I close my palm around the handle of the massive oak door and expect to have to put some energy into pushing it, but it opens effortlessly.
Of course it does.
The moment I step inside, the simplicity of my white dress slaps me in the face. There are no words to describe how many levels of underdressed I am compared to the sleek, shiny surfaces and exquisite paintings on the walls, each with a picture light above it.
And this is just a hallway.
"Name," a deep voice calls, startling me. I turn around and locate the source behind the door.
"Serena McLewis," I answer.
The man scans the long list he's holding, then continues to the next page. And the next page. I count four page turns. "You're not on the list."
Everything from his polished shoes to his perfectly knotted tie and his neatly gelled hair tells me he's not the type to let me in if I'm not on the list.
"James Cohen invited me."
He raises an eyebrow.
"You think I sneaked in?" I ask him incredulously.
His expression tells me that is exactly what he thinks. My casual, beach-appropriate dress isn't helping my case, either.
"Let her in, Loren," a young girl squeaks from the far end of the hallway, hurrying toward us. Loren instantly lowers the list and gestures me to proceed.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't have time to put you on the list," the girl says, looking genuinely distressed. As she comes closer, I realize she's not as young as I thought. Her round, dark eyes and the slight fullness of her face are misleading, but she must be at least seventeen. To my relief, she's wearing a robe. A beautiful one, made of silk, but a robe nonetheless.
"I'm Dani," she says.
She takes my hand before I get a chance to introduce myself and pulls me in the direction she came from. "We need to get you changed," she says. "You can't go to the party dressed like this."
I stare at her black, unnaturally perfect curls, biting my lip. I know my dress isn't much, but coming from someone dressed in a robe, the comment seems a little off.
"What party?"
“Ooh. You’re British.” Her eyes widen with delight. “My brother didn’t tell me that. And he clearly didn't tell you anything," she says, smirking and opens the door that marks the end of the hallway.
"James is your brother?" I ask blankly.
"I know, the similarities between us are asto
unding. I—"
The rest of her sentence gets lost in the sudden explosion of words and laughter filling the room in front of us. Two dozen women, most of them around my age, sit on a long row of chairs in front of a mirror that covers the entire wall. Behind each of them is a hairstylist, turning their hair into curls just as unnaturally perfect as Dani's. Three of the girls are fully dressed, and the mystery surrounding the party—or at least part of it—dissipates.
"It's a themed party," I say.
"Eighteenth century Venice." Dani winks. "My mother throws themed parties every year for charity. It's Venice this time. Let's get you a dress."
On the other side of the room are rows and rows of metal bars with clothes hangers holding long, festive chiffon and velvet dresses.
"I set some dresses aside for you," Dani calls over her shoulder as we make our way through the rows of dresses. "Let's look at those first, and if you don't like any you can look for something else. Unfortunately, there won't be time to have your hair done because my lovely brother sent Peter far too late to fetch you."
"No problem," I say, trying not to sound too relieved that I get to keep my hair as it is. "So, um… you live here with your parents?"
"Yep. James sometimes comes here on weekends. When he's not working," she says, rolling her eyes, clearly disapproving of her brother's workaholic tendencies. "But I actually prefer it if he doesn't come here. Gives me an excuse to go down in San Jose."
Of course, Silicon Valley's capital. Where else could he live? The back of the room is marked by yet another mirrored wall. Thankfully, there's no one in front of it. In the left corner is a small open wooden closet containing five dresses.