I’m pretty relieved when Nash slows and guides the car into the parking lot of the art gallery. Even though there are no appreciable signs indicating the nature of the establishment, I know that’s where we’re at. I googled it before we left so I’d know a little bit of what to expect. I’d hate to fall down some unforeseen stairs or something. I need zero help making a fool of myself in front of this guy.
As the valet pulls away from the curb in the BMW, Nash offers me his arm again and leads me into the gallery. My first impression as I look around at all the artificially tanned skin, medically enhanced figures and bottle-blond heads is that I’ve stumbled into Barbie’s mansion. Only the black and white version, as everyone is in black formal attire. But that’s not the only thing gone awry in this Barbie-fied alternate universe. There are no Kens! I see only nerdy, ugly or just plain old men on most of their arms. That’s when I realize this must be a trophy wife convention instead.
I look down at my own red-clad, curvaceous physique and then back up at the mostly monochromatic room. As I’m debating running for the exit, Nash leans down to whisper at my ear.
“Is something wrong?”
“I feel like the only splash of color in an abstract painting.”
“You are the splash of color. But there’s nothing wrong with that.”
I look at him. He’s smiling. It appears to be genuine. He doesn’t seem embarrassed by my appearance. I can only hope he’s not.
Mentally, I put on my big girl panties. If he’s not bothered, there’s no reason for me to be. Right? Right. I take a deep breath. “All right then. Let’s go.”
The further we make our way into the room, the more heads turn in our direction. Most of the men seem to be appreciative of my attire. But the women? Eh…not so much.
Nash stops here and there to speak to several couples. It’s obvious he’s here on business. Besides the perfunctory compliment to the women, he mainly addresses the men. He makes polite chit chat, but there’s lots of measuring up going on. Thankfully, he seems to be getting nods of approval left and right.
Why do you even care? It’s not like his career or what his peers think should matter to you.
But it does.
Unfortunately, after about twenty minutes, the gloves start coming off. Or should I say that the claws start coming out. And it all begins with a girl that knows Marissa.
“Nash, where’s your better half?” the girl I’ve dubbed Catty Barbie asks. She looks me up and down with a thinly veiled sneer that says she thinks I might’ve eaten his better half.
“Last minute change of plans. I’ll be sure to tell her you asked about her.”
“Please do,” she says, not taking her eyes off me. “And who might this little peacock be?”
Peacock? Are you kidding me?
“This is Marissa’s cousin, Olivia.”
“It’s a pleasure, Olivia.” It’s so not a pleasure, her look says. “Interesting choice for the evening.” She nods her imperious head at me.
“His better half chose it,” I reply with a super bright smile, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me.
Her collagen filled lips turn up in a smirk. “Nice.”
Nash clears his throat. “I’ll tell Marissa to give you a call,” he says to Catty Barbie before he turns to her mate. “Spencer, I’m sure we’ll talk next week.”
Spencer nods to Nash then smiles at me. His expression says he’s sorry that his “better half” isn’t better at all, more like “toxic” instead. I smile in return, thinking I hope showers with her are worth it because I see only misery in his future.
I’m glad Nash doesn’t mention the interaction as we move on to the next couple. This pair is every bit as misfit as the previous one. This guy is so dorky looking all he really lacks are black-rimmed glasses with tape over the bridge piece and a pocket protector for his tux. And the girl? I’m pretty sure he got her from a movie set where the music sounds like bow chicka bow wow. That or she’s inflatable.
I think to myself that there’s no way these two are going to be nasty. They look so comical themselves, surely they won’t throw stones.
But they do. Big ones.
In my head, I dub this one Bimbo Barbie. My assessment of her is only further reinforced when starts laughing at me the instant we stop in front of them.
“Oh my gawd! Somebody didn’t get the memo.”
She doesn’t even try to keep her voice down. My mouth drops open and my cheeks sting a little when, from the corner of my eye, I see several heads turn in our direction. I can almost feel judgmental eyes burning their way through my brightly colored dress.
I say nothing and make no move to acknowledge her in any way other than to smile, a smile I hope belies my growing humiliation.
Still, Nash doesn’t speak. And I’m grateful. I’d likely burst into tears.
We move on to the next couple. And the next. And the next. Each gets progressively worse.
Just when I think there isn’t a more rude person left in the room, I meet another one. I shall call her Vapid Barbie.
“Where did you get that dress?”
My stomach drops into my shoes. I want nothing more than to run and hide. After I hunt down Marissa and strangle her with her own dress, of course.
To make matters worse, I feel tears prick the backs of my eyes. I blink quickly and force my lips up into another smile. It’s when I feel Nash stiffen at my side that anger makes an appearance. It’s bad enough that they’re doing this to me, but Nash has to work with some of these people!
I don’t bother to stifle the sharp reply that comes to my tongue. “I stole it from a homeless person,” I say, straight-faced. “She was lying right beside the stripper that gave you yours.”
Her expression is blank for several seconds before my meaning sinks in. Then her face turns red and her glossy lips drop into a nice big O of shock.
For one second, I’m satisfied. Seeing her speechless makes me feel a teensy bit better. But then I remember the guy at my side. The one I wanted to make a good impression for.
Guilt hits me in the face like a bucket of ice cold water. And I feel sick.
I smile sweetly at Vapid Barbie and her clueless mate. “Pardon me while I find the ladies’ room.” To Nash I whisper, my heart in my eyes, “I’m so sorry.”
And I make my escape.
I search the hostile environment for the universal signs of a restroom. When I spot the little silhouette of a girl in a dress, I practically run for it. I don’t, of course, mainly because I’d probably trip and fall and give everyone an even bigger laugh. But I do walk very, very quickly.