Girl Abroad

I’VE NEVER LIKED SHOPPING. MOSTLY BECAUSE I DESPISE TRYING on clothes. There’s the violence of nonsensical sizing practices of fashion brands, but also this hygiene video we watched in sixth grade about body fluids, bacteria, and black lights that left me shaking in a cold sweat at my desk. To this day, I can’t go into a changing room and squeeze my ass into a pair of jeans without thinking about every ass that’s come before mine.

I am one hundred percent that chick in the restroom shooting people dirty looks in the mirror when they don’t wash their hands.

Which is why I’ve put off the question of what to wear to the ball for weeks before finally mentioning it to my dad to ballpark what a reasonable spending limit might be. I left him a voicemail overnight and woke up to a text message with an address to a private atelier.

Lee has a prior engagement (and if I’m honest about it, I’m not sure I can handle his particular approach to styling me today), so I extend the olive branch to Celeste instead. She doesn’t miss the opportunity to remind me I’m her sworn nemesis for not inviting her to the ball, but the chance to go on a dress binge is enough for her to declare a truce.

In the cab on the way to Celeste’s flat, I get a text from my super platonic buddy Nate, who kept to his word and has been messaging me here and there over the past week.

Nate: Hello, how are ya. How’s uni?

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. Damn him for being so charming.

Me: School’s great. How’s bassisting?

Nate: That’s not a word.

Me: I’m a word creator. Sort of like a content creator, but with words.Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

Nate: You really didn’t need to add the second part. I understood the concept of word creation without it.

We’re not swimming in profound conversations, he and I, but we also both know it needs to remain that way.

I tuck my phone into my purse when Celeste slides into the back seat. It isn’t until our cab pulls up in front of the building that I realize this excursion is on a whole other level.

“You’re kidding,” Celeste exclaims, stepping out of the car in downtown London. She gapes at the sign over the door of the nondescript old building. “This is the friend of your dad’s?”

“I guess so.”

Dad outdid himself this time.

“You’re wearing Sue Li to a bloody royal ball,” Celeste tells me, exasperated.

I might be fashion averse (according to her brother), but even I’ve heard of Sue Li. This designer has dressed everyone from Lady Gaga to Harry Styles to costumes for the Royal Opera House. A legit big deal.

Celeste sighs. “You realize I hate you, right?”

“If I let you borrow the dress, can we still be friends?”

With narrowed eyes, she speaks through her teeth. “Get the shoes too and I’ll consider it.”

The lobby is a loud, frenzied expression of colors and patterns reminiscent of the eclectic contrasting styles Sue Li is known for. Always toeing that line between genius and disaster. Chaos soup on fine china.

“Welcome.” We’re greeted by a towering woman who’s close to seven feet even in flats, with neon green eyeshadow and a buzz cut. She looks between Celeste and me. “Abbey?”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, feeling downright minuscule. “This is my friend Celeste.”

“I’m Mori. I hear you need a dress.”

“I do, but I have no idea what’s appropriate. I’ve never done something like this before.”

“Someone got herself invited to Alexandra’s prewedding festivities,” Celeste says with lingering venom.

“Sue filled us in.” Mori gestures for us to follow her from the lobby toward a narrow staircase.

Upstairs, we’re led to a wide-open space where mirrors and clothing racks line the white walls of painted brick.

“We’ve taken the liberty of selecting a few garments,” Mori tell me.

Celeste and I are treated to champagne while two more assistants wheel out a rack of gowns in front of a dressing pedestal.

“We have a changing curtain,” Mori says. “Or if you’re not shy…”

This is why I at least had the good sense to put on matching bra and underwear.

“Lay it on me,” I say, trying to pull off something akin to cool indifference. Because I totally belong and am no way in over my head with all this fancy shit.

“You’re making the society pages now for sure,” Celeste informs me as I get undressed and leave my clothes beside her on the velvet settee. “So much for a low profile.”

“Think a veil is too much? Brits enjoy an audacious hat, right?”

“Not for evening,” Mori’s male assistant says sharply, unzipping the first dress from its hanger.

“No, yeah. It was a joke.” Or I thought it was.

“Funny,” he says, with a pained attempt at a smile that can’t quite graduate from a sarcastic cringe. My humor is clearly lost on him. Which is awesome because now this dude is going to the pub later to tell the other fashion assistants about the gauche American.

Cool people don’t get me.

The first dress is an architectural green number with asymmetrical polka dots hidden in the pleats of the skirt. With my hair, green is always the first place people go. And it’s lovely, especially since it’s the same shade of sea green as my eyes. But…

“It’s eating you alive,” Celeste says, her head cocked in the mirror, studying me.

“Right? If I was a foot taller, maybe.” I turn, peering at myself over my shoulder to get a view of the back. “Not sure short people can pull off this much look.”

Mori is still evaluating, pulling and tucking, when my phone rings on the settee next to Celeste. She sees Dad on the screen and hands it to me. His face pops up as I answer the FaceTime call.

“What do you think?” I say, holding the phone up to show him the dress. “First one.”

“Green is always a great color on you,” he answers, apparently on the back patio of our house around the fire pit. “I see you found the place okay.”

“This is brilliant, Dad. Thank you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Celeste calls.

I spin around to let her wave at the camera.

“Who’s that with you? This one of the roommates?”

I suddenly get a seriously stupid idea. One of those sudden instincts that takes hold of my better judgment and commandeers my mouth until I’m a helpless bystander trapped in my own body.

“Say hi to Jamie, Dad.”

Celeste’s eyes shoot to mine in alarmed confusion. Then like osmosis, she gets it.

It’s a dastardly ruse, drawing her into my web of lies. I’m ashamed of myself as soon as the plot is underway.

“Sue’s gonna take great care of you,” Dad promises as I hand off the phone to Celeste so I can slip into the next dress.

“How do you know her?” Celeste asks him.

He chuckles. “Funny story. I ever tell you this one, Abbey?”

Three sets of hands pick and peck at me, getting me into this dress. “Don’t think so.”

“It was during the Gibson fire. Some Sony Music exec’s Grammy party out in Malibu. I was about your age,” he tells us. “Took home three awards that night and was feeling pretty invincible. The house is filled to the beams with rock stars, suits, and half-naked women. Music so loud they could probably hear us in Van Nuys. Then suddenly there’s screaming, loud enough to drown out the music. People go from looking around to running aimlessly for the doors. Diving through windows. That’s when we realize…”

“What?” Celeste says, nodding as I model the blue and yellow scoop-neck dress. “What was it?”

“We smelled the smoke. So we go outside, and the sky is bright red. Ash falling on our heads. The fire is maybe a hundred yards behind this house, coming up over the hills, and charging right for us. People are panicking, trampling each other to get out, find their cars. No one has their keys because the valet guys bolted at the first sirens, so now there’s hundreds of keys scattered on the driveway. People start picking up random Porsche fobs.”

Celeste is wide-eyed. “That’s terrifying. What’d you do?”

This dress is nice, but it isn’t tearing at my heart. It still feels a little avant-garde for a royal ball. Mori’s crinkled eyebrow says I’m not pulling it off. We peel me out of this one and on to the next.

“My buddy Scott finds us and shouts, ‘We need to get outta here, man.’ Only we’re so trashed, we have no idea where we are or how we got there. So Bobby, he climbs up on the wall around the yard, and he says, ‘Hey, the neighbor’s got a pool.’”

“Seriously, Dad?”

Sometimes it’s astonishing to think how improbable it was that my dad lived long enough to contribute to my creation at all.

“We hop the wall and dive in, watching the flames climb down the hill toward the house. Then this angry old Japanese lady comes out with her two huge angry dogs. She’s shouting at us, like, ‘Hey, you dumbasses. Get in my Range Rover if you want to live.’”

“Sue Li rescued you from a wildfire?” Celeste shakes her head in amazement. “Woman is literally a superhero.”

“We spent the night on the beach with half of Malibu. Some billionaire had his yacht offshore waiting to ferry people if the flames jumped the road. People had their horses and goats and even some dude with a miniature zebra—all wading into the surf because the heat from the flames was so intense.”

Celeste laughs. “No offense, Abbey, but your dad’s a lunatic.”

And I realize then, as I’m sliding into the third dress, why I’m lying to my father. Why I’m digging myself deeper into the hole that will eventually fill with water.

I want my own stories.

I want to wind up trapped in a death-defying predicament only to escape with some preposterous adventure.

To have no idea what’s coming next and emerge on the other side by the skin of my teeth.

To flirt with danger and dance with the fates.

I’ve spent my life telling someone else’s stories with no context of my own, borrowing life experiences that amount to an empty glass. And now I’m parched.

So that’s why I maintain the lie. Because going home isn’t an option. I love my life in London. I love my friends and my roommates and the possibilities in front of me. I can’t go back to my dad’s house and mac and cheese night.

Even if it means a painful conversation later, at least I’ll have some memories.

I take the phone back to show Dad the dress that caught my eye even while it was still on the rack. It’s red and white with severe angles but tailored in all the right places, as if it’s been waiting all this time on its hanger for my body. Minus the foot and a half of extra fabric at the bottom.

“What do you think, Dad? I really like this one.”

“You’ll be a stunner in any of them. I know you’ll have a great time. Jamie going with you?”

Celeste gives me the evil eye.

“Please, don’t get her started again.”

“Get whichever dress you like. If you need shoes or purses or any of that stuff, get that too. Sue owes me a favor,” Dad says with a wink.

“Oh really?”

“Story for another time. Just be sure to say hi to Queen Margaret for me.”

“Oh my God, Dad.”

“What? We go way back, the queen and I. I played a private concert at the palace for the holidays one year, and we stayed up for hours eating cake, talking about James Brown and Billie Holiday. The old greats. Most people don’t know, but Maggie has a great love for American rock ’n’ roll.”

Celeste is gaping at me. “I’m going to have to write a book after this.”

“This is the one,” Mori declares, studying my reflection in the mirror. She plays with my hair, pulling it off my shoulders to show off the neckline. “We can set you up with my jewelry, but I wouldn’t throw too much else on it. The dress is doing the work. Let it.”

A brief fantasy of myself plays in the mirror. I stand there for a moment, imagining this other person I could become. I’m looking at a blank page to write a new story. With the right dress and a ticket to a royal ball, anything can happen.

I smile at my reflection and say, “It’s perfect.”