Worst Impressions

Chapter Thirty Five

I wondered if Freddie's request included an enormous amount of stereotyping, because the only outfit he approved of was exceptionally French.

The dress had long sleeves which was a blessing in the middle of winter, I can tell you. The top was black-and-white striped, and the high-waisted black skirt was knee-length, but puffed out with the help of a lot of netting in the underskirt. The black bow on the chest was a nice feature, but I got the feeling it was going to annoy me after a while.

With the double-breasted black wool coat over it, it was hard to see why the dress had been necessary. The belt around the middle of the coat brought it in at my waist. From there, it settled nicely over the skirt, adding to the flared shape rather than forcing it flat against my legs. Freddie didn't ask before he untied my hair. I hadn't dried it properly the night before, and the natural waves I usually straightened out bobbed over my shoulders and against my back.

'You need a hat,' he said.

'Does my hair look that bad?'

He smiled. 'Silly girl. The right hat can make it look better.'

Again, he conversed in French to the woman who had been admiring her work. She had been pulling me here and there for over an hour. Even though I'd shaved my legs, she insisted very loudly that I wear the flesh tone stockings she was thrusting at me. I would be warmer with them, but I'd never been a fan of anything but socks. She raced off and tottered back on her ridiculous heels with a black wool micro-brim hat. It had a similar bow to the dress I was wearing. Freddie took it from her, and set it on my head, paying no mind to the way I blushed as he teased my hair into place.

'Parfait. Shoes?'

'Are you trying to kill me?'

'I couldn't kill someone so beautiful. But you're not wearing trainers with this outfit. It would be a crime.'

'If you bring over heels, I'll walk out barefoot,' I warned the shop assistant. Even if she didn't understand the English, the tone was clear enough.

Freddie added a comment in French. I had to trust that he'd translated my threat adequately. She found a pair of ballet flats, so it seemed the message had breached the language barrier. They were mostly black, save for a few white, doily like accents. I didn't care what they looked like so long as they wouldn't cut my heels to ribbons because they were new.

'Are we done now?' I whined like a petulant child.

'You haven't cracked a single smile, mauvaise fille,' he scolded. 'You're as bad as Will. I'll pay. You look in the mirror.'

I was dreading it. When I stood in front of one of the full-length mirrors, I didn't recognise the girl staring back. She had the same makeup I'd put on that morning, the same slightly chewed nails and cracked black nail polish, but everything else was totally alien to me. I looked like I almost deserved to stand by Freddie's side while we paraded around the city like a couple of high-society lovers.

'Do you think you could stand to walk around Paris, now?' he asked.

'Where are my clothes?'

He shook the bag he was holding. At least they hadn't thrown them out. I wanted to change into something less stifling when we got back to the house. Freddie took my hand, lacing our fingers together, and leaned in to kiss my cheek while we stared into the mirror.

We looked good together; he was the dashing playboy, and I was his latest squeeze. It wasn't quite an Audrey Hepburn level of French elegance, but it was as close as someone like me could hope to get. The shop assistants thanked us greatly for the small fortune Freddie had spent in their store as we left. I didn't want to know what the price tags were. It would only make me paranoid about ruining the outfit somehow.