andhiswife | (no subject)

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nina zenik

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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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"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.

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