The Double

𝒩𝒾𝓃𝑒

I'm walking into a luxury brand boutique wearing a huge black hat and shoulder pads big enough to block traffic when the bright summer sun pierces through my closed eyelids. Burrowing in the soft, fluffy bed, I try to go back to sleep but can't because Ira is standing by the foot of my bed barking my name.

"It's time to get up."

I throw the covers off and squint out the window. The sun's up but it feels suspiciously early. "What time is it?"

"Seven."

I groan. "One more hour." I was up late, alternating between deciding which clothes matched best with the multiple Louis Vuitton bags and learning how to ask people their names in Korean.

"Ms. Lee is an early riser. She's already at a meeting." Ira might not mean to sound smugly virtuous on Duna's behalf, but that's what I hear.

I haul myself and shuffle off to brush my teeth. When I get back, I examine the outfit Ira has laid on the bed. "Are we going out?"

"No."

Yet she's chosen pants with ironed creases. "Can't I wear yoga pants since it's only us?"

"No."

She leaves and I realize my clothes from home are gone. That's a later problem, though, so I pull on the outfit. The white linen pants wrinkle on contact with my skin, and I immediately stain the black silk top with deodorant and have to change. In the mirror I practice my Duna wave again, this time with the correct hand. The shoes are adorable sling-backs that I put on to check the full effect.

Huh. I turn around. I hadn't realized the difference expensive tailoring made because I now have outstanding posture. Do I look like Duna? The spacious closet makes finding what I need so much easier than trying to sort through a bunch of shirts crammed tight enough to wrinkle, and I quickly locate a high-necked black shirt. I pull it on like a headband, the collar framing my face and the rest of the material flowing down my back, and toss my head.

"I came to see if you were dressed." Ira, who apparently has no concept of privacy, is at the door, staring at my turtleneck wig. I snatch it off and run a hand through my hair.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

She backs out of the room, and I toss the shirt on the bed and follow.

Fueled by coffee and fear of failure, I'm the ideal Duna student that day. Apparently she does her own makeup except for big events,  so Ira shows me the Duna Standard Face, which necessitates a raft of expensive products to achieve the correct smooth skin and pretty peachy eye. Ira picks up a lipstick, a vibrant red that glides on like a dream, then goes over the edges with a lip pencil before blotting and painting me again.

I stare in the mirror at my lips. It's been a long time since I've had that much color , and I'd forgotten how bright it is. It makes my mouth the glossy focus of my face. No wonder Ben liked it. I shiver.

"Is this Duna's usual color?" I ask.

"Lacôme's L'Absolu Rouge Ruby Cream Lipstick in Kiss Me Ruby," says Ira. "It's all she wears in public.

I stay silent as Ira scrutinizes my face from the side. The makeup is part of disguise. It's Duna's face being created in the mirror, and when people see it, they won't see me. I relax slightly.

"Sun damage." Ira clucks and makes a note on her phone, disrupting my chain of thought. I focus on what we're doing. "I'll get better concealer." She takes a closer look. "And a waxing kit." Then she reaches over and drags out a curling wand.

She begins taking strands of my hair and curls them. She got my bangs and parted them to seamlessly blends in with the rest of the hair. It's been so long since I had dressed up that I forgot how fun it was; I whip my head around like I'm a hair model until I get a little dizzy. I need to take a photo of this for Eomma because she'll love it.