All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  “Everything all right with Paige?”

  “Fine,” Joan said. “She’s great.”

  “Is she? That’s so good to hear. Has she found a new job?”

  There followed the questions Bev didn’t ask, but Joan heard anyway: Is she still pining over Noah? Is she finally ready to forgive Heather for stealing him away?

  “Not yet,” Joan said, answering the question Bev had asked. “But she had a very promising interview yesterday. So we’re keeping our fingers crossed.”

  Bev promptly crossed the manicured fingers of both her hands and held them up. “Oh, she’ll get it. I’m sure,” she said with a vehemence that suggested the opposite. “She’s so bright. How could someone not want her?” Her face turned almost as red as her nail polish. “I meant…”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “I’m sure she’ll find a new beau in no time, too,” Bev added, only making matters worse.

  Joan wasn’t sure if she was more surprised that her sister-in-law had raised the subject of Noah, however obliquely, or that she’d used the word “beau.”

  “Actually, there’s someone already,” Joan said.

  “Really?”

  “Well, it’s still pretty new,” Joan backtracked, already regretting having spoken. “You’ll meet him on Saturday.”

  “She’s bringing him to the party?”

  “I’ve been meaning to call and ask if that’s all right.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s wonderful. Heather will be so pleased. She’s hated the chill that’s been between them ever since, well, you know…”

  Joan nodded.

  “It’s not really Heather’s fault, you know,” Bev surprised her by continuing.

  “No? Whose is it?”

  “Noah had been pursuing her for months, texting, sending flowers. He finally wore her down.”

  “I know. Poor thing. What choice did she have? Oh, wait,” Joan continued without pause. “She did have a choice. She could have told the creep to bugger off.”

  “I had no idea you were still so angry,” Bev said.

  Joan shrugged. Truthfully, neither had she. She’d never been that fond of Noah, always thought Paige could do better. But she could never forgive anyone who hurt her child.

  “Heather said she ran into the two of you last week and that you barely acknowledged her. I told her she must be exaggerating, that her aunt would never be that rude…”

  “No,” Joan said. “She wasn’t exaggerating.”

  Bev looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

  “Look,” Joan said. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. None of this is your fault, and neither one of us likes to see our daughters hurting. So, can we just leave it at that and agree not to discuss it further?”

  Bev nodded, a weak smile playing with her bright red lips. “I see someone’s been shopping,” she said after several seconds, her voice tentative, her eyes wary.

  “Thought I’d buy a new dress for the party. That is, if you still want us there. Believe me, I’d understand if you…” Please say you don’t want us there.

  “Of course we want you there,” Bev said immediately. “Ted would be devastated if you weren’t at his party. You know how fond he is of both you and Paige.”

  It was true. Her brother-in-law had always adored his niece, often proclaiming that he was sure there’d been a mix-up at the hospital and that Paige, not Heather, was really his offspring. And Michael and his wife would be flying in from New Jersey for the festivities, so how could Joan and Paige not be there?

  “Can I see?” Bev pointed at the shopping bags.

  “Actually, I’m returning these. I may be a while…” Joan glanced around the brightly lit space for a salesperson, spotting an exceptionally handsome young man lingering in the next aisle. “Please don’t let me keep you.”

  “Oh, you’re not keeping me. Looks like we had the same idea. Heather wants a new dress for the party, too, and I offered to treat her.”

  Joan tried not to blanch at the renewed mention of her niece. “She’s meeting you?” She raised her hand in the air and snapped her fingers in the direction of the handsome young man. “Excuse me. Could you help me here, please?”

  “With pleasure,” he said, approaching. “Except I don’t work here.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry. I saw you standing there and I thought…”

  “No problem,” he said, touching her arm before leaving her side.

  That was odd, Joan thought, his touch lingering. She wondered how long he’d been hovering, if he’d been eavesdropping on her conversation with Bev. Don’t be silly, she admonished herself with her next breath. Why on earth would a gorgeous young man be interested in the conversation of two old ladies?

  A salesman approached. He was wearing a black jacket that was at least two sizes too small for his already shockingly slender frame, and his skinny black pants ended at mid-calf, highlighting clean-shaven legs and bare feet inside pointed, black suede loafers. His blue-black hair was long on one side and shaved on the other. Clearly a fashion statement of some sort, Joan thought, forgetting about the gorgeous young man and trying to picture what the salesman’s haircut would look like on her. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice pinched, his accent unrecognizable.

  “I’d like to return these dresses.” Joan began pulling them out of the bags.

  “All of them?”

  “Yes. All five. I bought them on Saturday.”

  “Was there something wrong with them?”

  “They just didn’t look right.”

  “Pity,” he said, taking the bags from her hands and heading toward the nearest counter, Joan and Bev following.

  “This is a nice one,” Bev said as the salesman started removing the dresses from the bags. She held up a teal-blue cocktail dress with a jeweled collar. “I would have thought it suited you.”

  “Too high-waisted,” Joan said.

  “And this one?” Bev ran her hand across a black sheath with a scooped neck.

  “Too low-cut.”

  “But what on earth were you thinking with this one?” Bev’s long, thin nose crinkled in disapproval as she examined a blush-pink dress with rows of ruffles crisscrossing the bodice.

  “I don’t know. I guess I thought the ruffles would be flattering.”

  “On a twelve-year-old, maybe. Oh, God. This one’s even worse.” She held up, then quickly dropped, a floral print A-line midi to the counter. “Looks like something we wore back in the sixties.”

  “I think that’s why I liked it.”

  “Well, those days are dead and gone, thank goodness. I, for one, don’t miss them a bit.” Bev looked over the last of the five dresses—a beautiful beige silk dress with pearl buttons and long, loose-flowing sleeves that Joan could barely remember purchasing. “What was the matter with this one?”

  Joan stared at the dress. “I don’t know.” In truth, she hadn’t bothered trying that one on, so discouraged had she been with the others.

  “It’s perfect for you. I insist you try it on and let me have a look.”

  “I thought you were meeting Heather.”

  Bev checked her watch. “I still have twenty minutes. Besides, she’ll be late. She always is. Now go on. I insist.”

  “She’s right,” the salesman said. “I think the dress will look divine.”

  Joan decided there was no point in arguing. The faster she tried on the damn dress, the faster she’d be out of here. She had no desire to risk another run-in with her niece. “Okay. Fine. Give it to me.”

  “There’s a little sitting area just outside the fitting rooms where your friend can wait,” the salesman said, leading the way.

  Joan emerged from the fitting room minutes later, wearing the dress. She did a little twirl in front of her sister-in-law. “Wh
at do you think?”

  “I think it’s perfect. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Bev clapped her hands. “Wonderful. Then it’s settled. She’ll keep this one,” she told the salesman, who’d returned to check on them.

  “Excellent,” he said. “So we’ll only be returning four. I’ll see you back at the counter whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you,” Joan told Bev minutes later, as they waited for the salesman to rewrap the dress.

  “What for?”

  “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have my beautiful new dress.”

  Bev’s hands fluttered girlishly around her face. “No thanks necessary. I’m just glad I was able to help.” She stared at Joan, as if waiting for her to speak.

  “Well,” Joan obliged. “Till Saturday night.”

  “Till Saturday,” Bev said. “You know that I just want everybody to get along and be happy.”

  Would that it were so easy, Joan thought, catching a streak of panic flash through Bev’s eyes. “What?” she asked, turning around, although she already knew what—who—she would see.

  “Hi, Mom,” Heather said. “Auntie Joan. Always a pleasure.”

  “Heather,” Joan acknowledged, all but wresting the bag from the salesman’s hands. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I should get going.”

  “See what I mean?” Joan heard Heather say to her mother as she was walking to the escalator. “Could she be any more rude?”

  Joan didn’t hear Bev’s answer. She was too busy trying to breathe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  She decided to walk home, partly for the exercise and partly because she wanted to clear her head of all things Heather before seeing Paige. She wondered how many minutes—make that seconds—had elapsed before Bev told her daughter about the new man in Paige’s life. No doubt the news that Paige would be bringing him to the party would influence Heather’s choice of what dress to buy. No way would she chance being outshone by her cousin. Knowing Heather, who no longer had Paige’s taste to rely on, and whose own imagination had always been limited at best, that meant she’d probably select something tight, low-cut, and ultra-sparkly.

  Joan did a mental run-through of Paige’s closet, trying to select something from the predominantly low-key options, not finding anything with enough “wow” factor. Paige had already nixed the idea of purchasing anything new for a party she was loath to attend in the first place, insisting that she wasn’t going to compete with Heather on any level.

  Of course, that didn’t mean Joan couldn’t compete on her behalf.

  Maybe she’d buy something for Paige. If Bev could treat Heather to a new dress, well, then, she could certainly do the same for her daughter.

  Except she couldn’t.

  Paige had made her feelings crystal clear, and Joan had to respect her wishes. Her daughter was an adult, and her mind was made up. There would be no new dress, and that was that.

  Damn that Heather anyway.

  Not doing a very good job of clearing my head, Joan thought. “Time to move on,” she announced to a photograph of a comely young model, whose picture took up half the large front window of a hairdressing salon sandwiched between two upscale designer boutiques. The model was sporting a similar haircut to the one worn by the oddly accented salesperson at Nordstrom’s—chin-length on one side and closely cropped on the other.

  Joan studied her own reflection in the glass, trying to superimpose her face onto the model’s, to fit her forehead under the girl’s straight bangs, to picture what it would be like with only half a head of hair.

  It was then that she spotted another reflection, this one of a young man—the same man who’d touched her arm in Nordstrom’s earlier?—leaning against the door of a shop across the street, watching her. She spun around.

  But if anyone had been standing there, he wasn’t there now.

  So now she was seeing things. And it wasn’t just a bunch of squiggles and bright lights. Joan shook her head, wondering if hallucinations of handsome young men could qualify as an ocular migraine.

  In the next second, she was pushing open the hairdressing salon’s heavy glass door and approaching the buxom brunette behind the reception counter.

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.

  Joan glanced back at the window, then took a deep breath. “I was wondering if anyone was available to do my hair.”

  * * *

  —

  “Mrs. Hamilton?” the concierge asked, as if he wasn’t sure, as she entered the beige marble lobby of her condominium.

  “Yes, Eddy. It’s me,” she told the clearly startled young man, stopping briefly to pat the newly shorn side of her hair. “What do you think?”

  “Oh, my God, look at you!” a voice exclaimed before he could respond. “It’s Linda,” the woman reminded Joan, leaving the bank of elevators where she’d been standing. She was wearing the same hot-pink top and navy leggings as when Joan had last seen her at the gym, and the slight flush to her cheeks told Joan she’d probably been out jogging. “Are you all right?” she asked, approaching cautiously. “Rick told me about having to call an ambulance for you the other night. What happened?” Her eyes circled Joan’s hair. “Did the doctors have to shave your head?”

  “God, no. Nothing like that. It was just indigestion. I’m fine.” Joan’s fingers fluttered around her head without landing. “I’ve just been to the hairdresser’s.”

  “You did that on purpose?”

  “Oh, God. Is it that bad?”

  Linda quickly backpedaled. “No. Of course not.” She coughed into her hand. “You just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

  “I felt like a change.”

  “You got it.”

  “Oh, dear.” Tears filled Joan’s eyes. What had she done?

  “No, no,” Linda said. “It’s just so different, that’s all. Once you get used to it, it’s actually quite…cute.”

  “Cute?” There was no mistaking the horror in Joan’s voice.

  “Flattering,” Linda amended.

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t know what possessed me,” Joan said as the elevator doors opened and a man exited, glancing quickly at Joan before averting his eyes. “I think I scared him.”

  “Nonsense,” Linda said, leading Joan into the now empty elevator. “Really, the more I look at you, the more I like it.” She coughed into her hand a second time, a sure tell she was lying. “I wish I had the guts to do something like that. But Jason likes my hair long, so what can I do?” She waved both hands toward her straight, shoulder-length auburn hair. “Gotta keep your man happy.” The elevator doors opened onto the sixth floor. “You have time for a cup of tea?”

  Joan was about to refuse, then decided she wasn’t quite ready to face Paige’s reaction. “Tea sounds great.” She followed Linda down the beige-and-brown-carpeted corridor to her apartment.

  Linda unlocked her door and pushed it open, stepping inside the gold-flecked marble foyer. “Hello? Anybody home? Jason, honey?” She walked toward the kitchen on her right. “Guess he’s not here. Thank God,” she added, not quite under her breath, motioning for Joan to have a seat at the newspaper-strewn, marble-topped island in the middle of the black-and-stainless-steel kitchen. “Not that I don’t adore the man,” Linda continued as she filled a kettle with water, “but ever since he retired, he’s always…underfoot. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. I don’t get two minutes to myself. I turn around, there he is. If I’m going out, it’s ‘Where are you going? What are you doing? When will you be back? What’s for lunch?’ He’s making me crazy. Well, you know how it is.”

  “No, actually, I don’t.” For the second time since running into Linda, Joan’s eyes filled with tears. Even after her husband had retired from running th
e construction company he’d cofounded with his brother, Robert Hamilton had continued to be active, taking Lifelong Learning courses at Boston University, reading everything he could get his hands on, playing tennis twice a week. Even a terminal diagnosis had barely slowed him down.

  What she wouldn’t have given to have him always underfoot!

  The pink lingering on Linda’s cheeks immediately disappeared. “I’m so sorry. I forgot. What a stupid thing to say! I’m really so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Two years.”

  “You must miss him terribly.”

  “I do.”

  “He had a twin brother, didn’t he?”

  Joan nodded.

  Linda smiled. “I remember riding up in the elevator with the two of them one day, and I swear I couldn’t tell them apart. Did you ever get them confused?”

  “God, no. To me, they didn’t look alike at all.” It was true. While Joan had always found her husband to be an incredibly sexy man, she’d never been remotely attracted to his brother.

  The kettle whistled that the water had come to a boil, and a minute later, Joan was sitting in Linda’s art-filled, gold-and-white living room, holding an oversized blue mug filled with steaming hot tea that smelled of mint and strawberries. Linda was perched at the end of a white overstuffed chair to her left. Between them stood a six-foot-high bronze sculpture that resembled a giant Oscar.

  “So, what did you think of my trainer?” Linda asked.

  “He was great,” Joan told her.

  “Yeah, he’s the best. I’m sorry I had to run out on you like that.”

  “Oh, that’s—”

  “We had this dinner party to go to,” Linda continued before Joan could finish her thought, “and I still had to shower and wash my hair. You know the drill.” She stole a glance at Joan’s head. “Well, I guess that won’t be much of a problem for you now.”

  “Is it really that bad?” Joan asked.

  “No,” Linda assured her. “Besides, it’s just hair, right? It’ll grow back in no time.”