“Are you serious?” I asked slowly, “Is that really our best option?”
And my dad waved his hands around helplessly.
“I’ve tried the stock market, buying futures, investing in a New Zealand sheep farm, you know China doesn’t have a secure food supply, they’re interested in clean, fresh food from New Zealand and Australia, I thought the sheep farm was going to be just the thing,” he rambled.
But my mom cut in again with brutal efficiency.
“Your father,” she said with an icy glare directed his way, “has squandered what little we have left with his hair-brained get-rich-quick schemes. Unfortunately, Lord Sterling is nothing like his forebears, has no business sense, and has in fact lost whatever we had left,” she said bitterly. “So yes, we need you to marry rich, preferably to a multi-millionaire, preferably a billionaire.”
I sat back. Man, things really were dire, weren’t they?
“I didn’t know we were in so much trouble,” I said softly, looking down at my hands. “It sounds like we need a lot, a huge amount.” And Lady Sterling nodded sharply.
“That’s why we’re sending you away,” she said, her voice clipped. “To a finishing school in St. Venetia where you’ll go to all the right events, meet all the right people.”
“You mean, all the right men, right?” I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “I’ll be trotted out at parties, balls, society events so that I can be auctioned off to the highest bidder.”
And instead of sounding shocked or horrified, my mom smiled for the first time during the conversation, a self-satisfied, Cheshire cat grin that made me think she’d planned this all along.
“Exactly,” she said. “That’s it exactly.”
And so it was settled. Instead of going to college, instead of pursuing History or English as an undergrad, instead I was being shipped off to some finishing school-cum-wedding factory, where hopefully I’d find Mr. Right – provided that he had the right-size wallet.
And here I was today, standing at Miss Carroll’s as a wizened old lady studied me. It was downright embarrassing, I was wearing nothing but my bra and panties as she looked me over, poking and prodding with a wooden stick.
“Good bust, ample figure, tight waist, smart buttocks,” she mumbled to herself like I was a prized heifer. “Yes, you’ll do fine,” she cackled.
I was mortified at the inspection and could barely speak, fighting the urge to cross my arms over my breasts and bolt.
“Can I go now?” I asked, my voice tiny, barely able to look up from the floor.
“No, not yet,” she said, glaring at me over her rimless glasses. “All of our young ladies undergo beauty treatments to prepare for their assignations.”
Assignations? That’s what we were calling the roster of social events to attend, the multitude of polo games, yacht club parties, and other fancy-dress soirees? My shoulders slumped, thinking of the torture ahead.
But the old lady, Crikers I think her name was, summarily smacked me across the butt with the wooden stick.
“Ow!” I shrieked, grabbing my ass in pain. “Why’d you do that?”
“Young ladies stand up straight,” she sniffed, not at all disturbed. “You will stand up straight while you’re with us at Miss Carroll’s.”
And the searing, lancing sting on my behind made me stiffen immediately through my grimaces, the tears in my eyes.
“Fine, fine!” I groaned, wincing and rubbing my rump woefully. “Fine, whatever you say.” I just wanted to get out of there at this point, put on some clothes and nurse my wounds, mope about my lot in life.
But Crikers wasn’t satisfied yet. “Go and see the hairdresser first,” she said, “and then the manicurist, then the aesthetician, and then the …”
Because that’s how I spent the next few days. In the beauty salon, being waxed, buffed, and trimmed until I was a whole new version of me. And whoever says that beauty doesn’t hurt is lying. The ladies waxed every single part of me, hot liquid poured straight onto my private parts and then ripped off with a screech. Tears sprung to my eyes, I was sure this was a form of torture found only in the dungeons of Abu Ghraib, but I guess not. Evidently fashionable women all the way from New York to Canberra indulged in Brazilian waxes, getting their pink parts bare and nubile, completely hairless, soft, plush and puffy.
But not everything was so horrible. I admit, I love spa services as much as the next girl and luxuriated in the facials, the clay mask, the body wrap, the manicure. The pedicure, I have to say, was a bit weird. They have this new thing where you stick your feet into a basin with live fish in it, who then eat the dead skin off your soles. Isn’t that so gross? But I came out of that with feet like baby’s skin, my toes had never been so pampered.
And when we were done, I was buffed to a sheen, polished, pressed, looking and feeling like a million bucks. I was a whole new Tina, or in this case, Christina.
“We won’t be using Tina anymore,” sniffed Crikers, “too plebian.” God, she needed to get that stick out of her ass, Tina was a perfectly good name, people had been calling me that my whole life.
But I didn’t want to argue, so just nodded.
“Fine, I’ll be Christina from here on out,” I said stiffly.