Visiting her father was the only time she dressed down for a public event. And visiting her father was always a public event. He was, and always had been, a man of the community. Any member of that community had to follow certain rules. When standing next to her father she was no exception.
She considered her extensive closet, ignoring the gowns and exploratory fashion. For the most part, anything she’d worn down the runway was not an option. Risque, abstract, elitist, snobby, promiscuous, she mouthed the words as she flicked her fingers over the hangers.
Everything found in her closet were creations she’d made herself or gifts from industry. She didn’t really buy clothes anymore. She didn’t need to between her night and day jobs. Her clients, most of whom had excellent taste as they were hers, kept the closet well stocked. She filled in the gaps with an eye for cut, stitch and color. But now, four hours before she was expected to play the conservative yet vivacious daughter at a campaign event she was at a loss. Suddenly the life she’d created for herself was entirely inappropriate.
She abandoned the rows of expertly stitched sendral, cambrisine, and fur and picked up her phone, fingers hovering over her mother’s number. It would be cowardice to bow out, but perhaps better for all of them. Sickness, anxiety, or maybe she had some pretentious event to attend, her mother would turn the lie into something her father could stomach. The women in her family were proficient at things like that. She took a breath and set the phone back on the bed. There had to be something here. Something that could turn her into the daughter her father needed for the night.