Love on the Scale

Chapter Four

It had been an eternity since a man had looked at me. Smirked at me, yes. Laughed, yeah. Sniffed, uh-huh. I was like some feral feline they liked to bark at; a nuisance who belonged in the doghouse. I didn't mind; I liked the doghouse. It was nice and quiet there. A place I could while away the hours reading Facebook updates, snacking on Oreos. Yup, the doghouse was nice.

But there he was, looking at me, through me, captivating eyes smiling at me. What did he want from me, my donut?

James waved at me from the other side of the room. "Hey Chris, come over here! I have someone I want you to meet."

I winced at his loud voice. The meeting had dissolved, and everyone was ambling around, avoiding the snack table. Some turned to look at me, and I wanted to sink through the floor. With extreme reluctance, I dropped my donuts into the bin- a perfect pastry, wasted- and started towards my brother. Mr. Good-Looking was still there next to him.

"Go away already!" I growled under my breath. The last thing I wanted was to be near him, but he didn't look like he was leaving, and I had to go to James, so I had no choice.

James grinned when I stopped, a good two feet away. "Chris, meet Neil. Neil, this is Christelle."

I kept my mouth glued shut with effort. What? Neil, his best friend? The one he told me about as casual as could be when he spoke about his day? That Neil? Why didn't he mention his best friend could make women swoon with a look? That's information I would have loved to know.

Neil crossed the space I left between us, and took my hand, winking. "Wow, you are something! If Neil hadn't made it clear, I would've thought you were his girlfriend the way he talks about you. You're as beautiful as he's said." Then he pinched me on the cheek.

My smile froze on my face, and I backed up, glaring at James. "Excuse me." And with that I spun around and steamed off to look for the wardrobe department, not before hearing Neil ask James,

"What just happened?"

It wasn't long before I found Maggie. Or, to be more accurate, I heard Maggie. Her frustrated shouting echoed down the hallway, and I followed it.

"Hello, you must be Maggie. My brother James Cyrus has told me such wonderful things about you." I had planned out this little speech. I lied. I needed the job.

"Humph," she grumbled, pinning a tweed jacket on a pin-skinny brunette.

"I was wondering..." I looked down at my shoes, "if you could use an assistant. It seems you're a little snowed under... Umm... look, let me help you before there's an ..." I meant to say accident, but was interrupted by a loud thud as Maggie, having already fitted and sent the model away, tripped and fell over a sewing bin. I ran over and helped her to stand up. She smoothed out her dress, replaced her fallen spectacles, absently rubbed her shin, and began walking past me as if I wasn't in the room.

I continued, "Look, I'm here to help you."

Maggie took out an iron, switched the heat on and began ironing a sequined strapless gown, steam consuming her stringy, overworked and fragile frame.

"Susanna, you're up," she yelled, almost breaking a window. "One, two, three, I don't have all day."

That was my introduction to Maggie's wardrobe. I'm not quite sure if she ever did acknowledge my presence, but after I started picking the clothes off the floor and hanging them back in their places, she began to be aware that someone else was in the room.

"Who's there?" She called out, suspicious.

"It's me, Christelle. My brother James... you know, James Cyrus? He sent me to help you."

"Oh well, go on then." Every day, our conversations ran along a similar vein. This was to be my gateway to the glory of fashion, or a rather long-winded study of a woman slowly going mad.