About two hours after Belle retreated to her workshop to mull over the consequences of her argument with Mr. Gold, the department store called to take her sizes. Two hours after that, a courier arrived with her dress. As she held up the almost sheer, practically nonexistent golden cloth and matching stilettos, the real implications of her deal started to set in. Gold wanted her to look like a woman he'd paid for. She bit her lower lip, full of irony without humor. In a very round-about way, he had paid.
Belle wasn't a stranger to the city's high-end night life. She didn't go to charity balls or galas, but she attended her fair share of museum benefits and gallery openings. She knew she would look ridiculous, but supposed that his reputation could take the hit. After her little "chat" with Regina Mills, though, she wasn't all together sure that hers could.
The blasted man might as well have asked her to clean a house in a ball gown. She was going to be completely out of place, and probably embarrass herself greatly. The city was vast, but there was no way she could get out of this unscathed. At least one of her colleagues would be there, possibly as many as five or six, not to mention trustees for the metropolitan museums.
Belle sighed. No one determined her fate but she. She would just have to find a way to wear the thing with dignity. Tentatively, she slipped it on behind the locked door of the employee's washroom. It was worse than she thought.
Her dress, if a polite person could call it that, tied as a halter around her neck and fell in a wide cowl-neck that ended several inches below her breasts. The back was entirely absent, ruling out a bra, and it only rejoined the rest of the garment a devastating three inches above her rear. For the life of her, Belle wasn't sure why they hadn't just made the wretched thing an apron and spared her the insult of adding a skirt.
It seemed her saving grace would be her height. These dresses were sewn for women who stood at a respectable 5'10'' or 6' tall. Belle was 5'2'' and – for once – thankful. The dress might have ended just centimeters below the apex of her legs if she was any taller, but at her height it fell closer to mid-thigh. And that was it. It covered her breasts, stomach, bum and unmentionables. In that respect alone, the golden, clingy scrap of fabric could be called a dress.
Part of her wanted to cry. To throw a tantrum, call him a beast and stomp her feet until he let her out of the deal. But then Mary Margaret would have to wear this dress, she realized. It was time to be brave.
If she wore her hair down, she could give herself a little more cover on the top-side of things. A few pieces of double-sided tape could re-align the neck and conceal the sides of her breasts. As long as she didn't over-accessorize and didn't break her legs in the shoes, she might pull it up from trashy to just in questionable taste.
Belle took a deep breath, and she remembered how close Mary Margaret had come to breaking. Yes, she could definitely do this. In fact, if she picked out the triple-folded hem and tacked it back up with some fabric glue, she might even get another much-desired inch onto the length. She had to laugh at that, really. This dress, despite being tacky, came from a legitimate designer. Belle was willing to bet the daring Italian couture team would beat her senseless if they knew what kind of bargain-basement alterations she had in mind.
Let no one say her numerous art degrees went to waste. As soon as Belle arrived home on the train, she slipped off her bra to avoid lines and set to work on the thing. About half way through her careful work with the hem, it struck Belle that it would be her first time going out in anything smaller than one of her demure, if somewhat Bohemian, sun dresses. She didn't even like laying out in a bikini at the beach. This was not a good night for anxiety or insecurity; she applied light eye makeup and lip gloss with all the severity of Pict in blue war paint. She thought Mr. Gold, the bullying Scotsman, would appreciate their symmetry.
The panic almost caught her again. She had very resolutely not thought about Mr. Gold as much as possible today. She had to compartmentalize that, if she wanted to remain civil all night. Nothing could have motivated him but humiliation and rage, and no amount of logic or extrapolation on her part would explain it away. When she finished curling her hair and scrubbing the last flecks of paint from under her nails, the driver rang. Belle pulled on a coat longer than her dress, felt momentarily silly, and threw her shoulders back proudly, despite everything. She was taped, glued and painted, but she was not going to break.
Mr. Gold was waiting in the back seat of the car when she arrived at the curb. The driver opened her door, helped her to her seat, and pulled away.
Gold struck her as quieter and more reserved than expected. She thought he would at least have commented on her knee-length cream pea coat, or made some derisive remark about her general state. Instead, he fiddled quietly with his blackberry. One could almost say he was fidgeting.
Ultimately, Belle was happy for the silence of the car ride. They arrived too quickly for her tastes, and she started mentally counting down the time before she would have to shed her protective outer garment and face the city. To her surprise, it was Mr. Gold who – rather smoothly, despite the cane – opened her door and helped her to her feet.
"I hope you're ready for this, dearie," he said quietly in his accented voice. It was the first time he'd addressed her since the fight.
Belle nodded and breathed deeply. "I gave you my word that I would be."
"Ah yes. Of course you're right – the deal is struck." And, on what Belle felt was a rather ominous note, he helped her out of her coat and turned to speak to the check-clerk.
Belle shivered a little, feeling completely exposed. A few raised eyebrows wandered by, but she knew it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been. She could feel proud, she supposed. She'd made the most of what she was given.
Gold, for his part, had the decency to look a little shocked. Good, Belle thought. Let him stew over how badly his little scheme had flopped. She wasn't classy, but she wasn't a tart either, and she was not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her balk. Nothing belied his sour mood except the dark, somewhat damning look in his eye. He offered her an arm on his strong side, and they walked inside.
Mr. Gold had her running around fetching him things all night, his eyes following her like a hawk. She realized about half an hour into the night why he'd demanded this deal, of all the things he could have asked for. He couldn't manage the flutes, handshakes, mingling, and conversation with flawless grace and keep a hand on his cane for balance. The over-all effect of him wouldn't have suffered much if he'd been forced to struggle through without an extra pair of hands – he still stood with an air of power and confidence so absolute that most people never noticed the cane – but it wouldn't have been flawless. The illusion of him would start to crack.
Even in her ludicrous heels, Mr. Gold still had a couple of inches on her in height. She knew intuitively that he would never sacrifice the small power advantage of bearing and stature by sitting all night. She wondered, passively, how much the injured leg really inhibited him. Clearly he was sensitive about it, but it didn't excuse the way he treated people. No one had any excuse to behave that beastly.
Belle was pulled from her quiet musing by a large hand on her bare arm. Not for the first time, she was thankful for the small curtain of cover provided by her loosely curled maple hair.
She turned to the interloper and smiled, wishing he would take his hand off of her arm. Mr. Gold was speaking to one of the charity directors, they were about half way through a thinly veiled pitch that the director had obviously rehearsed. He seemed unaware of their newest guest.
"Annabelle," grinned Gaston, his English worsened by drink. "I did not expect to see you on ze old gargoyle's arm tonight. Why you did not tell me you planned to come?"
Belle had to incline her head to meet his eyes, which were currently roaming everywhere but her face. Gaston easily dwarfed most of the men in the room.
"I didn't know I was attending until the last minute," she replied honestly. "Who are you here with?" Belle was absolutely positive Gaston could not afford a seat at this event on his salary. And if he could, he probably wouldn't choose to spend it on a charity.
"Ze charming Madame Sutliff." He nodded to an older woman gabbing quietly in the corner. Her clothes were a little too tight and she wore a little too much makeup, but Belle couldn't begrudge the woman her fun. After all, Mr. Gold had a partner close to half his age on his arm, too. Who was she to judge?
Ah, but Madame Sutliff wore a wedding ring on her left hand. That was either very nostalgic or very sloppy of her, and Belle wasn't sure that Gaston cared which.
"Come and meet her, I think she would love to find out who designed zis ravishing dress you are wearing." Gaston put his hand on the small of her back, where the skin was completely exposed, and started to push her toward the small group.
Belle's dress panic came flooding back all at once. She did not want to be made ridiculous by a gaggle of women. She did not want to draw attention to herself. She especially did not want Gaston's hands on her bare skin, drifting toward her rump. She dug in her heels and stood her ground.
"Sorry," she said, lying through her teeth. "I'd love to, but I think Mr. Gold needs a fresh drink."
"Nonsense, Annabelle," the Frenchman protested.
"Aye, boy," growled Gold. "I think you'll find that I do." He placed himself between the tall, forward man and Belle, then blindly passed her his cup. She took the excuse to leave gracefully and hurried away.
When she returned, Mr. Gold was standing alone and glaring daggers in her direction. Belle drummed up her courage and ignored it. Most of the people in this room had looked at her less than kindly through the course of the night, and she wasn't about to let one more gaze shake her resolve to make it through this encounter with dignity.
"Are you quite pleased with yourself, dearie?" Mr. Gold quipped when she handed back his cup.
"I'm sorry?" Belle was really doing her best to remain unaffected and not let her weariness or annoyance break through.
"You certainly made quite the scene there," he clarified. "People are staring."
Belle looked around the room, confused. "No more now than any other time tonight." Her eyes said everything her voice couldn't. You put me in this sad joke of a dress, Mr. Gold. What did you think was going to happen?
"We're done here," he replied softly, offering her his arm. "I'll take you home."
She took it, gratefully. She could have sworn she saw him stare down a few of her more obvious admirers. Gold folded her back into her coat quickly and signaled the valet. Belle thought he looked genuinely miserable, and even though he made her mad enough to spit nails she couldn't ignore that now – in the end – he was finally showing her mercy. The ball didn't end for another two hours, at least. He could have made her see it through to the bitter end.
As he was helping her into the car, her stomach gave an audible growl.
"Have you eaten, Miss French?"
"Er, not for a while, no."
Without asking her opinion, Gold ordered the driver to drop them off at an all night cafe in a quiet, relatively safe neighborhood. She hated how high-handed it all was, but enjoyed her mammoth muffin and chai despite herself. For his part, Gold stuck to Earl Grey.