Love Song - 2

"So, will you be able to make it?" The voice asked, breaking me out of my thoughts. I cringed, aware that I had been so far gone into my mental celebration that I hadn’t even heard the question. Not a great way to start a professional relationship.
"Sorry? Make what?" I asked, biting my lip and hoping he didn’t think me an idiot. He didn’t sigh disappointedly or anything. A low chuckle sounded over the line. It was so strangely familiar that it made goose bumps suddenly appear on my skin.
"A big evening do. The celebration of something that I should be celebrating about. That’s all I can tell you, otherwise your father’s surprise will be ruined. All I can say is, you’re VIP so you don’t need an invitation – your name will be on the list. And everyone will be in evening wear. I look forward to seeing you."
"Yeah – me too. Um…bye." I said, already panicking. Evening wear? What the hell? I didn’t wear dresses and such. I’d have to call Mary, get something sorted out…
"Bye." The stranger said, and then I heard the faint click of a handset being put down. Before I could begin to go crazy thinking of what to wear, the phone rang again.
"Crystelle Giovanni! Get down here right now!" My mother yelled into the phone. She then slammed it down without another word. My mum was frequently as mad as this.
Sighing, I trailed up the stairs to throw on some jeans in readying for the fitting. I glanced at my reflection and grimaced. Not good. My hair resembled a black haystack and my eyes looked like I had just had a very restless sleep.
I peered into the glass, pulling the bags on my skin down to study how bloodshot I was. Not very. That was good. I quickly applied some Concealer to the faint, bruise-like marks and livened my eyes up with mascara and eyeliner. The effect was life-saving.
Smiling, I smoothed my green shirt out and ran my hand through my unruly curls. No matter how much I might dislike my mother at times, my sister was great and I was genuinely excited that she had found her One.
I tucked my skinny jeans into knee length black boots and pulled a black jacket on. My mum would have nothing short of a fit when she saw me in my casual get up, but I couldn’t be bothered to put together a ‘suitable’ skirt suit for her. She was so formal and uptight about everything that I wondered if she actually thought she lived in the eighteen hundreds or something.
Sighing now, impatient to get the meeting with my mother over with, I drove quickly through the busy streets to the place where we were having the dress fitting. Mother and Sara, my sister, were already there, and Sarah looked absolutely stunning in an ivory beaded dress that flowed to the ground in soft silken folds. Her bright red, fire coloured hair fell down her back in a thick waterfall of straight locks. Her amazingly pretty face was flushed, and as she turned at my arrival, her apparent beauty hit me like a punch to the gut.
Sara was always the pretty one, always the one mother approved of, always the one who was the apple of my parents’ eyes. And she had good reason to be, too. She was intelligent but not loudly opinionated, absolutely stunning and sought after by many important music producers and pop stars and such, polite and perfect in general. I couldn’t resent her for it, though, because her sweetness and kindliness was genuine, and not an act. But it was horrible to live in a younger sibling’s shadow all the same.
"Crystelle!" she smiled, holding her arms out. I smiled back and walked over to embrace her carefully. "You look beautiful." She commented, running her eyes up and down my outfit in approval. I laughed and raised an eyebrow. See what I mean about the niceness?
"Sure, sure, little Miss Stunning who’ll have to put ‘please bring shades’ on the wedding invitation as everybody will be blinded by her beauty." I replied laughingly, tucking a stray lock of fringe that had fallen in her face back behind her ear. Her ivory skin was clear and radiant, something to be envious of, but I wasn’t jealous. I genuinely loved the fact that my little sister was so successful in everything. It just hurt sometimes, is all.
"Whatever." Sara replied, but she was flushing with pleasure. "Do you really think so?"
"Of course I think so, you silly duck---"
"Crystelle Antonia Giovanni! Get away from your sister with those grubby outside clothes on and get in here this instant!" My mother screamed from the general direction of the changing rooms. Crys smiled at me apologetically and I grinned back, flipping my hair behind my shoulder and raising my chin in an exaggerated act of martyrdom.
"If I don’t return in fifteen minutes, send out a search party." I told her, squeezing her hand goodbye. She laughed a pretty, tinkling laugh.
"Crystelle!!!"
Sighing, I walked to the door and pushed it open. My mother stood there, hands on hips, in a beige pencil skirt and ruffled silk shirt, her expression one that would be a mass murderer if looks could kill. Her pale blue eyes that Sara had inherited were icy, fixed on me in an unmoving glare.
"Thank you for deciding to grace us with your presence." She said glacially, practically spitting the words out in her anger. I smiled at her and stepped forward to hug her stiff form.
"Hi mum." I said dryly, ignoring the snicker that came from the direction of the dressmaker. Mother just gritted her teeth, and then smiled a tight, fake smile.
"Just get into your dress." She said, shoving a heap of silk at me and a gold flower at me. I took them and went into the cubicle, stripping down for the second time that day. The dress that Sara had chosen for me was a deep peacock blue, halter neck that tightened underneath the bust with a thick, intricately designed gold band. It flowed to my knees.
The fit was perfect, tight where it needed to be, and it flattered my curvy body. Sara knew what colours suited me, and the beautiful colour complimented my lightly tan skin perfectly. The cut accentuated my long legs. I would have to thank my sister for this later.
Staring into the mirror, I arranged my spirally curls so my side parting let half my hair tumble over one shoulder, and placed the gold flower in the thick side.
"Hurry up, Crystelle, we don’t have all day!" my mother called. I sighed, broken out of my trance, and was about to open the door when a pair of gold heels flew under the little gap that was left. "You might as well put those on, too."
I pulled the high stiletto heels on. They were delicate, and wrapped around my ankle a few times. They completed the fairy tale outfit. Smiling, I opened the door and walked out with confident defiance. Let my mother insult me in this outfit!
When I stepped out again, Sara was there too, in a silk skirt and cashmere sweater.
"Oh my." The dressmaker exclaimed. She was up at once, fussing around me; smoothing and tucking helplessly. It was no use. The dress was perfect.
"Oh Crystelle! You look absolutely amazing!" Sara exclaimed, walking over with wide eyes. Mother was suitably surprised too.
"Perfect, Ada. You work miracles," My mother approved, nodding. And there it was again. I had been so confident, so happy, a minute ago and she managed to put me down again, just by associating my appearance with a miracle.
I sighed. Sara caught the sound and peered up at me worriedly.
"Are you okay?" she asked worriedly, placing a hand on my arm.
"Just perfect." I replied flatly, trying to work some enthusiasm into the words. I failed.
Sara was truly worried, and I could tell she was going to pursue it further, and would have if a male voice hadn’t broken through the tension just then.
"Sara, darling! Where are you? Your dad said you’d be here!" It was Trevor, Sara’s to-be husband.
All at once, there was a flurry of activity.
"Hide the dress!" my mother shrieked, and Ada did, quickly pulling the white plastic wrapped material into another changing cubicle. But Sara only smiled happily.
"He won’t come into the woman’s changing rooms, silly." She said, and then walked out to meet her fiancée. Mother and I did, too, to be polite, but after a step into the hall, I couldn’t move any further.
Trevor had taken Sara and began to dance her around effortlessly, laughing. He led her on a quick waltz and then picked her up from the waist and twirled her in the air. She wrapped her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes with laughter on her lips as they moved. And then he put her down and kissed her softly, his eyes shining with a love so strong and profound that tears came to my eyes and a lump rose in my throat. And then, when he kissed her again and they just stared at each other adoringly, the lump became more prominent.
I heard him whisper,

"I miss you". I couldn’t take it any more. With a strangled sort of sound escaping me, I whirled and burst back into my cubicle. I sat on the little seat there and tore the flower in my hair out. I put my head in my hands and cried.

It had taken its toll on me, all this disapproval and horridness from my mother. She had told me herself that I would never find somebody that would tolerate my cumbersome ways and that I should just give up on love and anything like it, because I would never live up to even the simplest of expectations in life. I had never grasped why she was horrible to me, but she was, and although I knew better than to let it get to me, it did sometimes.

And the proof of her words was apparent, here in my stupid, pathetic life. I was a twenty three year old woman who went to posh parties her father and mother got her invited to, didn’t fit it anywhere, and had one good friend. I was a failure.
I stood up, tears still streaming down my face, and unzipped the dress carefully, stepping out of it. Suddenly, the beauty was all in the garment and not me. I shrugged my other clothes on and stared at my forlorn figure in the mirror. Was I really that hideous?
Right now you are, a little voice said in my head and I laughed. My eyes were red rimmed and the make up had come off, leaving last night’s aftermath for all to see. Normally I’m a pretty crier, like the ones you see in movies, with one picturesque tear sliding down my cheek and my makeup staying perfect.
I laughed again, a short, unattractive and forced bark, before repairing my make up and leaving the dressmakers, hands in pockets, expression dejected.