Diana Rowland - How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

“That’s all right. Thanks for calling me back. Please be careful.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back in Louisiana next week. Maybe we can have coffee.”

I smiled weakly. “That’d be great. Thanks. You take care.”

We made our goodbyes. I lowered the phone and leaned on the rail. On the street below I watched a bicycle with a flashing light as it weaved recklessly through traffic, and heard the horn of a taxi as the cyclist cut in front of it. Distant sirens blended with the low thump of music from a passing car. On the sidewalk, a well-dressed couple in long coats walked arm in arm, heads bent toward each other in smiling conversation and carefully avoiding eye contact with a panhandler.

“Damn it, Angel.”

Startled, I turned to see Naomi standing in the doorway with her arms folded over her chest. “You should have told me about Marcus,” she said, annoyance in her tone, but worry and hurt in her eyes.

I slumped. “Sorry. There really hasn’t been a good time to tell you. I didn’t want to do a ‘I need to pee. Can we take the next exit? Oh, and I broke up with my boyfriend.’”

“Well, crap,” she sighed. “What the hell was he thinking springing a move to New Orleans on you?”

“He wanted to surprise me, I guess.” I moved inside to the couch and flopped down. “Apparently he didn’t figure I had all that much tying me down in St. Edwards Parish.”

She flopped beside me. Had to admit, it was a nicely floppable couch. “I want all of the details, every single one of them,” she stated firmly. “But first, what did Jane say?”

I filled her in on everything I could remember, along with the frustrating sense that she was going to attend the function anyway.

“It was the best you could do,” Naomi said, but she obviously shared my frustration.

“What the hell do we do now?” I raked a hand through my hair. “I think she’s still going to go, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

Naomi abruptly stood, then grabbed my wrist and hauled me to my feet. “Yes, there is.” She stepped back and swept a gaze over me. “We find you a dress.”

“I look like a kid playing dress-up,” I said, regarding with uncertainty my reflection in the long mirror in our suite. I couldn’t deny that Naomi had great taste and knew fashion. Growing up a Saber would do that, and as irked as I’d been earlier about her warped view of money and income, I had to admit it was damn convenient that she had plenty of money stashed away, and that dropping a godawful amount on dress, shoes, and accessories was barely a blink of an eye for her.

But actually wearing a dress that cost what I made in a month felt weird as all hell.

“No, you don’t,” she replied absently as she gave me an appraising look. “It’ll look better once I get your hair and makeup done.” She frowned. “Put the shoes on,” she ordered.

Sighing, I obeyed. The entire day had been a lot like this. After her We find you a dress announcement, Naomi had hauled me up and down the length of Manhattan to try on what seemed like every dress and shoe in the city. It had been fun for the first couple of stores, but after the seventh or eighth it all became a blur of silk and taxis and snooty clerks. Not to mention, Naomi refused to let me dawdle and gawk at anything, except for one brief stop to watch a group of teen boys doing some insanely cool gymnastic dance moves—and the only reason she let me stop for that was because I plopped my butt on the ground like a three-year-old having a tantrum and told her if she wanted me to move she’d have to carry me.

Meanwhile, Philip and Kyle were off doing recon. At least that’s the story they gave Naomi. I envied them, especially since I had a dark suspicion part of their “recon” involved a sports bar.

That said, Naomi had redeemed herself with the last stop before we returned to the hotel: a sleek and fancy salon where smiling women trimmed and buffed and polished my fingers and toes, and a slender man with spiky black hair and a thick and fake French accent adjusted the color of my hair to pale blond instead of over-bleached and trimmed it into something other than a scraggly mess. At one point I thought the outing would end in bloody violence as Naomi fended off Mr. Fake French’s attempts to style my hair, insisting she’d do it herself later. Fortunately the man seemed to realize it wasn’t a battle he could possibly win.

However, it was the dress Naomi finally decided on that redeemed her the most. “You have to look as if you belong there,” she’d stated, and with this dress I totally would. Dark blue with three-quarter sleeves to cover my rot patch, it had a V-neckline and fitted bodice that skimmed down my hips to flare out into a floor-length skirt—wide enough to walk in easily without being so much fabric it would get in my way. But my favorite and the most awesomest feature of the dress were the billion sheer fabric petals and tiny sparkly beads sewn all over the skirt.

With the shoes on—pretty and glittery peep-toe pumps—I stepped in front of the dressing room mirror and examined my reflection again. The heels on the shoes weren’t skyscraper-high like some of the ridiculous things I’d seen women shove their feet into, but even a modest three inches was more than I was used to.

“I’m sorry,” Naomi said when I whined about the height, and it sounded as if she really meant it. “Any lower and the dress will drag on the floor, and there isn’t time to get the hem altered. Now, take all that off, put the bathrobe on, and sit.”

“Don’t mind me,” I said as I carefully hung the dress up. “I’m a little nervous.” A lot nervous. Talk about being out of my depth. This was a five-thousand dollar a plate event. A year ago I lived in a house with a driveway paved in crushed beer cans.

She moved behind me after I sat, gave my reflection a smile and started doing stuff with my hair. “I get it. Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to make you look utterly awesome while blending in.”

“But how am I supposed to get inside in the first place?” I asked, watching her as she smeared gunk into my hair and proceeded to twist and comb and pin and do all sorts of weird shit.

“Kyle and I will take care of that,” she said with such absolute confidence in her voice that I didn’t dare question further. She smiled to herself as she shifted in front of me and continued to Do Stuff to my hair. Finally she stepped back to let me see the result.

“How the hell did you do that?” I blurted. It was amazing. Somehow she’d worked my hair into awesome little finger waves, giving it a terrific twenties vibe but totally elegant. I started to lift my hand up to my hair then yelped as she smacked my fingers.

“Don’t touch it,” she ordered. “I haven’t sprayed it yet. Close your eyes.” Once I did, she proceeded to lay down what I thought would surely be a few inches of shellac, and was pleasantly surprised to find my hair not at all crunchy. “Keep your eyes closed,” she said once she finished spraying. “I’m going to do your makeup. And stop squinching your eyes!”

Sighing, I did my best to relax my face while she glooped and smeared and painted and who the hell else knew what. But once, again, when she allowed me to see my reflection, I could only stare in astonishment.

“I look . . .”

“You look amazing,” Philip put in, smiling from the doorway.

I blushed. “Well, I was going to say I don’t look anything like myself, which is a good thing. But yeah, I look amazing too.” I smiled at Naomi. “Thanks, babe.”

Naomi preened as she put away the makeup and hair stuff. “I had to do enough socialite bullshit growing up that I developed a few skills besides asskickery.” She unzipped the garment bag that hung behind the door. “And now for the rest.”