ALBERT: Who’s that?
ME: The lady who’s selling me the tie.
I looked at her name tag again.
ME: Lillian.
ALBERT: Take the girl too, Stanley. Take the girl.
ME: Albert, this is nuts!
LILLIAN: What’s nuts? She’s a nice girl. Better than the big-mouthed tramp you were engaged to. I read the papers. Who’s Albert, your agent?
ME: My publicist. She wasn’t always a big-mouthed tramp.
LILLIAN: Not my business. Let me talk to him.
This couldn’t get any more ridiculous, so I gave her the phone.
LILLIAN: Albert, let me bring him up to my friend Ruthie on three. She’s like our resident consigliere. She can fix anything.
It had been a long twenty-four hours and somehow, after the betrayal and all the screaming, turning my life over to the Bloomingdale’s mafiosi seemed like a reasonable course of action. Besides, I trusted them; unlike my publicist and agent, they were only making commission on the tie. Lillian, still talking to Albert on my phone, motioned for me to follow her up two escalator flights to the third floor. There she approached three other salespeople: a woman around her age who seemed to be the fixer, name tag Ruthie; a Latin-looking guy around my age, name tag Tomás; and a younger woman whose back was to me. At least she looked younger; I couldn’t totally tell from behind.
They listened to Lillian intently, the consigliere eyeing me rather obviously, the younger one taking a quick peek over her shoulder, the guy staring openly. Her quick peek in my direction revealed that the younger woman was in fact younger. And she was pretty—unconventionally pretty and kind of sexy. I watched as she turned back to the group and emphatically shook her head: No way. She was refusing a date with a movie star. This just made her seem even sexier. But then Lillian whispered something in her ear. Whatever it was sealed the deal. She turned, walked over to me, and smiled. “I’m Natalie.” (I tried not to dwell on the coincidence.) “Give me ten minutes. I assume a little black dress is appropriate?” I smiled and nodded. She smiled back and was off.
Up close she was quite beautiful. Not model beautiful, thankfully. The kind of beautiful that radiates from her smile. The kind of beautiful I remembered from high school. Back then, before I was famous, I could trust that a smile was a smile with no further agenda. Now when a girl is nice to me, I have to question her motives. I hate being so distrusting, but fame has its downsides. Lillian handed me back the phone and I told Albert I had the date and the tie and that he should tell Hank I would be there soon. I promised to hold her hand, and when the press shouted questions at me I would just sweep by with my pretty date, saying that I was late.
“Just calmly late, though, not White Rabbit late,” he warned.
I promised to act calm and Albert was happy. Natalie returned in an elegant little black dress, and quite surprisingly, for the first time in a long time, I felt happy too.
CHAPTER 3
The Red Carpet
By Natalie, the Beard
Age: 26
“That’s a beautiful dress,” he said as we stepped into the limo. It was. I wanted to tell him all about it. How it was a Max Hammer, or rather the Max Hammer, the hottest dress of the season. How the first shipment sold out in just a week and how I was so excited to be wearing it, even though the price tag was digging into my back. But I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that I was only borrowing the dress and would be returning it after tonight. Not that borrowing it was such a terrible thing to do. I mean, I know it’s not an excuse, but everyone does it. “Buying” a dress, wearing it, then returning it is such a common practice that it was given a name—wardrobing. I guess once it was commonplace enough to get a name, retailers had to take measures; we got a memo just last week saying that giant tags are being created to attach to the front of all dresses, making them unwearable until the tag is removed. This little black dress that I’m borrowing may represent the end of an era.
“Thank you,” I said, like six beats later.
“Can I pay for it?” he asked sweetly. As much as I didn’t want him to know I was going to return the dress, it seemed worse to let him think I’d bought a dress that cost two weeks’ worth of my salary to go on a last-minute date with a movie star, so I came clean. “Don’t worry, I’m just borrowing it.”
He suddenly seemed embarrassed. “I could have bought it for you. You could have kept it.” He added, a bit pathetically, “You must think I’m such a loser, getting a date at Bloomingdale’s.”
“No, I don’t. I’m borrowing the dress, you’re borrowing me.” I thought about what I’d just said; borrowing me made it sound like I was some kind of paid escort, but Lillian had promised me the guy was gay. She was tabloid-obsessed and whispered in my ear, “It was all over the papers today. He’s definitely gay, don’t worry.” She knows me better than to think I would risk being taken advantage of by some scorned movie star. No way. And she knows that I have temporarily sworn off men, especially ones who walk into the store looking for a date.
“Please don’t worry about it. I’m happy to be going with you. I don’t even want to keep the dress.” He didn’t seem to believe me, so I changed the subject. “I think it’s ridiculous how much scrutiny you’re all under.”
He nodded in agreement. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt with him. He didn’t act like a big movie star. When I talked he looked at me—really looked at me, like I was the center of his attention.
“I hope you’re not disappointed—the movie’s not very good. And speaking of scrutiny, there’s a chance that your face will be plastered all over the papers tomorrow. You realize that, right?”
“I never thought about it,” I lied. In fact I was counting on it. It was the reason I’d said yes without a second’s hesitation once Lillian told me Jeremy was gay: the thought that maybe, just maybe, they would take our picture and put it on Page Six of the New York Post or, better yet, in that section of New York magazine that shows the most beautiful people wearing the most beautiful dresses in the most beautiful places. Either way it would stick it to Flip.
Flip was my ex-boyfriend. His real name is Philip Roberts. I couldn’t believe he was ever my boyfriend, let alone now my ex-boyfriend. I didn’t even want to go out with him at first. He had asked me out every day for nearly two weeks before I finally agreed. It was last winter, and on cold days he, like many commuting New Yorkers, cut through the store from Third to Lex, dodging the perfume sprayers, on his way to and from work. At the time I worked in men’s gloves, where I would meet a lot of men, some of whom would ask me out. I heard it all. As Ruthie, my older coworker, would say, they were right off the cob. Lots of corny glove references like “perfect fit” and “looking for the match to this glove” and, the worst and most common, “You know what they say—big hands, big…feet.” Which isn’t even the correct reference, and is so not true, by the way.
Flip was less cornball than that. I didn’t say yes the first few times he asked me out because he was older than me and short, with bad hair and a bit of a unibrow. But he grew on me. I didn’t say yes the next few times because I liked it that the challenge was making him try harder. I didn’t say yes the few times after that because it was beginning to feel like he wanted me just because he couldn’t have me, like some kind of prize he was trying to win. My gut told me that in the end I might not be enough of a prize for him and I’d get hurt. This isn’t about my insecurities, though I do have them—who doesn’t? I’m pretty enough, and I’m smart and funny and kind, but he didn’t really seem to value those things. He was a fancy lawyer who grew up on Sutton Place and went to an Ivy League school. I was a salesgirl at Bloomingdale’s who had never lived outside Astoria, Queens. I had no desire to leave my comfort zone, and wanted to find a man who would love me for me. But he wasn’t giving up.
Finally I gave in and we went out, and out, and out, for months and months and months, until one day, long after I had fixed his unibr
ow and fallen for him, he woke up and told me that something was missing. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. More like something he couldn’t put on my finger, as it turned out; two months later I read in the Times that he was engaged. Two months! The bride, I read, had also attended an Ivy League school and was also a fancy lawyer. They instantly fell in love at some fancy lawyer convention where they exchanged strategies, and no doubt bodily fluids. I bet it wouldn’t have been so instant if I hadn’t taken my tweezers to his eyebrow! After memorizing their wedding announcement, I continued torturing myself by writing our announcement in my head: Philip Roberts to wed Natalie Canaras. The bridegroom is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Roberts of Sutton Place and Sagaponack. Mr. Roberts attended Dartmouth as an undergraduate and got his law degree from Columbia. He was recently named partner at Hollingsworth, Hathaway, Horowitz, and Holtz, where his maternal grandfather, Frederick Hollingsworth, was a founding partner. The bride attended the school of hard knocks and is a salesgirl at Bloomingdale’s, where her grandmother once successfully lifted a pair of size 6 black patent leather Chanel pumps. Ms. Canaras was recently named Employee of the Month.
I felt like a fool. He came into the store two weeks later. He was meeting her at the bridal registry. He couldn’t have picked another store? He stood a bit too close to me while he spoke. As if he had a right to. The small talk was running out and I was beginning to feel vulnerable. I excused myself, saying I had to go back to work.
As I walked away he grabbed my arm. “Maybe we can go to one of the dressing rooms and say a real goodbye,” he said, totally serious. I couldn’t believe it. I had envied this Ivy League girl that he was marrying—now I just felt bad for her. Even with the satisfaction of knowing that he still wanted me, though, I was hurt, and months later I was still feeling vengeful. Tomás, my friend from the dress department, promised that after they registered we would totally get revenge by changing their china pattern every time someone checked something off so they would end up with mismatched place settings and multiple gravy boats. That seemed like fun and all, but my photo in the pages of the New York Post with Jeremy Madison was revenge on steroids! I was good enough for a movie star but not for Flip Roberts. For the rest of his life he’d be haunted by having let a good thing go. I would definitely win the breakup. It was perfect.
The movie star interrupted my thoughts. “So, we should make a plan?”
I already had my plan, so I played flexible. “As long as it involves popcorn I’m good. I haven’t eaten all day.”
He looked worried. “There aren’t usually concessions at a premiere. I think they think it’s tacky.” I felt as tacky as the MIA concession stand. He must have noticed, because he smiled his big movie-star smile and said, “I think they should have popcorn too. I may even put it in my next contract!” He really was surprisingly sweet, this movie star. He continued, “There’s an after-party, but I don’t think I’m up for it—too many reporters. Would it be okay with you if we walk the red carpet, take a few pictures, and sneak out for dinner before it’s over?”
I was thrilled with this plan. “Perfect!”
But apparently Jeremy Madison was less in control of his life than even he knew. His publicist, Albert, had told his agent, Hank, that Jeremy was bringing a salesgirl, me, from Bloomingdale’s. Hank didn’t feel the overwhelming confidence that Albert did in Lillian’s matchmaking skills and panicked, leaking to the press that we were entering the theater through the back to avoid the red carpet. The press ran like cattle to the 55th Street door and the fans followed. We arrived to one newbie photographer from the AP who was too scared to leave his post on the red carpet. Unfortunately for everyone, he was so nervous that he shot on a used memory card and none of the pictures came out. His rookie mistake cost him his big shot at the front page and my big shot at sticking it to Flip. I guess people like me never get to make people like Flip Roberts feel less than.
Not yet knowing the unfortunate outcome of the photo, and with our stomachs rumbling, we snuck out midway through the movie. We got into the movie star’s limo and the small talk that started with him asking, “Where are you from?” ended with us in Queens, happily munching on tzatziki and spanikopita at my favorite Greek restaurant. It was the best date I had been on in ages, and somewhere between me telling him the big bad Flip story and him telling me about his parents’ heartbreaking divorce and what it’s really like to have no privacy, I began to wish that he wasn’t gay. He walked me home and thanked me by joking, “Bloomingdale’s really does have fantastic customer service!” and kissing me sweetly on the top of my head.
The next morning I searched the Internet every which way possible but did not come up with a single red-carpet photo. All I found was a photo of us from behind on one site, Radar Online. It looked like nothing more than a cell-phone picture of us escaping out the back, holding hands like the good fake couple we were supposed to be. The headline read “Gay or Straight?” and underneath, “Who is Jeremy Madison’s mystery girl?” I wanted to claim my place in celebrity history, to yell out, “It’s me, Natalie Canaras, third-floor dresses, Flip Roberts’s old girlfriend!” But instead I got on the R train, little black dress in hand, and headed back to work. After all that talk about privacy, I would never betray Jeremy like that.
I walked into work to quite a reception. Ruthie and Tomás were eager to hear all about my night but equally eager to get their hands on the size small Max Hammer dress. Apparently it really is the dress of the season—this was the only one left in that size at any Bloomingdale’s on the entire East Coast. The morning had been an eventful one, and my borrowed dress was at center stage. Ruthie told me the whole story.
CHAPTER 4
An Age-Old Old Age Story
By Ruthie, Third Floor Ladies’ Dresses
Age: A lady never tells
“ARTIE! Aaaaaaarrrrtttieeeeee!!!!” The screeching was coming from the ladies’ dressing room. After twenty years at Bloomingdale’s I’ve seen nearly every kind of woman. But the ones who shout out for their men like this—usually some poor schlep standing around holding her purse—those women are the worst. It didn’t help that it was Sunday morning and I’d had one too many whiskey sours last night. She sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
They’re a distinct breed, the men who choose to wait around for their girls to decide what to buy. It can take quite a while, as you can imagine. It was much more common when I started. Taking the little woman to Bloomingdale’s to buy her fall wardrobe. These gals would actually go around the store collecting their spoils, then hand them to the men to pay. I always half expected Gloria Steinem to come marching in yelling, “Get a job, ladies, pay for your own threads!” That’s how I felt, at least. I never wanted or needed a man to take care of me like that.
It’s mostly the women who irritate me. I mean, first of all, what the hell are you screaming for? I’m right here. “Excuse me, ma’am, can you please ask my husband to come look at this dress on me?” That’s it—no need to scream like you’re calling in two eggs over easy with a side of sausage at a truck-stop diner. And seriously, what is it that this husband is going to say anyway? “That color looks putrid on you.” Nope. “You are squeezed into that dress like a Polish sausage.” No way. “You look beautiful.” Ding ding ding. That’s your answer, and you might as well be asking Ray Charles. There are exceptions, of course. There’s the cheapskate—he focuses on the price tag, making his judgment on that alone. I see this all the time. He rarely admits that his opinion is based on money, but once he sees the price it’s “I’ve seen you look better” or “I don’t like that at all.” Then there are the metrosexual/sexually ambiguous fellas; they say something brilliant and tactful, like “That neckline hits you in a funny place” or “It would be nice to see more of your beautiful legs.” Smart men. Not as smart as the men who stay home, of course, but they have a clue.
Today, though, the schlep holding the purse was none of the above. His name was Arthur Winters, not AARRTTTIEEE,
and he had been shopping with me since the old days, back when I started in accessories. He came in to buy a gift for his wife, not the trollop screaming at him from the dressing room. I remember it well. He was aces, Arthur Winters, the handsome, kindhearted type that still-single girls like me were holding out for. He introduced himself and said, “I’m shopping for a gift for my wife’s birthday. She always says she likes my gifts, and she always wears them, but I think she’s just being kind. I want her to open every gift she ever gets from me with real joy, but I’m afraid I have little taste and less money.” Together we found the perfect gift. It was a black and brown houndstooth Oleg Cassini silk scarf. I said it was “timeless and beautiful.” He said, “Just like my Marilyn!” I gave him my card, and over the years, as his bank account grew and his browsing time dwindled, he began calling me on the phone to discuss his gift selection. Eventually his wife found my worn card in his wallet and came in. It didn’t seem like she was checking me out in a crazy-jealous-wife way, more out of curiosity.
I was quite the looker back in the day. People compared me to Ava Gardner. Now that the in look is bordering on anorexic, the young me wouldn’t have turned many heads, but back then women like me with full figures were in vogue. It was nice coming of age feeling good about my body and myself. It seems that the tide is changing lately for the better, with all these body-image campaigns and rounder young actresses proudly flaunting their stuff. I must say I’m happy about that. Breaks a saleswoman’s heart to hear, “Do I look fat in this?” all day long.
I remember that Arthur’s wife bought a few things that day, and when she paid with her credit card I just came right out and asked her, “Are you Arthur Winters’s wife?”
She laughed. “I am.” Embarrassed, she admitted that curiosity about me had gotten the better of her. I told her that I met a lot of husbands but few who spoke of their wives the way hers did.
Nine Women, One Dress Page 3