andhiswife | (no subject)

This is probably a terrible idea.

It's just that ever since Sweeney, of all people, put the idea into her head, she's had a hard time getting rid of it. Maybe it's because she saw a few women in suits up at Kagura over New Year's -- a reminder that such things are done, if not in large numbers. Or maybe it's because slightly looser formal wear seems, incongruously, like an easier stepping stone to manage than the unsettling normalcy of tight denim. Or maybe it's simply because there's no one to say she shouldn't, which is near enough to should that she can't help but consider it.

Consider it enough to want to try it. Maybe. Just to... to see what it would be like.

But she needs help, is the thing, and no idea who to ask. Thomas is entirely out of the question; she doesn't even want him to know she's thinking about this until she has her own thoughts in order. She considers Sweeney for a few seconds longer than she probably should, if only because he's the one who started this, but she can't imagine he'd be very, er... patient. And she needs someone who will be patient, and supportive, and kind enough not to tell her outright that she's being completely ridiculous, and reasonable enough to convince her she's not walking a bloody cliff's edge.

Which is how she ends up texting Nina to see if she's available for an outing, and shortly thereafter finding herself fidgeting on her doorstep like a first-time petty criminal. God, this is mortifying. She's already blushing, though hopefully that could be mistaken as a result of the chill, or the walk.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, then knocks.

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Nina jumps on the excuse to go out, and by the time Greta is at her apartment door, she is ready to go in a long maternity dress. It's been carefully tailored around her chest to avoid being entirely shapeless, but at nearly seven months on, she can't hide it anymore.

She tips her head when she realizes Greta is blushing. "I know my state is a scandal, but it can't be all that bad, can it?" she asks as she pulls her coat on and slips into a pair of flats. She pats her pockets to make sure she has everything before stepping out into the hall with Greta.

"Where are we off to? You were very mysterious."

Edited Date: 2019-01-08 06:50 pm (UTC)

Well, there was probably no surer way to jostle her out of her current state than by presuming a far more insulting cause for it, and Greta recoils a little, indignant on her friend's behalf. "You're--it's not a scandal," she insists, looping her arm through Nina's.

Well. Nina's not inherently scandalous. Greta's far less certain about their current mission.

"I, er, don't exactly know. The mall, I suppose? It's just..." she worries her lower lip beneath her teeth, then shakes her head at herself. She can't believe she's doing this, and her blush deepens as she searches for a proper approach to something that isn't all that proper to begin with. "I was... thinking... that I might like to, er... branch out, a little. In the, er... wardrobe department." She glances furtively over at Nina, both hoping and fearing that she'll just read her mind and figure out exactly what she's getting at.

"I'm a young, unattached girl about to burst, of course I am."

Maybe she isn't as much a scandal here as she might have been elsewhere, but she still turns heads now and then. Especially when she goes out to bars.

Nina lifts an eyebrow as they head toward the stairs. She tries to take the stairs as much as she can, still, even though she lives on the top floor. And going down is easier than coming up.

"Branch out like... trousers?" she tries, trying to sort out what exactly Greta means. She can't recall having ever seen Greta in pants, but maybe she's just missed it.

Greta tsks and levels an unimpressed look Nina's way. That may be true, but it's hardly her fault. And besides, Darrow is a bit more permissive of such things than the Village would have been. There's no cause to be so dramatic about it.

She divides her focus between explaining herself and making sure Nina doesn't stumble on the stairs, which results in a bit more dithering than she'd like, but, well. "Sort of?" she hesitantly admits. "I can't really imagine wearing jeans -- they all just look so tight -- but... oh, this is going to sound ridiculous. It was actually Sweeney who gave me the bloody idea, which shouldn't be a mark in its favor, necessarily, but, um. Perhaps a..." her voice drops a dozen or so embarrassed decibels, "... a suit...?"

She can feel her cheeks turning scarlet. She's probably a fair match for Nina's dress, at this point.

"A suit? I think you'd look terribly dashing, actually, if we find the right one," Nina muses, trying to hide a smile because she thinks Greta might keel over if she sounds like she'll take too much pleasure in the search.

"Good, this is perfect. I'll help you with some suits and you can help me, maybe, settle the matter of baby names," she sighs, long-suffering. "I always meant to talk about it with Geralt, and we batted a few back and forth but-- well. There was time yet to settle on anything."

And now he's gone, and a momentary sadness passes through her but Nina tries to push it down. Nina puts a smile back on.

"Are you worried about what Thomas will think?"

Nina's response surprises her on several fronts. That she sounds so calm about it is... well, it's one of the reasons she'd turned to her in the first place, if she's being honest with herself, but it still wasn't something she quite dared to expect. Nor does she know quite what to do with 'dashing' as a descriptor. It's not a word she thought she'd ever have applied to herself, in jest or -- if such a thing is possible -- fittingly.

She remembers Chloe with an internal pang, and thinks it might be quite nice to be dashing, if she could.

The thought of helping with baby names perks her up a little. In a perfect world, she wouldn't have to be a sounding board, but she would like to help. She glances over at Nina's wavering expression, and gives her arm a comforting pat. "Just name the baby after me," she advises with a small, gentle smile. "Problem solved."

Of course, Nina's next question cuts straight to the heart of her anxiety, and she covers her face with her free hand. "Desperately. I suppose it matters most what I think, because if I don't like it, it'll just have been a lark and it won't matter. But..."

But what if she does like it? Thomas has never objected to her fashion choices before, but they've also never strayed all that far from what was typical of her time -- or his. Necklines are more daring these days, and hemlines shorter, and she's worn sleeveless gowns before, but even the most daring ballgown feels a far cry from a suit. He might not want anything to do with it. She might look like a child playing dress-up out of his closet, to him.

It is too much to worry about too soon, but here they are, and she suddenly has to swallow past the lump in her throat.

"Well, he'll be an idiot if he thinks you don't look good, and more of an idiot if he thinks it's improper," she says airily. She squeezes Greta's arm. "Stop that panic or I'll have to try to fix it. Come on, it's going to be lovely fun trying things on and if you don't like it, that'll be that. But if you do, then I'm hauling you off to Krem's and treating you to something nice."

She has more money than she knows what to do with, and burning through it will hardly make a little dent in the nest egg she has tucked away, just in case.

It says rather a lot about her mental state that she almost asks if Nina wouldn't mind just manually turning her anxiety down a few notches. Probably quicker, that way. But it doesn't seem right to ask a heavily pregnant woman to do anything more strenuous than provide moral support, so she makes herself take a few slow, deep breaths, until her heart isn't beating quite so hard, and the danger of outright weeping subsides.

She's being ridiculous. Even if it does turn out to be nothing more than a bit of dress-up, it's harmless enough. And since when has she let the prospect of her partner's poor opinion stop her from doing something she had a mind to?

Well. It's not just Thomas's poor opinion that worries her. And fancy dress has an inherent frivolity she's never presumed the world owed her, unlike an un-Cursed home and a healthy family. It's a lark, as she said, not a bloody moral crusade.

But Nina's level-headed attitude helps. "Thank you," she says sheepishly. Then, feeling compelled to defend her partner, she adds, "I don't think he'd be too fussed about propriety, really." She's successfully coaxed him over a few lines in the sand already, leaning heavily on the fact that so many things in Darrow don't matter the way they did back home.

"It's just that he might not like it." And however much she likes it, she can't imagine comfortably going about in trousers or suits if Thomas isn't a fan. Half the fun of dressing up is doing it for someone besides yourself.

The insistence on treating her earns Nina a startled look. "I--that's not--" she gives her head a brisk shake. "For goodness' sake, you're having a baby. You're not spending that sort of money on me."

Nina rolls her eyes. "If I told you how much money I have in the bank, you'd have a heart attack and then you'd hit me for saying the number out loud in public. And, thirdly, you'd probably want to know what I did to get that money. So suffice to say, I have money, and I'll buy you a suit if you think it's too frivolous. I love frivolity."

She manages to sound prim at the last part as they leave the stairwell. Nina adjusts her coat - it's too small and she can't really close it over her belly, but it'll keep her warm none the less. Besides, she can be her own walking heater if she wants to.

Greta lets out a soft hoot of mingled surprise and objection. She doesn't doubt Nina's telling the truth, but this is the first she's heard of the girl being so fabulously wealthy that a bespoke suit is something she can buy on a whim -- not even her own whim, but someone else's. Greta's doing well enough for herself, but she would still have to budget around such an indulgence.

"How--?" she starts to ask before cutting herself off. Nina clearly doesn't intend to give details. After a few moments of silent struggle, she finally comes up with a carefully articulated, "Should I be concerned?"

"It was a gift from home," she says with a dry smile. "One of my associates from home got it last year. Payment for a job we did. My share is... enough to keep me comfortable for a long time, if I'm careful. And I have a regular income anyway. The only thing I paid for recently out of my stash was the materials for Geralt's cabin."

Another flicker of sadness, but also a sort of fondness. She'd liked sitting with Dorian and watching Geralt and Bull and Krem work on the cabin. Now two of those men were gone, and she missed them.

"Sorry," she says after a moment with a little hiccup. "I've had quite enough of losing people lately, you see."

Edited Date: 2019-01-09 01:33 am (UTC)

The explanation manages to both reassure and surprise her -- mostly because she's not accustomed to Darrow's gifts including things like 'obscene wealth.' Usually it seems to aim for items that will bring the receiver to their knees, either literally or emotionally. Not a bad stroke of luck, all things considered.

Greta shakes her head in response to Nina's apology. "There's no need to apologize," she says, gentle but firm, as she shifts to wrap one of her arms around Nina's shoulders. "You've had rather a rough go of it."

She gives her a gentle squeeze, and a minute to compose herself, before asking, "So, where exactly are you taking me?"

Nina leans into Greta for a moment, taking comfort in the embrace. "We're going to Bardolf's. I know they'll have ready-made things for you to try on. I'd haul you to Krem's, but I don't know what he has on the racks yet."

She knows that he's trying to go into selling ready-made as well as his tailoring and bespoke business, but she hasn't thought to ask how far along he is in all that. Bardolf's will be easy.

Bardolf's -- that's where Biffy works, isn't it? For a heart-stopping moment, she wonders if they'll run into him there, and how on earth she'll explain herself. Then it occurs to her to wonder if Biffy would even mind; he might just as easily provide enthusiastic assistance.

Then, of course, she realizes it's all rather a moot point. He wouldn't be working during the daylight hours.

"I didn't realize he was aiming to have things on the racks," she admits, as much as a distraction as out of genuine curiosity. She knows a little of Krem's business, largely by way of Aggie and Bull, and had got the impression he did tailoring and made things to order. "Is he branching out, then?"

Perhaps that means he's dreadfully busy, and that even Nina's backing wouldn't result in anything ready to wear between now and whenever she loses her nerve.

"He is, and he's looking for models. Oh, how precious would it be - you, Thomas, and Saoirse all in suits. Finery for the whole family," she says, sweeping her arms like she's reading it on a billboard or something. Nina flashes a smile and bumps her hip against Greta's as they walk. "Perfect advertising."

Nina hiccups a bit and looks down at her belly almost reproachfully, then smooths her hand over it. "I swear this child sleeps but two hours a day and spends the rest of it kicking me in the liver. Or lodging its saints-beloved head under my lungs."

Greta barks out a laugh, pressing her free hand to her reddening cheek. "I've only just talked myself into trying something like this, and you already want me suited up, photographed, and slapped onto a bloody billboard. And that's all assuming I'm even allowed, with all the Bake-Off contracts I had to sign."

She'd have to check them again for specifics, but there might be something about not using whatever notoriety the show gave her to advertise for other things. It's not a detail that had stuck with her, as it wasn't something she could quite imagine at the time -- anyone caring enough what she thought to go out and buy things, en masse, on the strength of her recommendation.

Nina hiccups, and Greta bites back a smile. "You've a rowdy tenant, I take it." It's the sort of thing she'd expect Nina to technically be able to use her magic for, but she also wouldn't blame her for not wanting to meddle with her unborn child that way.

"I can't imagine they'd keep you from using your newfound notoriety for a little extra cash. So long as the ad isn't proclaiming anything about the Bake-Off." Nina has read a lot of contracts in her life, but she has to imagine the most the show would ask for is that Greta not use their name to make a profit.

"Sometimes rowdy, other times I end up eating something spicy just to make sure we're still alright," she says with a faint smile at her belly. "I can usually hear its heartbeat, though, if I just listen quietly."

It's the same way that she'd hear someone else's, the only difference is that this little heartbeat is inside of her.

"Sometimes I do a little something to calm it down, but for the most part I've tried to be hands off. I'm not a healer and I don't-- I don't really know what meddling would do," she confesses.

That may be true, and Greta hums, conceding the point. She's still not sure she wants her photo plastered all over the city, though. Being famous for Bake-Off just means she's famous to anyone who went through the time and effort of tuning in, because they already had the interest. She's still nobody to most of the people she comes across.

It also means she's famous for baking, which she knows how to do well. On the other hand, it would feel rather disingenuous to model herself as some fashion-forward icon when she hardly intends to walk about looking immaculate all the time.

"My arm would beg to differ," she says, giving Nina a light, friendly nudge. She's certainly capable of healing to a point, and Greta hasn't had so much as a twinge since she worked her magic. "But a baby is a delicate thing to meddle with. I don't blame you for taking care, on that front."

"I can heal, but I'm not a Healer. It's two sides of the same coin," she says with a shrug. But she's glad to hear that Greta is doing well, with no side effects. "Besides, Inej has been on me to be careful since I really started showing. She's read more books about babies and having babies than I knew existed."

She knows Inej desperately wants a family of her own someday, and that having a friend that's pregnant is a strange practice run of learning and helping.

"Good for her," Greta says with an approving smile. Half the fun of being pregnant is being fussed over, though she also knows how tiresome the fussing of others can become. "Presuming she hasn't worn you out, yet. Darrow does seem rather fascinated with babies as a concept." A lot of it, she suspects, is just a matter of wanting to sell people things -- baby books, baby clothes, baby toys, baby transport -- but that's on top of an existing inclination for people to have opinions. Never mind if said opinions are informed or not, let alone solicited.

It's not the main reason she's so leery of going down that road with Thomas, but it's certainly a factor.

"No, not yet. I've been rather careful about drawing lines in the sand, and she's been sweet about understanding, at least. Though she still makes little noises if she sees me have more than one cup of coffee," she says with a shrug.

"I don't even have a name picked out. It felt like everything could wait and then-- Well, I didn't imagine I'd be doing all this on my own."

"You're not," Greta says, her tone gentle, but firm. She knows what Nina meant -- that she didn't expect to have the father out of the picture so soon -- but it's still a bit rich to go from discussing a friend's enthusiastic involvement to speaking as if she's been wholly abandoned in the space of a breath. "You have lots of friends at your beck and call. You'll have to shove us all out the door just to get a moment's peace."

She pats Nina's arm, then says, "Tell you what: you help get me into a suit without any embarrassing public meltdowns, and I'll help you think up names. You must have a few ideas picked out."

"I'll do my best," she promises. "Really, I think you'll be surprised how good you look."

She steers them into Bardolf's revolving door and stays close to Greta, keeping her gentle but firm grip on her arm as they had toward the escalators and men's wear.

"I have a few rolling around, but-- well, Geralt had some ridiculous ideas but I was at least depending on us having a discussion about it."

Greta can feel her pulse quicken and her cheeks prickle as they make their way towards the men's wear section. Which is absurd, really, because she's been there before in the not too recent past. It's where she and Saoirse found Thomas some cufflinks that subtly matched the jewelry he'd gifted them on the solstice, with a little help from Biffy.

But she's never been there to shop for herself.

"Well, we needn't entertain the ridiculous ideas," she says, grateful for the distraction even as she finds it a little hard to focus. "Did he seem to like any of yours more than others?"

"We both liked Rhiannon, that was one of his suggestions," she admits as she lets Greta go and starts pawing through suit jackets. I liked the idea of Alina Rhiannon... or the other way around, maybe?"

She pulls something off the rack and holds it up to Greta with a discerning look. The trouble with men's suits is they're built for, well, men. Greta will be more narrow in the shoulders, but that isn't going to stop Nina from trying. She'll just stick to smaller sizes and be creative with imagining how it will look tailored.

"Katerina Alina. Eric Aleksy. Hold this, we need to find trousers."

It’s with mingled surprise and relief that Greta watches Nina dive right in. She hadn’t expected the other woman to take charge quite so readily, but it’s far better than the alternative. Beyond her limited experience of helping Thomas get all done up for parties, she hasn’t the first clue where to begin.

“That has a nice rhythm either way,” Greta notes after repeating it a few times in her head. “Bit like a waltz.”

She accepts the clothes Nina thrusts at her, managing not to make any absurd, wordless noises when she mentions trousers. God, they’re actually doing this.

"I love waltzing," she sighs. Nina plucks up a simple white button-down in passing and hands it off to Greta. Trousers are a little more trouble, mostly because men's trousers are always measured and sized differently, but after some hemming and hawing and holding things up to Great, Nina finds something she thinks will fit.

As she heads for the dressing rooms mid-way between men's wear and women's formal, Nina plucks up a tie.

"Now, let's see how this all looks."

"It is fun, isn't it?" She supposes that's one mark against suits as party wear: the loss of any flaring skirts as Thomas twirls her around the floor (presuming, of course, that he has no other objections, and a hiccup of panic briefly chokes her as she wonders if he'd even want to dance with her if she was dressed similarly to himself).

But then she remembers the way Sweeney had looked when he'd insisted she'd look fantastic. And she realizes that fleeing now wouldn't make her feel better as much as it would make her feel cowardly.

No sense in getting ahead of herself. She'll try the bloody thing on, see how she feels about it, and save worrying about Thomas's opinion for when it actually becomes relevant.

"Right, I'm going to need all the help," she mutters, ushering Nina into the dressing room as if they're being pursued. "I mean, I have a good idea of how it all goes; it'll just be like--like undressing Thomas, but backwards." She realizes how absurd she sounds only after the words have left her mouth, and then she groans under her breath, her eyes falling shut so she won't have to see whatever face Nina's making.

Nina helps Greta hang up each item on the hooks in the room. "Alright then then, down to your underthings," she says with a gesture as she starts unbuttoning the shirt and the trousers. "I don't think they'll fit quite right without proper tailoring, but I think we can get a good idea of how it'll look - and it'll give you an idea of how it all feels."

She doesn't balk at the idea of another woman undressing with her in the stall. The Second Army didn't have separate barracks for boys and girls, so they'd all gotten over each other fairly quickly.

When Greta mentions undressing Thomas backwards, she peers over her shoulder and gives a wink. "Just like that."

Greta casts her eyes heavenwards as she starts to shuck off her clothes. It doesn't even occur to her to be bashful about it with another woman, especially a friend, and she had the sense to wear a separate skirt and blouse, rather than one of her more involved dresses.

"No, I wouldn't have high expectations for something right off the rack," Greta absently agrees. That, at least, is very familiar territory; almost everything she owns she either made to measure or tailored to fit. She understands the convenience of buying off the rack, and there are items that don't have to fit perfectly, but she's not used to going about in things that are only sort of her size.

Once she's down to just her underthings, she takes a breath and motions for the trousers. "Might as well start with the weirdest bit."

"Do you really not like pants?" She's curious, mostly because she embraced them before ever coming to Darrow, when the need arose.

Nina smiles and hands over the trousers. She finishes unbuttoning the shirt and passes that over next, tipping her head as she watches Greta get dressed. She can see the possibility, certainly.

"It's not about liking them or not," she starts to argue, before realizing that isn't entirely true. "Well. I don't like the look of jeans. They're all too clingy -- the women's ones, anyway." They look more like thick hose than anything else, and while she can understand the reasoning behind wearing little but glorified undergarments to the beach, she wouldn't want to wear them round the shops. The entirety of Darrow doesn't need to know the exact shape of her arse. "And I've never had cause to try anything else, really."

These trousers, at least, are a far cry from skinny jeans. It takes her some awkward maneuvering to get into them, and some of the looseness is doubtless down to them being the wrong size for her, but they're not designed to lie like a second skin. They're sort of silky, actually. She lifts first one foot and then the other like a fractious horse, then hums in a manner that's uncertain, but not displeased. The shirt is easier to manage, despite having many more buttons, and she tucks it in before looking up at Nina.

She doesn't quite have the courage to turn around and face her own reflection in the mirrors behind her. "What do you think?"

Nina digs into the pockets of her dress to find some bobby pins. She takes some of the extra room in the waist of Greta's trousers and pins the fabric together, giving a slightly more tailored look. She helps Greta into the jacket to complete the look and gently coaxes her to turn toward the mirrors.

"Button the front," she suggests. As Greta does, Nina carefully pulls the fabric on the back of the jacket, giving a better idea of Greta's waist under it all.

"You really do like dashing, darling."

Nina doesn't answer right away, instead pulling out a handful of bobby pins and taking in some of the surplus fabric, pinning and adjusting until it all lies a little more as if it's been tailored to her. Which makes sense -- it's hard to have an informed opinion of an outfit that looks as if you've stolen it off someone else's laundry line -- but still leaves her nerves a little frayed by the time Nina finally nudges her around to look in the mirror.

"... Oh," Greta says quietly, blinking at her own reflection. It feels a little like when she first saw Sara: someone with a shared face but few other similarities to speak of. Because she, naturally, would never wear anything like this. Except that she is. Her back straightens unconsciously, and she makes an astonished little noise before finally forming a full sentence. "It's... it's not bad." She could be talking about the look of it or the feel of it; either way, she's failing to manifest any of the shame she'd anticipated over this sartorial deviance.

But she can also recognize that there's something off about it -- something besides the imperfect fit, which Nina's bobby pins can only do so much for -- and after a moment of pensive self-study, she murmurs, "I'd have to do something different with my hair..."

Nina grins, peering over Greta's shoulder as the woman takes herself in. "We could put it up. Slick it back, like a man's style. Or we could do something very feminine but still pulled back," she muses, considering different looks.

She lets go of the jacket so she can gently pull Greta's hair back into a twist. She holds it in one hand and reaches around to tug a few strands of hair loose to frame her face.

"I think people would fall over if you walked into a party like this, darling. And I mean that in a very good way."

"I don't know about making it masculine, just... a bit less 'harried baker,'" Greta says with a small, shy smile. The contrast between the sharpness of the suit and the windswept state of her hair is rather glaring, albeit easy enough to fix.

As Nina soon demonstrates, pulling it back into a temporary twist, fiddling with it a little until there are a few loose strands hanging artfully around her face. She looks like... well. She looks like the sort of woman she might gawk at during some party or other, stunned and perhaps a little impressed by such a bold fashion choice. (And then, of course, she'd feel silly for being so surprised by something that is hardly unprecedented, and only as striking as it is because she's a bit of a bumpkin, still.)

Well, look at the bumpkin, now.

Suddenly, she's grinning. "Can we try a waistcoat instead of the jacket? I want to see how that looks."

Nina just cackles gleefully and lets go of Greta. "You wait here," she says as she leaves the dressing room on a mission. She paws through a rack of waistcoats until she finds something that she thinks will fit.

She comes back and takes it off the hanger once she's back in the dressing room.

"People's jaws will hit the floor if you do this, you know. And I mean that in a good way. Saints, but you look so terribly dashing."

She knows she's used that word already, but it really does fit, she thinks.

"We can find you some nice heeled boots to give you a height boost."

Greta spends the interim pacing the dressing room, not out of restlessness, but just to get a feel for what walking in trousers is like. It would take some getting used to, she thinks, the fabric clinging in places it normally wouldn't. But it's just odd, not unbearable. She could cope.

Especially if it meant giving other people a delightful sort of shock. She turns in front of the mirror, taking herself in, and bites back another giddy smile.

She's shucked off the jacket by the time Nina returns, and she beams at the compliment. "You really think so?" she asks as Nina helps her into the waistcoat. "I've never been dashing before." That was a word reserved for Princes back home, or Knights. Not women, and certainly not peasant women. It's rather thrilling to think she might qualify, here.

With an amused snort, she adds, "We'll have to be careful with the heels. It'll spoil the whole effect if I fall on my face because I can't walk in the bloody things."

She buttons the waistcoat, then takes in the new look, her lower lip caught pensively between her teeth. "You know, if the blouse were different -- the sleeves a bit looser, maybe -- it might look a little more feminine, but no less formal." She still likes the way the suit had looked, but she's also wondering if it might be a little easier to adjust to a less extreme change.

"I think bell sleeves that are tailored to a cuff at the wrist would be lovely, actually," she says as she takes Greta in again and tucks the waistcoat at her proper waist. "Tailoring will solve a ton of your worries, too, in terms of looking feminine."

She can already picture it and she's really rather excited about the prospect. "I'll talk to Krem. Let me get you something bespoke, Greta, please. I know it'll cost a bit but I'm not even going to miss it, I promise you."

"Exactly that," Greta says with a nod, both surprised and almost alarmed by how easy it is to picture. And it would look good, wouldn't it?

She hesitates at the offer, mostly on principle. Part of her wonders if it'll be worth going the bespoke route if she ends up with something her fiancé finds off-putting; she doesn't want Nina to spend a significant sum on something that might end up quietly stuffed into the back of her closet. But then again, he might love the new look. And if he's on the fence, it might be easier to convince him if she's wearing something perfectly tailored and not trying to sell him on a work in progress.

Besides, if all goes as well as it possibly can and she decides she wants to expand her options, she could probably buy things off the rack and tailor them, herself. They needn't break the bank for every single item in a rotating ensemble.

Greta exhales, playfully defeated. "Just this once. I won't have you buying me an entire bloody wardrobe, and that's final." Her stern look melts into a shy smile, and she adds, "Thank you, though. For all of this." She wouldn't have had the nerve to do this on her own.

Nina squeaks happily and claps her hands. "Thank you! I promise we won't go overboard and I'll keep my hands off anything else you might want to do for yourself. But I think something bespoke - at least your first set of trousers, jacket, and blouse, will give you an idea if you want to have at it yourself or take in things or-- well, you know. Besides, I like giving Krem business. He practically made my maternity wardrobe for free."

Maybe her reasons are a bit selfish: she's dying to see Greta in a proper suit now, something made for her. She really does love seeing women discover something that makes them stand a bit straighter, see themselves different. She blames the flood of hormones for wanting to give Greta a little kiss just then.

"Maybe I'll get something too, just to even the bill."

Nina looks so thrilled by the prospect that Greta can just about convince herself that it would've been mean-spirited to refuse. And really, a pleasant distraction couldn't hurt. Just because Nina isn't a puddle on the floor, that doesn't mean she isn't having a hard time.

None of those things are enough to magically transform 'letting Nina spend an absurd amount of money on her' into an act of pure charity on Greta's part, but at least it helps allay the discomfort she had with the idea.

So she grins, even as she starts to change back into her own things, passing Nina first the waistcoat, then the blouse. "Oh, you should!" she says, both because Nina ought to get something out of this besides satisfaction, and because the whole thing will be more fun and less intimidating if she's not the sole focus. "Then we'll both have something to show off at the end of it."

"Let's go get something to eat," she says as Greta passes her clothes to hang up again. She isn't very hungry yet, but she knows that if she lets it go, she's going to be starving before long. She can't believe this baby is still growing, but far be it from her to refuse to eat after some ridiculous notion of maintaining her figure. Her figure was currently that of a beach ball and she just has to deal with it.

"Then maybe we can stop by and see Krem to put the idea in his head and take some measurements. I have no idea what to ask him for, but he's creative. I'm sure he'll think of something I had no idea I wanted until he suggests it."

"Only if I'm treating you," she insists as she pulls her own things back on. It's both a relief and oddly disappointing to be back in her familiar trappings -- not unlike the feeling of stepping back into their bakery after her first sojourn into the Woods. But this is different, because there's already another proverbial trip planned, and if all goes well, she might return to these Woods whenever she likes (or at least whenever the occasion calls for it). She doesn't have to be setting aside that small sort of adventure for good. "It's the least I can do."

Once she has herself back in order, she smooths her hands over her skirt and lets them out of the dressing room, helping Nina carry out everything. "I trust Krem is, er... discreet," she half-asks, eyebrows furrowed. She's fairly certain Thomas knows him, and though she isn't sure how often they talk, she doesn't want Thomas finding out about this from anyone but her.

"Krem is wonderful, and I'd trust him with anything. He won't go parading around, talking about your suit. And I won't complain about free food."

Nina smiles and laces her arm with Greta's after they hang the suit and shirt on a rack just outside the dressing room. "Am I allowed to come to all your fittings? I promise I'll let Krem do his job, I just want to watch."

Greta nods, satisfied. She trusts Nina's judgment, and she doesn't have such an inflated view of her own celebrity as to think there's a risk of him blabbing for the exposure.

"Of course," Greta says, giving Nina's arm a squeeze. "I'll need the support. You can keep reminding me that I look dashing." She won't be forgetting that word choice anytime soon, nor the giddy little thrill it gives her.