The Path to Yourself. Aigerim Dautova

      ISBN 978-5-0062-8074-8

      Created with Ridero smart publishing system

      Chapter 1

      I should’ve washed my hair! Oh God, make me get up in time at least when I have to meet people! There’s no chance to leave work early. I could call in sick – Nah, Paul would give me away. The imbecile is a terrible liar! Rose contoured her lips with a pencil stub, slightly overlining them – just like the makeup artist in the yesterday’s reel.

      When Rose got to the party carrying a lemon pie, all the other guests were already there. She entered the brand-new apartment of her rich and successful former classmate, but no one noticed her. Everyone’s attention was locked on one woman who was talking about behind-the-scene stuff of the Cannes Film Festival. The guests were eating up the latest celebrity gossip, including timelines of girlfriends and boyfriends. No one doubted a single word uttered by the storyteller, for she was none other than Dina, a fashion icon and famous blogger. Five million followers on Instagram1, ten million on TikTok, an ambassador of the biggest brands… The very picture of perfection. Rose didn’t miss a single story, post, or live broadcast by her. She knew Dina’s favorite colors, restaurants, and resorts.

      “And then there’s Sara Sampaio in the Zimmermann dress. The orange one, you might’ve seen.” Dina tossed back her black hair.

      “The one with feathers? It was Zuhair Murad,” Rose said.

      Everyone stared at her.

      “Right! Naomi Campbell had a similar one. Was it Zuhair Murad too?”

      “Naomi was wearing Valentino. A coral-red feathery dress.” Rose straightened her back.

      All the women looked at her again.

      “And I even told Leo, ‘They are like twins!’”

      The guests laughed.

      “Personally, I think that Naomi looked so much better in Chanel. She was a goddess!”

      Rose felt the eyes of twenty women on her.

      “Yes, she was.”

      Rose forgot all about her unwashed hair, Paul, and the reprimand her boss had given her that morning. That was her moment of glory. All those days, weeks, months, and even years she had been scrolling the Instagram feed finally paid off. She and she alone was now talking with Dina herself.

      The party was in full swing. The women and their champagne glasses moved to the freshly renovated walk-in. The dressing room with its custom-designed and hand-painted walls, white furniture, and a ridiculously expensive chandelier could justifiably claim to be one of the top pins on Pinterest, at the very least. Neatly organized bags, shoes, and flowy dresses. The proud owner of this paradise who had recently become a partner in a consulting firm humbly asked the guests to help her pick outfits for the new job. The honor to explore the depths of this treasury was quite obviously conferred on Dina. In just a few minutes, the model walked the improvised runway among the rows of severe critics with champagne glassed in their well-manicured hands. Slim pants and a fitted cardigan – the spitting image of Kate Moss in 1990s. But there was a silence instead of applause and looks of bewilderment instead of approving smiles.

      “I love it!” Rose cried out. “It’s Jacquemus! Oh, the unbelievable tops and, sure enough, bags. Girls, who else is a fan of their bags? And what about The Row? You have so many pieces by the label! I’m just mad about it! Come on!” Rose was riding the turbulent waves of vanilla-perfect seas.

      A black shirt, palazzo pants, gold earrings, hair gathered into a low bun. The outfit by Rose finally broke the silence. Then followed minimalist dresses, gray sweaters, Gucci loafers, and Gianvito Rossi stilettos. The hostess indulged the guests with some old-fashioned outfits to the accompaniment of Rose’s comments. You can find magic even in the most ordinary things: All it takes is making up a story for each outfit and pronouncing the names of famous brands correctly. The room was filled with joy and the air was thick with feminine energy. The failure of a celebrity was overshadowed by the triumph of a mediocre girl. The wine was followed by desserts, and the catwalk by endless girly chatting. At the end of the party, Dina got Rose’s phone number, as healthy pragmatism comes before any minor misunderstandings.

      The next morning, Rose was sitting in the passenger seat of a car, going to an event dedicated to the company’s tenth anniversary. The long journey provided her with a ninety-minute engagement in the virtual vanity fair called Instagram. Rose could still vividly see the party of the previous day, and her imagination added details and hopes of her wildest dreams. She was hoping to find at least a hint of praise or even admiration, but the hope was in vain. The application froze and didn’t respond. Rose kept running her index finger on the touchscreen until a callus formed on the fingertip, but Instagram just wouldn’t refresh the feed. The cracked screen of her smartphone kept showing the ad of a sushi bar with heavenly sushi rolls (two for the price of one!). Every imaginable curse rained down on the invisible employees of the city administration who failed to provide the internet connection along the interurban road. At last, Rose threw the phone into the back seat and stared out of the window. Marylin Manson was shrieking at her from the car speakers.

      “What if we listen to something else?!” Rose rummaged through transparent CD cases in the glove compartment.

      “There’s nothing else there. Nothing much,” Paul said.

      “There!” Rose inserted a CD, and the speakers coughed up the voice of 16-year-old Britney Spears.

      Rose was barely able to hold back her laughter, but she did her best. She knew that otherwise, there was a great chance they’d be listening to Manson’s screams the rest of the way. Britney was singing non-stop, tirelessly and stubbornly. All the other CDs turned out to have Britney too: Britney feat. Madonna, Britney remixes, Britney Spears live from Las Vegas, and what not. By the end of their journey, Rose was just as sick of her as on her wedding day only a month ago. Back then, her colleagues, friends, and parents would hoot with laughter and proposed similar toasts, making sure to touch their plastic cups. By nightfall, each of the guests had finished eating their pieces of the wedding cake from disposable plates and toasted to the newlyweds’ health, happiness, and having many children… at least five times. As luck would have it, the bride had gotten sick to her stomach during the performance by her female friends who had been dancing to Britney’s songs. Too much excitement and fatty Napoleon cake in one day. Rose had tried to wash the stain off the purple dress (the cost of which had not been yet recouped by gift money) while the guests had been applauding the beautiful dancers. When you are almost thirty, logic prevails over emotions. So, you have a fashionably lilac dress instead of a crisp white one, and the wedding party is held in your apartment instead of a restaurant. That’s what Paul thought. He was happy his girlfriend was on board with him and had no idea what things were really like.

      For two weeks, his bride-to-be had been wandering through bridal salons and bashfully peering in the windows. Young XS girls would confidently try on all kinds of dresses while their mothers and saleswomen would gasp in amazed delight. Rose was built differently. Her size varied between XL and XXL depending on the sizing chart of a certain brand.

      “We don’t have your size!”

      “Well, you could preorder a dress, but is a two-month wait.”

      “A pantsuit would suit you better!”

      That’s what she would hear. Only one lady – in a wig and with bright red lips – managed to revive her dying hope. “There’s something for you. Just like Meghan Markle had!”

      Finally, Rose had found herself in a spacious dressing room with a poster