Butterfly KISS

CHAPTER 1

I never saw myself as the kind of woman who would listen to talking butterflies, let alone talk back to one. Then again, if you’d told me I’d be admiring myself in a mirror, wearing a navy blue Armani suit intended for my boyfriend, I would have sworn you were under-medicated. But in fact that’s exactly what I was doing when the whole thing started.

The boyfriend was Larry Girard, who last night promised to be my date for an upcoming shindig if he was in town the end of February, and if he had something decent to wear. The first I could only leave to fate, or a pilfered airline ticket, but the second was easy. The fact that I’m taller than the average man may have caused a lifetime of agony, but at least it permitted me to reach the thing on the top shelf and to judge which of the exquisite garments around me was sufficient enticement. I slid into the Armani, looked at my reflection and considered the results.

I was gorgeous. Where had I been all my life?

The magic blue suit clung to curves I never knew I had, and there was no trace at all of “Amanda, Amanda, big as a panda.” I was supersized, yes, but graceful, and radiant from my about-to-frizz brown hair down to my flats.

It was hard to break the spell, but I forced myself to look away, afraid of being condemned, Narcissus-like, to an eternity of longing for myself only, such being the price of self-love.

My eyes stole back to the mirror. Just my luck, it took a man’s suit I would never wear to bring out my best.

What was I thinking anyway? An Armani suit costing $2,125 was a much too extravagant bribe, the act of a woman who would, for example, take her boyfriend’s clothes to the laundromat at one in the morning while he was home packing because he needed clean undies for his trip and his washer-drier broke. She would then scrounge around her Volvo looking for quarters for the machines and bang her head against the steering wheel, ultimately ending up with white underwear and a black eye.

Two grand.

I couldn’t justify spending that kind of money. Cheerfully as a dethroned Miss America giving up the crown, I swapped the suit for my own clothes, lamenting the reverse metamorphosis back to drab cocoon. A too tall, too big cocoon with a trademark grating laugh.

It was wrong to spend so much on one outfit. Who had money to blow these days? I could think of hundreds of better causes off the top of my head…well, maybe a dozen. The suit had felt like a cloud against my skin.

“Oh, buy it,” someone said. “You never treat yourself. It’ll look fantastic with a white shirt and that navy and purple tie you noticed on the way in.”

“You are so right,” I started to say, before realizing someone was peeking. I know privacy is dead and all that, but retail security cameras have really gone too far. Who owned this opinionated voice, and how did she know I never treat myself?

“But it’s more than two weeks’ pay,” I finally said. “What if there’s a cocoa bean shortage and the price of chocolate skyrockets? I have to be realistic.”

A snort. “Enough reality already. Isn’t it bad enough we have to tolerate real people taking over our TV shows? You don’t want to live like that, do you? Besides, it’s the Armani winter sale, 40% off.”

I stroked the silky fabric. I stroked the certificate of authenticity. Giorgio Armani, printed with planchettes so the name could be felt, like Braille for the rich. The voice was right, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d treated myself.

I hadn’t noticed a sale sign but it didn’t hurt to check, so I snapped open the dressing room door and retraced the burnished wooden road to the rack. Sure enough, 40% off. A quick calculation still brought the total to over a thousand. Wait, does that say take another 20% off at the register?

I’ll buy the suit, the heck with reality.

I gathered up the suit, a classy white shirt, and the navy and purple tie, and headed to the front to pay. The salesman took my credit card and I signed the receipt, ignoring the total.

“Nice suit,” he said, adding that the purple in the tie set off my hair.

“It’s not for me,” I said, but he’d already turned away. Probably deciding what to spend his commission on.

No matter. The important thing was that this year I’d have a date for the Miami ADDY Awards, the annual event for those of us in the advertising field. I wouldn’t be sitting alone at a table watching couples feed each other canapés. This year, I’d be feeding canapés to Larry.