Nine Women, One Dress

by Jane L. Rosen

  The ice cream vendor handed John a second cone. Two cones. Two cones. It took a minute for it to sink in. Then up walked a smiling Caroline Westmont. I don’t know why I never considered this possibility—I guess because she was cheating on him, or had been at least, and he always seemed to be alone. I looked for an extra few seconds at what appeared to be a happy couple. Maybe she had changed her mind, straightened out her ways. One glance in my direction by either of them and I was done. I turned and ran the other way.

  I went back to my office and deleted John Westmont’s little green dot from my tracking portal. That was it: all connections severed. I was determined to stay clean.

  CHAPTER 26

  Flip Flop

  By Natalie, the Beard

  It was a slow morning in the store, which is unusual this close to Christmas. The only action at all was that my little black Max Hammer dress came back from being loaned out to Jordana Winston. I still call it mine, though at this point its line of succession is quite far-reaching; it arrived neatly folded in a box from Paris, of all places, although it looked more like it had hitched a ride home with a French sailor. I personally steamed it out in the back, but, sadly, I decided it was a goner. It was stretched out, stained, and had generally just seen too much action. The Max Hammer people would take it back because it had been loaned out for publicity.

  As I wrote out the return slip I felt a twinge of nostalgia for the dress and everything that had happened. Why was I so stubborn about Jeremy? Why couldn’t I accept his apology? Maybe I was hiding behind the whole misunderstanding because I was scared of getting hurt again. Under “reason for return” I wrote, Damaged. I should hang the same tag on myself, I thought. I hung the dress in the back and attached the slip for Ruthie to authorize when she came in later. That was some dress. I loved how I felt in it.

  Getting dressed up like that, in a really special dress, brings back memories of playing dress-up as a kid. My sister and I had a box filled with princess costumes and old communion dresses that my mom picked up here and there to add to our collection. We would prance around in them with fake pearls, white gloves, and my mom’s old heels. I think that little-girl pastime, dressing up and pretending to be a bride or a princess, or just a grownup, really sets the stage for how a beautiful dress makes a woman feel as an adult. Maybe it’s just that I’m still young, but whenever I dress, really dress, a part of me feels like it’s all make-believe—like anything could happen.

  A slow day at work really allows one’s mind to drift, and mine was drifting all over the place. Luckily I had Tomás to engage me. Ruthie is fun to be on with when it’s crowded—she’s queen of the side-eye and one-liner, and her running commentary can be hilarious. But when it’s quiet, Tomás is my guy. When you’re on with Ruthie on a slow day, she gives you a lot of breaks, which for her hold the promise of another cigarette. She’ll say, “Go take an extra break,” so she can take extra breaks, which end up costing me extra money as I wander around the store making mental notes of everything I want to buy with my next paycheck. With Tomás we both generally just stick it out on the floor together. To make the time go faster we’ll play games like guess who or I spy. On that day we played I spy, because we were both exhausted and didn’t have the brainpower for anything more. It was his turn.

  “I spy with my tired bloodshot eye something blue.” He looked at me with a sad face, and I got that he was talking about my mood. He was quite observant, Tomás. We’d become really close friends lately.

  “I’m fine. Please play for real. I don’t want to think about anything today.”

  “Fine. I spy with my tired bloodshot eye something else blue.” He looked in the direction of a passing customer and I laughed.

  “I see it,” I said. It was the head of one of those naturally gray-haired women who dye their own hair and don’t seem to notice that it’s blue—a little late in life for a punk-rock stage.

  My turn. I looked out the window. “I spy with my little eye something…cracked.”

  “Is it that little crack on Lexington that you used when we played last week?”

  “Actually it is, but take a look—it’s huge. It nearly crosses the whole street!”

  He looked. “Wow, someone should say something about that to someone.”

  “Someone should. You’re up.”

  He turned his attention back to the interior of the store. “Dios mio!” he cried. “I spy your short, shallow, and now shameless ex-boyfriend.”

  I followed his line of sight. “I goddamn see it. Ugh. Game over.”

  Flip Roberts walked directly toward us through the dress department. He had come in with the excuse of buying his wife a gift. It was the first time that I had seen him since Turks and Caicos and, more important, the first time the sight of him hadn’t rocked me to my core.

  I called him right out on his reason for being there. “Really, Flip? There are like a thousand places to buy a gift in this city—”

  He interrupted me with what he thought was a joke: “Out of all the dress joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine.” It was just the kind of clever thing that I would have laughed at when I was dating him. Now it just seemed hopelessly unoriginal…like him.

  “I really came to see you,” he said disingenuously. “I assume from the photo on Page Six this morning that you and your boyfriend broke up, and I just wanted to see if you were doing okay.”

  What photo on Page Six? I couldn’t hide my shock, or the fact that the thought of a photo of Jeremy with another woman made me want to throw up, so I spun it.

  “You’re a married man, Flip! Do you really think your wife would appreciate your checking in on your old girlfriend like this?”

  “She doesn’t know I’m here.” His response was pathetic.

  “I figured as much,” I said disapprovingly.

  “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we bumped into each other, and when I saw the Post this morning, well, I thought maybe—”

  I really didn’t care what he thought, and I wanted to make that clear. I interrupted him. “I’m glad you came in,” I said, rather cruelly. His face lit up. “I’ve been wanting to thank you.”

  “Thank me?” he asked, confused but hopeful. I couldn’t believe I’d ever had it so bad for this guy—he was such a tool.

  “Yes. If you hadn’t realized that something was lacking in our relationship, I might have spent my whole life with you—my whole life feeling less than, when really I am so much more than. Thanks to you, I didn’t settle for that.”

  He jumped at the bait. “But you’re not less than, you’re incredible, and I was just too stuck on some snobby version of who I thought I deserved to marry.”

  “Who you deserve to marry? I can tell you one thing, you don’t deserve me! Go home to your wife, Flip.” I walked away with tears in my eyes and made a beeline for the dressing room. But I wasn’t crying over Flip Roberts. I was crying over Jeremy.

  After our parting in Turks and Caicos he had called nearly every day. At first his messages were about wanting to win the fight, wanting to be right. Then they turned apologetic. And the last one just said, “I will always miss you but won’t bother you anymore.” It had been a week since then. While I was drawing this out like some kind of Greek tragedy, he was playing the Hollywood version and moving on.

  Tomás knocked on the dressing-room door. He was carrying the paper. “Sorry,” he said. “Do you want to see it for yourself?” There in black and white was Jeremy lip-locked to a woman on a ski lift in Vermont. The caption read, “Snowbound!”

  I let out a spontaneous roar, unable to stop myself from laughing at the joke. “This is from his new movie, Snowbound!” I said, still smiling, tears of happiness filling my eyes. “That’s his costar, not his girlfriend!”

  Tomás had tears in his eyes too. He’s such a good friend. And such a romantic! “Are you sure?” he whimpered.

  “Of course I am—I read this script. I ran the lines in this scene
with him.”

  “You should go, Natalie—go get him!”

  His energy was catching. I thought about it, running right up to Vermont and into Jeremy’s arms. But that stuff didn’t happen in real life. And I don’t even drive.

  “I have no idea where this was taken, and I can’t just barge onto the set. I’ll wait for him to get back.”

  But Tomás wasn’t having it. He looked at the picture again. “What if he falls for her? Look at her. Even I might fall for her.”

  I looked at the picture. He did have a point. “Even I might fall for her!” We laughed as I considered my options.

  “I have his publicist’s card in my wallet from that photo shoot.” I pulled it out. His office was right around the corner.

  Tomás grabbed it from me. “Let’s go in person!”

  “But the floor isn’t covered!”

  “Love trumps a lady needing a different size.” He grabbed my hand.

  “You should stay. We could get fired!” I protested.

  “No way!” he protested louder. “I’m your ride-or-die chick!”

  I laughed the whole way there.

  CHAPTER 27

  For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow

  By Arthur Winters, Attorney-at-Law

  It turns out that it took all of two interviews for Felicia to get another job, and so it was that in the blink of an eye I was sitting at my desk trying to compose a toast in her honor. Everything was set for the party. I did it all myself and I really went all out, though I had to be careful. There are company rules and budgets for such things, and I didn’t want anyone to catch on to our relationship. I filled the room with celebration cakes from Payard and bottles of Veuve Clicquot and bought her a beautiful bouquet of flowers from her favorite florist. Writing the toast turned out to be the most difficult task. I didn’t know what to say. Good luck, thank you, goodbye. Every word I chose but the last seemed trite. It bothered me that after all this time together at work my words would seem generic. Not to the room, but to Felicia. Time was up, and I shoved my note card in my breast pocket and headed to the party.

  Even with the standard two weeks’ notice, I was completely unprepared for Felicia’s departure. Deep down I was happy for her and glad that our relationship would soon be out in the open, but my misery at the thought of not seeing her all day masked it. It seems her competence and loyalty had landed her a job at one of the most prestigious law firms in the city. The office was down on Wall Street, far away from midtown, and every time I thought of the distance between the two, a lump formed in my throat. I really had to pull myself together.

  I entered the room and downed my first glass of champagne to calm my nerves. Everyone was chatting and milling about, and the time went quickly. Before long the type-A people that made up our firm wanted to get back to work. They encouraged me to make my toast.

  I began with the words on my note card.

  “I want to say a few words on behalf of everyone at Canner, Silfen, Sheanshang, and Winters, to express our appreciation for Felicia’s unmatched term of dedicated service. Felicia has spent eighteen years with us, and in that time she has served as an example of excellence to everyone around her, foremost myself.”

  So far I was keeping my composure. But as I paused to allow the new associates their obligatory laugh, it gave me time to catch Felicia’s eye, and I started to lose it. I fumbled with my card and begged myself to get it together as I continued with the words I had written.

  “Felicia, for eighteen years I have walked off the elevator and been greeted by your smile.” My voice cracked and I felt moisture building up in my eyes. “I…I can’t imagine not seeing…that smile every day…” I squeezed my eyes tight, but it was too late; a tear had escaped. One sizable lone tear. The sight of it set off murmurs across the room, and nearly every woman took my cue and welled up too. At this point they were probably sad to see Felicia go and happy that a boss could cry over his assistant’s departure. I found Felicia’s eyes again and it was over. The tears were pouring down her face. I couldn’t bear it, any of it. I was sixty years old. I had lost the first love of my life already; I wasn’t about to waste any more time. I tossed my note card over my shoulder and got down on one knee.

  “Felicia, I refuse to spend even one more day apart from you. If you are no longer going to work for me, would you please do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Her reply nearly bowled me over as everyone shouted and cheered.

  “Yes. Yes!” she cried.

  Suddenly I became very conscious of the fact that I had just cried and proposed in front of a roomful of my colleagues. I followed with a sheepish joke: “I guess the cat’s out of the bag.”

  Everyone laughed and toasted our long, happy life together. My partners had the company limo brought around and we were escorted out, along with the extra bottles of champagne, by nearly everyone in the firm.

  We sank into our seats and caught our breath.

  “Where to, Mr. Winters?”

  I had no idea. “Let me ask my fiancée.” It felt so good to say it out loud—my fiancée, soon to be my wife.

  Felicia seemed to enjoy it as well. She laughed and said, “We never did walk across the Brooklyn Bridge!”

  CHAPTER 28

  Tell Hank They Beat It Out of Me

  By Albert, Jeremy’s Publicist

  They came busting into my office like Bonnie and Clyde on crack. My intern followed them, trying to stop them, but she didn’t stand a chance.

  “Don’t worry, Devan, it’s okay. Hello, Natalie, nice to see you again.” I was pleasant, partially because I had liked her when we met and mostly because of the tall drink of water that was her escort. I was single again, and this Latin guy was gorgeous. (Natalie and Jeremy weren’t the only couple who didn’t survive the Tab Hunter scandal, as we had taken to calling it.) “What can I do for you?” I asked, though I had a feeling this involved today’s New York Post.

  Natalie was nervous, so the tall drink of water spoke for her, introducing himself first. “Hi, I’m Tomás. Natalie wants to surprise Jeremy on set but doesn’t know where that is, so we were hoping that you could tell us.” He was pretty gorgeous and definitely gay, but there was no way I was pulling back on this thing; I had leaked that photo to Page Six myself and was sticking with the illusion of Jeremy and his new girl. The caption said nothing but the name of the movie. People could assume anything they wanted.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, though I think it’s pretty obvious from the picture, Jeremy has moved on. Just a happy couple kissing on the slopes.”

  Tomás looked as if he would cry, but Natalie from Astoria wasn’t buying it. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “There’s no way he got over me so quickly, and I read the script for Snowbound. I remember the scene.”

  She was right, of course. I’d sworn I was done staging things after the red-carpet fiasco, but when the movie’s publicist sent me the photo yesterday, I hit Forward and sent it over to my guy at the Post, partly to make it up to him for the red-carpet pix that never materialized and partly to solidify my boy’s sexual orientation among the doubters. A picture is always worth a thousand words, even if it is just a publicity still.

  I hated myself for it, but I denied her denial. She had had her chance with him, and I would happily have gone with their story if it had worked out on its own—the truth is always easier than the made-up stuff. But this girl had played with Jeremy’s head—I had seen it firsthand—and he needed to concentrate on his career. It was best for me to scare her off, I was sure of it. I kissed goodbye any chance of hooking up with Tomás and stuck to my guns.

  “It’s true that they’re filming a movie together, but the romance is real. He’s a big Hollywood star. What did you expect?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “But he’s not like that!” she cried. “He always made me feel like the star.”

  Oh, for the love of Bette Midler, why’d she have to go and say that? She understood what was so special
about him: it wasn’t his looks or his smile or his swagger, it was the way he brought out the good in everyone around him. He did it onscreen and he did it in person. She got him, and it broke me.

  “He’s staying at the Inns at the Equinox in Manchester, Vermont. She’s not his girlfriend. He didn’t get over you—he can’t even say your name.” I buzzed Devan. “Devan, have the company car meet us on Third Avenue. And tell the driver to fill up the tank. We’re all going to Vermont.”

  Tomás’s face lit up. “All?”

  I smiled. “The more, the merrier!” adding to save face, “It’s a closed set—you’ll never get in without me.”

  Natalie hugged me and kissed me all over my face. Tomás was tickled pink. She looked at him, then back at me, and winked.

  “Maybe it’ll be happy endings all around!”

  CHAPTER 29

  #DrinkTheKoolAid

  By Sophie Stiner, Brown Graduate

  I was all set to attend the Christie’s holiday party that night when a text from Thea Baxter derailed me.

  Be a doll and let me borrow that Max Hammer you wore to the library benefit?

  I couldn’t believe she was so last-minute. I’d had my outfit set since the day she invited me. I had been careful to pick something classic and modest. I didn’t want my clothes to define me in any way. Damn. I doubted that dress was still at Bloomingdale’s.