“Bottom?” I gulp.
“Anal bleaching,” Mom whispers, then winks. “It’s a thing. Guys love it.”
I start to dry heave.
“Anal bleaching is soooooooo 2013,” Lüq says drolly, making Mom redden and turn to hu in reverence, all ears to learn what this year’s trend might be, and how to use it as a form of torture against me.
“Let us start with the top,” hu says. “You poor, poor child,” hu mutters, pulling me over to a hairstyling command center. “What on earth happened to your hair?”
“I, uh—”
“And these fingernails!” Lüq picks up my index finger on my right hand like he’s plucking a leech from a cadaver. “Tartan? What abomination is this?”
Mom slowly slides her hands under her pancake ass.
Gagai picks up Amanda’s hand and points.
Lüq’s eyes widen and hu gives us all sympathetic looks. “Who is the Scottish monster forcing this crazy pattern on you? You are tartan hostages who need love, sympathy, and a proper fill to recover from the psychic trauma of these hands, which scream desperation and haggis.”
Mom doesn’t say a word.
I love Lüq.
* * *
Two hours later, I need a break.
When I return to our hotel suite, I mistake it for a high-end boutique and back out slowly. The room is filled with eight racks of women’s clothing, forming a corridor behind the sofa. A gold-painted vanity is in front of the left side of clothing, and I see three distinct stacks of shoe boxes on the floor beneath the hanging clothes.
“I’m so sorry! I must have the wrong room!” I call out, hoping I haven’t offended the occupant.
“Mrs. McCormick?” The voice is female, with a French accent, but one much more cultured than the spa pixie.
“Um, not yet. This is Shannon, though.”
“Mrs. McCormick, I am Evie.” A rail-thin replica of Coco Chanel herself, circa 1920, reaches for my hand, warming it between both of hers. Dark hair coiffed in a retro wavy look that frames her face. A suit that is Tiffany Blue, a color I now know. Pale, unlined skin that is timeless. Warm brown eyes. The kind of cultured appearance that could make her thirty or sixty.
“Mr. McCormick leaves his regrets—he is at a business meeting—but he asked me to assist you in finding the wardrobe that best suits your needs.”
I’m going to kill him. An image of Hello Kitty in a Georgia O’Keeffe painting slams through my thoughts.
“Declan sent you? You’re a professional shopper?”
“I prefer the term stylist.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Great. There’s a vocabulary for this. It’s one thing to have undeclared behavioral expectations when it comes to buying new clothes, but now I don’t even have words.
I’m a Fashion Preschooler.
Evie moves like her feet are a hovercraft, her bones in perfect alignment. I am an injured giraffe in comparison. I reach up, wondering what I look like, feeling oily skin and ragged hair. Lüq had me do all the spa treatments first, then let me come up here to grab a book so I could tolerate another three hours in hair-color hell before getting a cut and style and having my makeup done.
“I do know that Lüq is expecting you, Mrs. McCormick, so I will not take much of your time. We need your measurements, your weight, to take a small scraping of your skin, and to pluck some hair samples.”
Horror fills me. “Why? So you can clone me?”
She laughs. “Non. We can best find colors that enhance your skin tone, the contours of your body, and to allow shadow and light to work for—and not against—you.”
“You realize I buy most of my clothes at Savers and the Salvation Army.”
She gives me a blank look. “Are those new boutiques? You are from Boston, I know. Perhaps these are local to you?”
“They definitely have an eclectic set of offerings,” I reply. “And a diverse clientele.”
She reaches for a smartphone and taps on the glass screen with—of course—perfect nails. “I will investigate. Thank you for the information. I am certain we can find you some outfits that are as nice as those you find at Savers and the Salvation Army.”
No kidding, lady.
Bang bang bang.
Someone pounds on the door, the racket so loud you’d think the hotel was on fire.
“Shannon! Open up! I know you’re in there!”
Mom. Surprise.
“If you think sneaking out of Mr. Lüq’s spa before you’re done is going to work, you’ve got another think coming. Declan told me to babysit you and make sure you get every single treatment on the spa menu!” she bellows.
“Your mother?” Evie asks, sympathy filling her voice.
I nod.
“And that includes the vajacial!” Mom shrieks.
Evie looks like she’s about to faint. No worries about Hello Kitty fashions from her.
I wrench open the door to the suite and grab Mom by the salon drape, yanking so hard she flies face-first into a dressmaker’s bust. Mom’s getting highlights and lowlights, so her head is covered with foil. She looks like she belongs in Roswell, New Mexico, at an alien encounters convention. A cigarette with a long ash and a story involving anal probes and she’d fit right in.
Actually, now that I think about it, the only thing she’s missing is the cigarette.
“No one is getting anywhere near my labia with steam or anything else!” I declare. “And that includes Declan,” I add in a low voice.
“Saving that for the wedding night?” Mom whispers with a wink. “Smart girl. Make him hold out until he wants it even more. And a fresh set of lips will really—”