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Blue doesn't mean to be ungrateful. Really. But she feels like some preppy-clone-wannabe when she steps out of the salon with Helen and Mrs. Gansey each holding one of her arms, matching grins decorating their beautiful Gansey faces. Blue sighs internally and her ankles bow in the red heels they've stuck on her feet.
"Should have gone with the kitten heels like I said, Helen," Mrs. Gansey says.
Helen makes a face as though kitten heels are the most vulgar thing she can imagine. Blue doesn't even know what the hell kitten heels are. Why would anyone name torture-trap shoes after adorable animals?
She sinks low in the backseat of the Gansey car, her bare legs under the white eyelet dress she's wearing stick to the sun-warmed leather seat. She feels like a child. She feels even worse than the one time she'd let Orla dress her up and cake her face with makeup. She dreads showing her makeup-caked face at the garden party that afternoon.
At the house, the two Gansey women tell her once again how pretty she looks and wander off to powder their noses or whatever rich women do to get ready for parties they've already been to a spa to prepare for in advance. Blue catches her reflection in an ornate mirror and doesn't recognize herself.
"Jane, is that you under there?" Gansey's mouth hangs open. Blue braces for humiliation, or worse, utter disappointment in a person she's grown to respect. Gansey fiddles with his cufflinks and runs a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. "What in the name of god have my mother and sister done to you?"
Blue relaxes exponentially. She no longer feels coiled, about to spring. "Thank god. If you'd told me I look pretty like this I think I would have cried or punched you in the face. Maybe both."
"Oh, Jane." Gansey smiles fondly. He takes her hand. "Come on, let's make you Blue again."
He leads her up the stairs, down the hall and through a set of double doors. "Helen's room," he explains. Blue has barely had the chance to take in the enormous four-poster bed covered in sumptuous looking bedding when he's led her through another set of doors. Lights blink to life all around her: on the ceiling, over shelves, in amongst racks and racks of clothing. It looks like an upscale boutique.
"Is this Helen's closet?"
Gansey nods. He waves a hand at the hundreds of outfits and pairs of shoes that fill the cavernous space. "And she doesn't even live here anymore."
There is a dressing table covered with bottles in a myriad of colours. Gansey pulls out the chair and invites Blue to sit down. Once she has, he turns the chair towards himself and picks up a container of cotton pads and a clear bottle containing a purplish liquid. He squirts some onto one of the cotton pads. "This is for removing makeup, I think," he says. He holds the bottle up to his eyes, squinting to read the fine print on the label without his glasses. He nods to himself, seemingly satisfied with his findings, and sets it back on the table.
He hesitates for a moment, thumb on his lip, but then takes Blue's jaw with gentle fingertips, tilts her face up, and begins to run the cool, medicinal smelling cotton over her chin and cheeks.
"Whatever possessed them," he says. His voice is strange, hushed. The set of his shoulders is tense as he works; he runs the cotton slowly over her forehead.
"They were just being nice. I hope they aren't offended."
Gansey waves a hand in the air and tosses the soiled cotton into a nearby waste basket. He wets another and drags it slowly over Blue's lips. Soft as a kiss. It comes back red. He discards it. His hand shakes slightly as he reaches into the container for another.
Blue glances down. All she can see is black, spidery-looking fingers every time she blinks. She looks into the mirror and peels the finger-things away from her eyes.
Gansey comes at her with the makeup remover again. "What the—" He nearly drops the cotton pad as he jumps backward with a jumble of curses that contains the word spider.
Blue laughs. "Fake eyelashes," she says. She shakes the strip of them at him.
He takes it between his fingers, pulling a face, and drops it into the trash. "I am so sorry," he says.
She peels the fake eyelashes off of her other eye and shrugs. "It's fine. But, um... what are we gonna do about this dress?"
They both take in the white designer monstrosity and red heels that she can barely walk in. She's embarrassed by the way her small breasts are nearly popping out the top of the low neckline of the dress. She wants to take the damn push-up bra and fling it off of one of the Gansey house’s many balconies.
"We'll find something in here. One of Helen's shirts would probably work as a dress on you. We can put a belt around it or something."
He grins at her and she slaps his thigh. The tips of his ears are red.
"I'll have you know that I've turned several of Orla's cast-off shirts into amazing dresses."
"I'm sure you have." He says it absentmindedly. He has another of Helen's mysterious bottles—blue this time—and he's pouring it onto another cotton pad. "For your eyes," he says. He holds it out as if to give it to her, but instead of taking it, she closes her eyes.
He's exceedingly gentle as he rids her of the layers upon layers of eye makeup that she'd been painted with at the spa. His other hand cups the side of her face. His skin is soft and so warm. She leans into his palm with a sigh.
"Jane," he says.
She blinks her eyes open. He's so close to her. His thumb strokes her cheek. There are so many things she wants to say. There are so many places on his face that she wishes she could kiss.
Instead she says, "Do I look like me again?" Her voice doesn't betray her; it doesn't crack or wobble.
She can see him pull himself back together, the mask coming down. He smiles. "Almost," he says. He picks the long strands of hair off of her shoulder. "Um... how did you grow this so quickly?"
She laughs. "Hair extensions."
"Ah," he replies. He does a bad job of pretending to know what she's talking about.
"We can leave them for now. They're kind of fun I guess."
He makes a face and flings the extensions behind her shoulders as if to hide them from his view. "Let's get you out of this dress," he says. And immediately reddens. "I didn't mean—"
"I know, dummy." She gets up out of the chair and glances at herself in the mirror instead of looking at Gansey. She needs to keep the heat of her own blush in check. She's pleased to find that she does look more like herself again. "Let's go shopping at boutique Helen."
Blue does end up in one of Helen's shirts—a long button-up floral number made of dark purples and pale, butter yellow. Gansey fastens a wide, brown belt around her hips. His hands rest there for a moment before he pulls away with a guilty look.
"That will look wonderful with those big combat boots you wore here," he says. He hands her a pair of charcoal grey fishnet stockings still in their very expensive-looking package.
"You'd better not be teasing me," she says. She stares him down with her most threatening look.
"I'm being perfectly serious," he says. He picks up one of the red high heels and scowls at it. "Who wears shoes like this?" He tosses it into the recesses of Helen's closet.
"There," he says. He smiles down at her, hands on her shoulders. "All beautiful again."
She feels beautiful. How can she not when Gansey looks at her as though not kissing her is causing him physical pain?
He leans in and smells her hair. "I won't let them at you ever again," he says. "I promise."
Gansey's nose is still pressed to her hair. She runs her own nose over his jaw before pulling away.
"I'll hold you to that." Her voice does betray her this time; it's shaky like she's just run a mile. She takes his hand. It's just as shaky as her voice.