It’s almost dinner time so I get ready. My dress is scarlet, short, strappy and figure-hugging, my heels are sling-back stilettos, my lipstick is porn-star red. I look in the mirror and smile. Then I kiss the mirror and say, ‘You’re smoking, Delilah!’ Finally I’m confident enough to face everyone at the dinner table.
Five minutes later, I yank off my dress, kick off my heels and hurriedly wipe off my lipstick. ‘You look like a tart!’ I say to myself, my confidence shaky again.
In just my bra and panties I sit on my bed and ruin a good manicure with my teeth. This is so not me. But then I remember the FBI, the freedom of the villagers, my grandchildren and its back to my slutty dress, my hooker heels and my porn-star lip gloss.
I’m late for dinner so I hurry along. They better notice. Diablo better notice – these stilettos are pinching my toes. How the hell does Paris walk in six inch heels with such ease?
The moment I enter the dining room, conversation ceases. Diablo slowly rises to his feet, mouth agape.
Easier than I thought. Suppressing a smile, I take my seat.
Everyone is staring. I’m somewhat pleased. Embarrassed, but secretly thrilled. I’ve never been able to bring conversation to a halt before.
Christa eyes me, a fixed smile to her garnet lips. ‘Gringa is looking very ... different today,’ she scoffs, her eyes sweeping over me.
Bitchface is talking to me? I didn’t know we are on speaking terms again after she whipped my ass and incapacitated me for three weeks. And how come Diablo has just forgiven her like that? I got a good mind to break her other leg with my stilettos.
‘Why? You going to a ball or something, eh gringa?’
Lots of laughter around the table. Santana’s laugh dominates.
Suddenly, I feel like an idiot and I resist the urge to run back to my room.
Using my middle finger (A move I learnt from Paris) I slowly move my hair aside from my heavily made up face and smile sweetly. Usually, I’d use my middle finger differently.
‘I sure am,’ I say, in what I hope is a Marilyn Monroe voice – you know – soft, breathy. ‘And ...’ I look at Diablo from under my lashes, ‘I’m taking Diablo with me, so don’t wait up, ’cos we may be late.’
‘Oooooh!’ the men chorus, while Christa slams back in her chair, a granite look in her eyes. Bet that’s not the response she expected?
Santana picks at the table with her steak knife.
Diablo raises both his bushy eyebrows but does not smile or join in the chorus.
I hold his gaze and tilt my head to one side. He gives me the slightest of nods and spends the rest of the evening ogling me, pissing off Santana and Christa.
I ignore their barbs and focus on my target.
After dinner, in a sweet voice I say, ‘Diablo, may I be excused? Please?’
He nods and is unable to mask the appreciation in his eyes.
‘Thank you,’ I mouth and reward him with a coy smile.
I leave the table and sashay away. Halfway through the room, I turn back to see if he is looking. Everyone, including him is leaning over their chairs, watching my ass. Self-conscious and scared of toppling over in these hells, I carefully walk away.
I lie in bed thinking about the power and attention I commanded simply because I looked hot. No wonder Paris gets away with everything. Being beautiful and sexy makes a woman instantly powerful. I like it. I could easily get addicted to it.
From now on, I tell myself, I’ll be dressing like that every day. It’ll take time and effort but what else have I got to do?