Elizabeth's Playlist for Chapter Seven:

▪︎ Promises - Sam Smith, Calvin Harris
▪︎ Mk - 17
▪︎Don't you - Simple Minds
▪︎ You should see me in a crown - Billie Eilish
▪︎ Youngblood - 5 Seconds of Summer
▪︎ Trouble - Taylor Swift
▪︎ Bodak Yellow - Cardi B
▪︎ Almost - Hozier
▪︎ Hair - Little Mix
▪︎ History - One Direction

Elizabeth

I had to leave Axton’s to go to work. As I left, I left heavy; I wish I could have prolonged my stay.

Now, walking down the movie-famous Fifth Avenue, looking for a place to get some more coffee, I can’t help but question my reasons. Axton has a pull on me, the attraction is imminent and inescapable. I can only wonder when I’m caving.

Despite not being nice customarily, in the last twenty-four hours, he’s been quite charming. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that amiability is his trademark; his killer smile and stare undeniably are.

I am unsure whether last night means we’re friends. Certainly, he doesn’t think we could be more than that. Right?

Like an answer from above, my phone vibrates. It’s Ax. Thanks for the pancakes, it says.

That’s cute, it hasn’t been long since I left, and he’s initiating further contact. Huh. What was I saying again about him not being friendly? Well, maybe friendly isn’t the appropriate word here, more like flirtatious; that’s better suited.

Thanks for the bed, I reply.

I am flirtatious myself, guilty as charged. Sue me, the man is hypnotizing; not even the Old Gods or the New Gods of Westeros would blame me for lack of judgment in this instance.

__________

I am barely on time for my radio show; I arrive out of breath and absentminded at the office. I push the door open, knocking the headphones off the tiny table and enter stumbling on forgotten chairs in my way. The office is a bit too small to be comfortable and when messy, more suffocating. Then, out of nowhere, I miscalculate and hit my pinky on a table leg. Shit!

I loathe getting the shift after Ryan; he transforms everything into mayhem. His mess is sprawly, its tentacles spreading everywhere. Not that I am an example of organization, but at least, I don’t leave furniture in people’s paths to be tumbled over. That’s a work accident waiting to happen for God’s sake.

I get to my booth relatively sound. Despite it being minuscule, I don't mind. It just means that nobody can enter while I'm here, thus, making it a safe place of sorts for me. This is where I can unwind and disconnect from my life outside these dark-painted walls.

I play my list in the midst of taking callers, playing requests and answering questions. That’s my routine in the show, I play songs, some chosen by me, some requests; people call and complain about their boring lives and heartbreaks; and occasionally, someone asks for advice.

Today, my head is in the clouds; better yet, it’s somewhere in the Upper East Side with some green-eyed Londoner, and my choices easily convey that. I jump from 80s nostalgia soundtrack “Don’t you forget about me", to fangirling One Direction’s “History”, going through Billie Eilish singing about burying people and finally landing on Hozier’s jazz references in “Almost”. I squeeze in some Elton John, Taylor Swift, Radiohead, Drake and Cardi B along the way, at some point.

The fact that I find myself this distracted and all over the place today, upsets me profoundly. I tend to over plan and be controlling in all aspects of my life. It is not my most alluring personality trait, I admit, but it’s just uncontrollable. Because of that, my playlists go about making sense. I like to think of them as telling a story; and today, the story is murky. It actually hasn’t been written yet, feelings and facts are as messy and blurry as my thoughts.

__________

At five in the afternoon, I find myself in front of Barneys waiting for Poppy; if we’re lucky, we won’t have to hit Bergdorf’s afterward.

Last time we went out shopping for the infamous dress for Mr. King's party, she twisted her nose at everything she laid eyes on. If it were me, I would have already bought about fifty dresses, but she liked none. Poppy is picky alright, but those were her nerves talking. Now, she has no more time, the party is tomorrow, with a new dress or no new dress.

Poppy comes up to me with a worried expression. “Hey, babe.”

“Popps, cheer up! We're going to do this! It’s merely a dress, a receptacle for your magnificence,” I try to encourage her.

She laughs. “Don’t you ever quit trying to make me feel better; I love it!”

“That’s more like it! There’s my girl!"

She grabs me by the hand, taking me inside. The monochromatic palette of the store is fabulous. It is glamorous, and still, an oasis of tranquility. A spectacular flight, at the heart of the ground floor, serves as a runway of sorts, providing the chance to see and be seen. The white terrazzo flooring, bronze display stands, and marble shelves make it all more undeniably luxurious. I sigh at the marvelous sight. 

On the second floor, I collapse into an olive velvet armchair, waiting for P. to scan the store. Surely, she’ll leave no rack left unturned. The poor sales assistant is doing her best to keep up with Poppy, sorting her every choice into garment racks.

She comes back skipping, carrying five dresses and a couple of rompers. “Ah! Look! I found many things, I think it is my lucky day!”

I hate having to be the reasonable one in this shopping scenario. “Popp, first things first. Does it have to be a gown or not?”

“Not! I mean… can you ever go wrong with a gown?” She frowns.

“No, but it would narrow our options considerably… Umm, and I’d drop the rompers if I were you.”

“I won’t let something as simple as a dress code crush my creative self.”

“Ok, ok.” Sensing my weakness, she drops all the dresses on me and goes back further into the store. Jeez. I couldn’t even buy my dress yet—if I’m ever buying a new one.

Nearby, there’s a teenager buying a top; the mother, with a long blonde bob and wearing a beige pantsuit, is trying to steer her daughter away from a piece of clothing definitely too see-through for her young age.

My best friend comes, with even more items, and starts showing me one by one. “This one is not a gown, it’s more like a cocktail dress…these all are.”—she says while holding a Dolce & Gabbana organza flowered dress—"Look at this rounded skirt! How gorgeous is that? And this one?”—she gets a bronze dress—"This Prada cloqué cocktail dress? Spectacular!

“You should choose something for you too, there are a couple of Saint Laurent there screaming out your name.” P. hands me some dresses. “Choose a couple and try them on!”

I go through the assortment: a stunning J. Mendel hand-pleated mousseline dress with a cape calls my attention and I give it to P. “This one’s for you, it’s mini, it has a cape and this blush color will flatter your complexion.”

“And this one has your name written all over it!” She holds a hanger excitedly.

She is right, it’s a black Saint Laurent crêpe de Chine blouson dress with constellations embroidered in silver throughout. It’s absolutely gorgeous.

I have an idea that might make things easier. “Let’s do something, you choose five for me and I’ll choose five for you. We have to at least try on whatever the other chooses. Deal?” I say.

“Deal,” she agrees.

I choose the blush cape dress; the Dolce flowered cocktail dress; a sexy navy pleated, metallic-finished velvet halter gown, with an open back and asymmetric hem with a slit; a perfect Balenciaga fuchsia mini-dress made of ruched velvet with a high neck, and a Paco Rabanne leopard print mesh dress, just in case she’s feeling extra sassy.

In the fitting room, Popp's choices are waiting. This girl truly knows me, her picks have my name written all over.

Fifteen minutes and five dresses later, I have made my choice: a silk Saint Laurent striped mini-dress, with a plunging V-neck trimmed with black sequins. The long-sleeved mini is entirely lavished with red and white sequins, beads and faceted jewels. Absolutely stunning.

P. has also made her choice. She chose the stylish and sexy Balenciaga fuchsia mini. I guess we’re all trying to be a bit daring today.

__________

The day of the party has arrived, I hope we get to have some fun. Poppy surely needs it, and I could also use a distraction right now. I wonder who will be there besides us and my beloved mother. Mr. King has a tendency to over invite people. Even though the party is for his birthday, a personal reason, I’m positive he’ll transform it into a networking opportunity.

I step out of the limo and look up at the massive hotel. You can surely rely on Henry King to rent the whole two last floors of a trendy hotel in Lower Manhattan for a birthday bash.

The elevator dings, opening its doors on the 18th floor. I immediately spot Popp's bright fuchsia dress, she looks dazzling.

The place is a modern interpretation of a classic pub, with a 1970’s twist in the best New Yorker style. The atmosphere is intimate and refined, with lingam wood floors, swank modular furniture, dark cinnamon glazed tile walls, and a fireplace on the far right.

The main area is mostly surrounded by panoramic windows spreading from floor to ceiling and providing views of Midtown, Wall Street, the Hudson River, and the bridges spanning the East River.

“Darling! You look incredible! If that low-cut was any lower, you’d be J.Lo with that Versace jungle dress. I already hear the noise from chins dropping on the floor." Poppy laughs amused.

I do a quick spin to entertain her. I can see that I caught the attention of some businessmen as well. Good. I flip my hair, putting on a show and giving them something to drool over. “You look incredible yourself, babe. How is it going so far?”

“Good, I met some of daddy’s friends. Some of his new business partners are young… and hot. I should introduce you to some of them. They could be our new shiny toys.” She winks, her eyes glowing with bad intentions.

“So, no more Josh?” I ask bemused.

“Yes on Josh, but he is not here, and he might not even come. I adore the man, however, I am growing tired of waiting around for him to notice that.” Her eyes no longer twinkle like they did seconds ago.

The elevator makes another sound, announcing the next guests' arrival.
P. is facing the elevator, and the moment its doors open, her eyes widen, crystallized with horror. She looks completely stunned, her mouth is agape and she falters, taking a step back.

I look at it and finally see what brought her to this state. I can’t believe this is going to happen.

I take a moment, calming myself down and walk towards the annoyance.