THE DRESS
London, Thanksgiving
There were no other clients in the shop, and the nawnee threatened to scuttle the mood as Jaime leaned against the wall behind the dressing room door inside Vivienne Westwood’s atelier on Davies Street. She soaked in the decadent feel of velvet-lined silk on her skin, and her fingers traced the hand-sewn bumps and dips of her couture dress. Michael, her very fine husband hovered above her, running his fingers across the lariat of pearls he’d just twisted around her neck. A glimmer of sinking sunlight, just below the window’s lip, caught on the metallic threads in her gown, brightening the space between them. After so many years together, they weren’t so much staring at each other as they were reveling, revisiting, savoring an oil slicked masterpiece, something rare and magnetic. He wasn’t doing anything more than breathing, his heart pushing blood around his neck, stirring up his scent. Just the smell of him did it for her. She closed her eyes and floated, ecstatic, caged in while her soulmate loved her up with his sexy words and bruising kisses. Wild joy spread as a wonted alert spun through her from the nape of her neck to the tips of her toes, burrowing home beneath her skin. When their eyes met again, Michael’s shone with unshed tears, jaw tight. This man, what a goof. “Don’t tell me you’re speechless, counselor.”
He looked overwhelmed. “Jay, Jaime. I love you.” Nawnee nawnee.
Jaime grinned. “Never get tired of you saying it. I love you too, but I do like your speeches. Continue, please.” She twirled her hand.
Michael fiddled with his phone for a sec. Jaime rolled her eyes when his Nat King Cole playlist began. “We don’t have much time,” he said. “Let’s dance instead?”
There were two knocks then. “Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair? Sorry to disturb.” Gemma, their prim British hostess and her long earlobes, poked her head through the door. The blare of sirens overwhelmed the music. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but we’ve been notified by Met police there’s a disturbance at Bond Street station. We’re hardly nearby.” Terrorists, the woman whispered. Michael’s arm slid around Jaime. She couldn’t see his expression. Her own reactions percolated in familiar spots all over. Bright, tiny eruptions across a dark global map. Gemma looked put out, her sunny demeanor gone, as was the color in her face. “For your own safety, I’m forced to ask you to leave immediately, or wait with us on the ground floor.” Took her ages to say immediately, and she looked pained to deliver the choice. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you how long we’ll be detained, even though you’re required to remain until we receive a clearance from authorities. I wish I had better news to share.” Her face bore her own surrender. She eye’d Jaime’s bare feet. “Right then. If you’re off, you’ll need to unwear the dress please.”
More to come...