lamps, the slate that had replaced the bricks around the fireplace. They’d only been to his place a few times over the years. He preferred meeting in neutral territory, although he went to family gatherings, typically one per year, wherever it was being held. He didn’t shut his parents out completely.
“You’ve undoubtedly seen that Andrew is starting his campaign in earnest,” his father said, his voice modulated and soft. That had been one of the earliest Winslow lessons. Speak softly. Make them listen. “We’re very pleased with the endorsements he has now, but the committee is budgeting media advertising, and naturally, your blog group has come up.”
So it hadn’t been Rebecca. Charlie didn’t acknowledge his father’s remarks. Another lesson he’d learned at his father’s knee. Never give anything away, not in expression, in tone, or in posture.
The Winslows were the quintessential image of subdued elegance. Nothing his parents wore was ostentatious, but everything was meticulously selected to evoke their status. The most expensive watches, Italian handcrafted shoes, tailoring from the finest hands in several countries.
His parents commanded respect, and made everyone who wasn’t family feel small and insignificant. Polite to the extreme. They radiated power and privilege.
Christ, what they had tried to do to him. He was sure they wouldn’t mention that it should have been his campaign, if only he’d not been so rebellious.
“We would very much like to utilize the family connection in the two most appropriate blogs, Dollars and NYPolitic.”
“No,” Charlie said. “I’m not going to promote the family agenda on my blogs. It’s inappropriate, given I think Andrew would be a monumentally bad choice for the senate.”
His phone buzzed again, and he took it out of his pocket to find another text message from Bree. He couldn’t read it now.
“We’re not asking for a change of editorial direction or for you to give your personal endorsement,” his mother said. “Simply space for featured ads. It would mean significant revenue.”
He stared at his mother, knowing she was irked that he hadn’t offered them drinks. It was only polite, the right thing to do, even for uninvited guests. In her home, nothing of the sort would have ever happened.
He smiled as he looked around. This was his home.
ON MADISON AVENUE, BREE and her posse stopped again, this time for shoes. Or maybe a bag, she wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t help that Sveta’s accent—she was from Belarus—was nearly unintelligible. Bree mostly nodded and tried to keep up and not prostrate herself at the temples of fashion—Versace, Chanel, Anna Sui. Those were the kind of stores that only had a few items artfully displayed in minimalist snobbery. Where excellent champagne was served by stunning hostesses who knew every detail of the design and manufacture of the clothing on display. The music was always … interesting. Nothing you’d hear on Top Ten radio, because you could get that at the New Jersey malls.
The price tags made her hyperventilate. And even though the selections for her weren’t the top-of-the-top-of-the-line, they were still extravagantly outlandish. Truly, she was in another world, someone else’s life. Charlie’s world. As she snapped another photograph of herself in a pair of heels that would likely cripple her after five steps, she reminded herself that she was a visitor. A tourist. Nothing more.
CHARLIE’S FATHER STOOD and even he couldn’t control the way his rising blood pressure reddened his face. “Andrew is family, Charles. He’s a Winslow. We’ve allowed you to set your own course, have your fun, but this is our legacy you’re tampering with. I won’t have it.”
Charlie moved closer to the door, to the closet where he’d hung their coats. “Huh. It’s good to know some things don’t change. You continue to hold on to the ludicrous belief that you have any influence over me or my life. It’s nice having our own traditions.”
“Charles,” his mother said, as affronted as his father, but less flushed. “That’s enough. We are your parents.”
He approached them and held out his mother’s coat. “Thanks for dropping by. I hope you had a nice vacation in St. Barts.”
She looked at his father who took both coats from Charlie. He didn’t quite rip them out of his son’s hands. But it was close.
“This will be remembered, Charles,” his father said.
“I hope so.” Charlie led them to the door. When it was closed behind them, he was still buzzing with anger. He needed to cool down, get Zen about the visit, about the message. He wished Bree were here.
He’d never mentioned his parents to Bree, hadn’t asked about hers. They weren’t friends. Yeah, he was comfortable with her. Okay, that didn’t happen much anymore. But no. He wasn’t going to talk to Bree about his parental issues. Jesus.
He pulled out his cell phone, and clicked on the earliest of her text messages. He was grinning by the time he got to his office.
FINALLY, THEY HAD MORE THAN enough clothing to get her through at least a week of parties. The most extravagant was the Marchesa gown for the Courtesan premiere. The evening dress, pinned to fit her body by a bevy of seamstresses, was so out of her league it hurt.
It was almost eight by the time the cab arrived at Charlie’s. Sveta didn’t need to announce herself. The staff at the front desk nodded respectfully as the doormen helped bring in bag upon bag upon box. Bree rested against the mirrored wall of the elevator, then took a few deep breaths before they entered Charlie’s
