Chapter 8

I had been wrong; there were screens here after all, in the form of sliding blind-curtains. Greg pulled a folding screen out from the wall, rubbed his hands together as he looked at my hair, and clicked his tongue.

"Diana is gorgeous. Paint her portrait and call it done. But we can't leave the hair loose. Ponytail, braid, French twist, curls?" he offered seriously.

"What, you can do all of that?"

"I can."

"Then just give me a hood and invisibility mode. Can you? That's my final choice."

Greg smiled wide, showing perfect teeth, and picked up the comb.

"For that you need the special effects makeup people at a film studio, baby. My plan for today is classic London chic with a touch of modern. Are you ready?"

"What? N-no!"

I was the last to leave the makeup trailer, feeling like the heroine of a modern version of Pride and Prejudice. I wore fitted beige trousers that left no secrets about my figure, tall brown heeled boots, a cream shirt, a narrow jacket that emphasized my waist, a thin scarf, gloves, and a short soft cashmere coat the color of warm cocoa. Greg had styled my hair in a high, smooth ponytail, leaving a couple of curled light strands by my face "for airiness," as he put it. And as the finishing touch to the image of a young lady, muted scarlet lipstick, no less provocative for being subdued.

Overall, my severe look lacked only a whip, and I could easily have gone to train pit bulls. Instead, I followed the girls to the parade ground, the broad open area by the fountain, feeling awkward on a cosmic level. And the moment I noticed the guys ahead, that awkwardness gained a fresh, powerful urge to run away.

Oh no. I was not ready to see Demond, especially after yesterday's mini-dress disaster. Why, why couldn't I simply choose another partner, like that nice guy in... a mustard-colored checked cap with a green pom-pom, who was smiling at me.

God, what was that around his neck? A silk scarf? And corduroy breeches with tassels?

What a nightmare.

I think I need to pray to my stylist.

Then again... Demond should too. It looked like he didn't have a stylist at all.

Dennis stood apart from the guys, no gel in his hair, dressed in a simple black turtleneck and perfectly fitted trousers. Over them he wore a black jacket with a narrow collar, and gloves were tucked into his pocket.

He looked stylish for today. Too stylish, even. I would have completed his look with a horned helmet and put him in a villain's sequined cape so it could rustle in the wind like dragon scales and not mislead people. As it was, you looked at him and saw cold Mr. Darcy, only missing a pocket watch with a chain.

Of course he noticed me. Our eyes met, and we both frowned.

Great. Just super. The only thing louder than the joy on his face would be writing in giant letters on the fence exactly how thrilled he was to see me. And the second date hadn't even started yet.

Ahead of me, Yvette stumbled theatrically, and Margot gave the guys a coy wave.

"Hello, boys! Or are you all lords and sirs today? Ha-ha! And where is Crown Prince Valentine?"

The retro blonde, who adored being the center of attention, was dressed today in a pantsuit the color of strawberry yogurt, a white fur capelet, and long kid leather gloves. A little hat with a pheasant feather sat on her head, and white ankle boots were on her feet. Margot was clearly pleased with herself and, it seemed, genuinely felt like the star of the show. The same could not be said for her dark-haired friend.

Perfectly pretty Yvette looked as if an enemy had dressed her. Or a stylist with very strange taste. Already tall and thin, she walked ahead of me in a long wool dress the color of "autumn sadness" and a matching coat tightly cinched at the waist with a wide belt. A strange little hat with a veil sat on her head, vintage silver clip-on earrings shaped like tiny teaspoons dangled from her ears, and the silk gloves and patent ankle boots created the impression that the girl was about to open a boutique for antique porcelain dolls.

I even had to blink to truly believe I was seeing swinging spoons in her ears.

Kate the artist looked cute in black leggings, a felt hat with a round brim, and a short red half-coat. I did not have time to look at the other girls because my gaze fell on the guys... and it became clear that the stylist battle on Love at First Valentine was being fought to the death.

More precisely, for victory in the war for viewer attention at any cost. Even at the cost of grotesque spectacle and hype.

Mark the musician, a tall, thin guy with straight shoulder-length hair, was dressed in cropped trousers and a double-breasted jacket in a sixties style, apparently sewn from warm curtains from a former British colony. Beige loafers adorned his feet, burgundy argyle socks peeked out of them, and an old-fashioned Peaky Blinders-style cap sat on his head. Very stylish, really, if he had not pulled it almost down over his eyes, apparently portraying Thomas Shelby himself.

Margot's partner, a stocky guy named Vlad, fitness trainer and lover of motivational quotes, was also portraying a brute, only he had tried on the image of an aristocrat going for a stroll through the Scottish Highlands. A slightly overpumped aristocrat.

The guy wore a short tweed jacket and a fur vest with leather shoulder patches, which was dangerously strained at the seams. The starched collar of his white shirt reached practically to his ears, and the hem of a green large-plaid kilt fluttered above bare, goose-bumped, muscular ankles. High wool socks and black brogues gripped them with all their strength, the shoes shining like his ambitions.

The ambitions were easy to guess from Vlad's shoulders, pushed back to the limit, his stern face with its stone mask of "masculine charisma," and his gaze aimed straight at the nearest camera lens. His match Margot was walking in front of me, but meeting the blonde seemed to interest him less than catching a good angle and letting no one else into it.

Well, no surprise there. Right now everyone was looking toward the cameras and the director...

Everyone except Demond. He stood like a black mark on the white snow and burned holes through me with his stare, as if he dreamed of erasing me with an eraser.

I gave him the same look back and proudly turned away.

The crew had already managed to set up filming equipment and lights on the area in front of the mansion. The female director in a dark baseball cap and bulky jacket was giving commands to the camera operators, while assistants hurried around, removing cables from the visible part of the set. From the nearest trailer, Rita the assistant, curly as a little red lamb, burst out and ran somewhere with a large thermos in her hand.

I had absolutely no idea what to do when the director suddenly raised a megaphone and commanded loudly: