Nine Women, One Dress

by Jane L. Rosen

  As I started the search, a new e-mail came in for him from the Apple store at Grand Central. I read it. I shouldn’t have, but I thought, It’s not personal, it’s just the Apple store.

  We’ve reserved your spot in line at the Genius Bar and will be ready for you soon. You’ll get a reminder when it’s almost your turn.

  From his location on the tracker I realized he must be going to the one in Grand Central Terminal. He’ll be there forever, I thought. I realized a little too eagerly that I actually did need to go to the Apple Store. And it was the perfect errand for an unplanned day. We were down to one laptop cord in our house and it was causing lots of bickering. It never ceases to amaze me that they can make two-and-a-half-pound devices that carry all your photos, music, movies, work, and the entire Internet but can’t make cords that last as long as their computers. I put on my coat and was out the door before you could say “totally inappropriate.”

  As I noticed the Fifth Avenue Apple Store out the window of my cab, heading a whole seventeen blocks and three avenues out of the way to the Apple Store that I hoped John was at, I couldn’t help but giggle. I was excited to see him, and the spying element made it more fun—for the time being, at least. I promised myself that if I saw him I wouldn’t approach him first. I would let him find me. As if that little deal with myself would magically turn this unethical planned encounter into a real chance meeting.

  I checked my (his) e-mail again. There was another.

  We’ll be ready for you shortly. Please make your way to the Apple store.

  It was almost too easy. I often thought about how people in my profession did this before modern technology. Like the detectives who inspired fictional sleuths like Sherlock Holmes and Philip Marlowe. It was a whole different world. My girls had been obsessed with Nancy Drew lately; I like to think that had something to do with what their mom did for a living. I bought them a complete hardcover set of the originals. I began thinking up titles for modern Nancy Drew books: The Secret Hidden Web Portal, The Mystery of the Facebook Group. My cab pulled over to the curb.

  Upon entering the great hall at Grand Central I was, as always, awestruck by its beauty. I’ve never been a commuter, but I couldn’t imagine traveling to and from this place to be a routine worth complaining about. There is something romantic about train travel to begin with, but add in the grandeur and history of Grand Central station and it is downright enchanting: the constellation-covered ceilings, all the times visitors and natives alike have uttered the phrase “Meet me under the clock at Grand Central,” the majesty of its marble columns and arches. I could stare at the great hall for hours, but I had to move on. I had a mission. I headed to the store as his next Apple e-mail arrived.

  Thanks for waiting. We’re now ready for you. Please check in with a specialist.

  I walked into the narrow store just as John Westmont was being escorted to his seat at the Genius Bar for his appointment. I decided to put myself directly in his line of vision but vowed not to make the first move. I perused the power cords and chose two, pretending to be absorbed in the task. I approached the technician to John’s right, who was gently breaking some bad computer news to a woman who looked like she was going to cry. I think they both welcomed the interruption.

  “Excuse me, can you please tell me which of these goes with the MacBook Air? I have the thirteen-inch,” I added, purposely not saying the year in case I needed more time to be noticed.

  “Which year?” the technician responded, as I knew he would.

  “Two thousand fourteen,” I said, which he followed with a tap on the box in my right hand.

  “Don’t I know you?” asked John Westmont, tapping my left. I looked at him with what I hoped was a quizzical expression.

  “You’re the lady from Bloomingdale’s, right?” He looked at his feet to hide the flush in his cheeks. “I never got your name.”

  I smiled to ease his embarrassment. “I never gave it to you. I’m Andie.”

  “Just Andie?”

  “That’s right,” I said coyly.

  “Okay, then,” he replied, reaching out his hand. “I’m just John.”

  As I took his hand to shake it I felt a little jolt, and it wasn’t coming from the power cords. “How did your wife like the bag?”

  “She exchanged it, I think. Well, she said she was going to…” He paused, then said gently, “I thought it was a great choice though, really. Thank you.”

  I smiled, feeling a little regret. Now that my plan was working it felt like a really bad idea. Just what this man needs is another woman lying to him. I’ll say “Nice seeing you again” and leave, I thought. This couldn’t go anywhere worth going.

  “How long is your wait?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m just here for the new cord,” I said.

  “That’s good.” He smiled. “From the way my computer’s acting, I’m guessing I’ll have a bit of time to kill.”

  “You’re not going to leave it and come back?” I asked, wanting him to say yes but also wanting him to say no.

  “Actually, I’m going to do something I’ve always wanted to—take the walking tour of Grand Central.”

  I lit up. I couldn’t help it. I had always wanted to take the tour of Grand Central too. I used to ask Derek all the time, but he thought it was too touristy. And then the last few years I hadn’t had anyone to go with. It definitely seemed like the kind of thing that was better to do with someone.

  “I’ve always wanted to do that!” I blurted out.

  His Genius guy arrived just in time with an introduction and the standard “What seems to be the problem today?”

  I saw this as my chance to get away—I really needed to just leave this man alone—so I reined in my enthusiasm and said in a much calmer tone, “Good luck. Nice seeing you again.”

  As I turned to leave he gently grabbed my forearm. “Wait—please,” and to the technician, “The wheel is spinning all the time, and the last time this happened you had to hold it hostage for three hours.” He turned his laptop to face the technician, who took a look, pressed a few buttons, asked John to insert a password, and then voilà.

  “Come back at four and it’ll be good as new, or close to it.”

  “Great, thank you!” John stood and faced me.

  “Come with me—you should come,” he said sweetly.

  I would love to, I thought as I declined.

  “It starts in an hour. We can have lunch at the Oyster Bar first. Go on, say yes.”

  I had never done that either, but had always wanted to. I thought about the afternoon that awaited me if I said no. I would leave here, jump on the subway, and spend the rest of my day lying on the couch with my dear friends Don and Betty Draper. Lucky for me, my divorce coincided with the advent of binge television-watching. Now you could justify a lazy day spent in front of the TV watching Mad Men as an exercise in staying culturally relevant.

  Or I could just say yes. I say it every morning when the man at the corner deli asks if I want milk in my coffee. I stopped making a whole pot after the divorce. It seemed wasteful.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Fantastic!” he replied, adding, “My wife is usually the one of us to make new friends.” He’s got that right, I thought.

  Lunch at the Oyster Bar at Grand Central Terminal is a scene out of another era. I half expected Don Draper to sit down right next to us and ask for a light for his Lucky Strike. Countertops loop around the perimeter, with art deco tables in the middle. We grabbed the only two seats left at the counter in front of the open kitchen. Between the view of the chefs shucking oysters and the commuters stopping at the takeout counter behind it, there would be no shortage of distraction. We each had a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder and then shared a big plate of oysters. Their aphrodisiac powers seemed to work wonders on John, as he told me in great detail of the love he had for his wife. He added that he sensed something was wrong lately, and when he said it I felt a twinge in my heart. Poor John. He seemed to realize tha
t he had opened up a little too much and that maybe it was odd. He apologized, saying, “There’s something about spilling your woes to a stranger that feels tremendously cathartic. Want to try it? Tell me about your life.”

  I shut that down right away. I couldn’t tell him what I did for a living, and I couldn’t bear lying to him, so I proposed a pact: we’d just talk like we were old friends, no backstory necessary. He agreed, and we settled into a lively conversation about our favorite haunts in New York, politics, and a shared love for sitting alone in the balcony of the Paris movie theater until it was time to meet the tour.

  The tour was great fun. It was filled with both little-known and fascinating tidbits that neither of us had been aware of. The guide showed us pictures of all the stars who rode the famed 20th Century back in the day. I think that was John’s favorite part. Mine was the Campbell Apartment, the beautiful residence of a tycoon from the 1920s turned into a cocktail bar. It was like an interior version of a secret garden.

  After the tour was over, an awkwardness that we had somehow previously avoided crept in. It was clearly time for us to go our separate ways.

  “Thanks for making me come with you. I loved it. I’m going to bring my kids next time,” I said, forgetting my no-backstory rule. He jumped on it.

  “Oh, so you have a family?” He smiled coyly.

  I gave him a little. “Twin girls, divorced.”

  “I pity the fool who let you get away.” I smiled back. What a kind thing to say. What a nice guy. “You know, there’s a secret tennis court in this building that they didn’t show us. I can get court time.” Married man asking me on a date—okay, maybe not such a nice guy. I paused, trying to figure out how to respond.

  “You know, my best friend just got separated. How about in two Saturdays I bring him and my wife and we double…literally!”

  Not a date. At least, not with him. I didn’t know whether I was happy or disappointed with his honorable follow-up. Oh my god, I thought, what am I doing? End this now!

  “I’m sorry, I, um, I don’t date separated men. They’re never really ready to date, and I don’t like being in that position.”

  He responded faster than Roger Federer at the net. “Then just you and I can play. My wife won’t mind at all.”

  I’m sure she wouldn’t, I thought, feeling sad and awful for not being able to tell John the truth.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” I said. It’s just a tennis game, I thought. It’s not like it ends in love.

  CHAPTER 22

  L’Habit ne Fait pas le Moine

  By Medina Karim, Shireen’s Levelheaded Sister

  We arrived at Charles De Gaulle a bit later than expected. We dropped our bags at our flat and dispersed to go about our days. My father and brother went to work, my mother to shop for groceries. She instructed me and Shireen to go and collect our grandmother and bring her back home. She had been staying with our cousins on the outskirts of Paris while we were away. They live in the same neighborhood that my sister will be moving to in two weeks, after she is married. She says she might as well move back to Saudi Arabia. I know this is not true. I remind her that her fiancé is modern and even promised to teach her to drive. My sister says I am naive.

  As we exit the Métro station into Paris’s eighteenth arrondissement it’s as if we have entered a different world. Though it’s well before the start of Friday’s jumu’ah (noon prayer), the police stand guard on closed-off streets, which will soon be filled with hundreds of faithful Muslims kneeling on their mats. There is no longer enough room inside the mosque to accommodate the worshippers. Shireen’s shoulders tense at the sight of it. I don’t fully understand her. If she hates being stared at as much as she always says, then I would think she would be happy to be among her own. Plus, let me explain a bit about this marriage: even though my parents arranged it, Shireen had the right to reject it. In Islam, a marriage must have consent from both the bride and the groom. The real truth is, while Shireen shares all her wild ideas and dreams with me, she would never be bold enough to go against our father. Most wouldn’t. I definitely wouldn’t. When my time comes, it will be easier. Shireen concerns herself with love, while I am more pragmatic about marriage. She is obsessed with never having kissed a man. Obsessed. I could care less. I never think about such things.

  She turned to me and barked, “Let’s get Jeddah and go straight home.” She meant that she didn’t want to linger in the area and risk running into anyone from her fiancé Fareed’s family. However, it was impossible they wouldn’t be there to see us, as my jeddah has quite a big mouth and all of Goutte d’Or probably knew that we had been on holiday in New York and that we were coming to pick her up today.

  As we entered our cousin’s flat I could hear from the chatter that I was right. Fareed’s whole family was there. Meaning just the women, of course. After what seemed like a hundred questions about New York they turned the inquisition to Shireen and the wedding plans. As Shireen’s shoulders tensed again I cut them off with the excuse of having to get home to help our mother with the laundry and tonight’s meal. Shireen was very happy with me. She squeezed my hand under the table. I felt for her—I did. I had thought she would come home from this trip settled in her head about what her life would be, but she is no different from before. Maybe worse. It was close to the start of noon prayers now, and if Shireen had not wanted to run into Fareed’s family, I knew she definitely did not want to run into Fareed himself on his way to the mosque. I helped my grandmother with her things and we quickly left.

  When we arrived home, the house was empty and our suitcase was leaning against the door of the room we shared. I helped Jeddah, and Shireen said she would begin unpacking. After I told Jeddah nearly every detail about New York, she admitted to being tired and I suggested she nap. I looked at my watch; it had been nearly an hour since we had arrived home. I was happy to be with Jeddah, though. Last year she was never tired or out of breath. Now it seemed that she was quite often. I hated to think of the day when she would not be with us.

  When I got to our bedroom door, it was locked. I banged on it, shouting through the door for Shireen to open it. She was probably annoyed that I wasn’t helping her unpack and was probably eating all the chocolates we had brought back as my punishment. Finally she opened the door just a crack and peered out. Then she pulled me in quickly, slammed the door, and locked it behind me. She was dressed in what I recognized as a Chanel suit. It was ivory wool, and the skirt fell just above her knee. It had four black-and-gold buttons on the jacket with the iconic trademark C’s. It was stunning. She was stunning. I had no idea what was going on. I tried to ask her, but no words came out of my mouth. She pulled out one of her fashion magazines and shoved the picture in my face. With a glee I had never seen in her, she shouted, “Look—it’s this season! This season’s Chanel!” I still had no idea what was going on. She flipped open the black suitcase to reveal a treasure trove of couture. Someone else’s treasure trove, for sure. She’d gone mad. I searched the outside of the suitcase, which did look a lot like ours and was shockingly shoddy compared to its couture contents, looking for a luggage tag. I opened it up. It had just a phone number on a tag that read Pro-Travel, Beverly Hills, CA.

  “This is not ours. We have to tell someone!” I protested.

  Shireen protested right back. “No way. You will not ruin this for me,” she said. “It’s a sign.”

  I was about to list every single reason that she should do what I said—and believe me, the list was long—when she pulled out of the suitcase the most perfect little black dress I had ever seen.

  “Try it on!” She threw it at me.

  One touch and I was gone. As I whipped off my burqa and slipped into this exquisite dress, I ran through all the things that were wrong about this scenario. Shireen turned and opened the bathroom door so the mirror faced me. I looked up self-consciously. When I saw myself, something shifted inside me. I looked beautiful. I did. It was hard to even look at myself. I tried to take c
ontrol of the situation, tried to be the rational sister, as I always had been, but all that came out of my mouth were four words that I had never uttered before, words that were entirely foreign to me: “Are there matching shoes?”

  “Of course there are shoes!” she answered, digging through the suitcase to find a good pair. “And bags too!”

  She tossed me a pair of black heels and a matching bag. I slipped them on and we smiled and giggled and took turns looking in the mirror. She spoke nonsense about us sneaking out to a club on the Champs-Élysées and her getting her first kiss, but I was barely listening. I was too busy looking at the girl in the mirror. I felt giddy, I felt so glamorous and attractive. And then, as if a tidal wave had hit me, I felt horrible. I sat down on the bed and began to cry. Shireen held me.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “We won’t get in trouble. It happens all the time with luggage.”

  I shook my head, unable to speak what I was feeling. Barely audibly, I muttered, “That’s not it.” She looked in my eyes and she knew. She knew that I knew what she had known all along. I could tell she felt bad about it, about her part in changing my perception of our world. But really, she was not to blame. She had been filling my head with faithlessness and skepticism for as long as I can remember; it had never touched me. I knew that both Shireen and I would grow old in the tradition of our mother and grandmother. But suddenly it didn’t feel like it would be enough for me. As I stood in front of the mirror in the beautiful little black dress, I knew that I was looking at a woman whom I would never see again. I wished I had never seen her in the first place, but the truth is she had always been there. I was being dishonest to myself by pretending that she hadn’t.

  Shireen’s eyes teared up as well. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.