Nine Women, One Dress

by Jane L. Rosen

  I could have texted her right back saying that it was at the cleaner’s, but I knew that lending her the dress would balance the favor scale between us. I know that logically a dress can’t compare to a possible job, but this really was some dress. She would turn heads in it. And I needed to do whatever it took to get a job. So I decided I would run to Bloomingdale’s in hopes of finding it, buy it on my mom’s emergency credit card, and return it within the billing cycle. I would need to delay responding to her text in case my plan didn’t work. I needed an aligram.

  Aligram is a word I made up: part alibi, part Instagram, an aligram is when you use social media to back up a lie. Posting a photo that serves to confirm an excuse, or your supposed whereabouts. I threw my fluffy white terry robe over my clothes, pulled my hair off my face with a thick headband, and snapped a picture.

  #IHeartMassages #Bliss @Bliss

  I now had the time a ninety-minute massage would take to either find the dress or send back an apologetic Sorry I didn’t text back sooner, at bliss spa. dress at cleaners.

  I ran to Bloomingdale’s, practically breaking my neck on a huge crack in the pavement while crossing Lexington Avenue. When I got there, the dress department was empty. There was actually no one there to help me. Everything seemed to be going against me today, and I was running out of time. I should’ve included a mani-pedi in my aligram. I searched all over and was about to give up when an older woman who smelled a bit like my Grandma Freda, a pleasant mix of Shalimar and Marlboro Lights with a slight hint of fried onions, approached me. She was quite apologetic and very surprised that the department was empty. She seemed like one of those hardcore women who had worked there forever, a lifer who took real pride in her job. I had a feeling that if anyone could help me, it would be her.

  “Where the hell is everybody?” she said under her breath; then, more professionally, “I’m so sorry, can I help you with something?”

  “More like everything!” I said, immediately throwing myself on her mercy. She seemed like the straightforward type, so I came right out and explained my predicament. Including that it was nearly Christmas, that I had yet to find a job, and that the Max Hammer dress might be just the break I needed. She was honest in return.

  “I have one size small in the back, but it’s a mess, and it’s set to go back to the manufacturer.”

  “Can I buy it today and return it tomorrow?” I asked, playing up my sheepishness, hoping she would take pity on me.

  She took a beat and agreed. “Sure, to make up for no one being here to help you.” She put a finger to her lips. “But mum’s the word. There are major rules about that lately.”

  “Mum’s the word,” I repeated as she went off to get it.

  Maybe my luck was changing. I hoped so. Tonight was beginning to feel like my last chance. I am nearly twenty-three, you know.

  As she rung me up I responded to Thea Baxter:

  Of course, sorry for the delay. Should I leave it with my doorman?

  She answered as if she’d been waiting by the phone, though she struck me as the type who always was.

  Yay!!!!! Yes, text me your address.

  40 East 71st. I need it back for a wedding this weekend.

  I’ll drop it back in the a.m. Who’s getting married?

  My boyfriend’s BFF from Choate. I think he’s a Kennedy.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Wow! GTG. See you tonight.

  I had so convinced myself that I actually worked for Sotheby’s that I felt a twinge of guilt upon entering the Christie’s soirée. I mean, work there or not, everyone in the art world knows that Sotheby’s and Christie’s are in daily competition. Every prominent piece of art heading for auction, as well as every collector, is fair game for one or the other. The art market, flat or exciting, high or low, is determined by what goes on at these two houses. Last year it was Sotheby’s that ended up on top in annual sales, mostly because of its acquisition of one mammoth Impressionist estate. For the few years prior Christie’s had been ahead. From the looks of this party, it seemed Christie’s was going to great lengths to get back on top. Including trying to steal away some cool new blood with excellent taste and, might I add, a following on Instagram that as of party time had reached, wait for it…1700 followers. Finally things were coming together. Soon I would be buying a little black dress for keeps to hang in my very own closet in my very own crib. Crib—I felt awkward even thinking the word. I was so not cool.

  Thea Baxter came running over with open arms. She gave me a quick hug and spun around. “I love this dress. I wish I could keep it!”

  I laughed a compulsory laugh. “Remember, I’m wearing it to that wedding this weekend—you promised.”

  “I promise,” she said with a pout.

  I felt a strange allegiance to the saleslady at Bloomingdale’s. I wasn’t sure if it was because she smelled like my Grandma Freda or because she seemed so dedicated to her job, but I didn’t want to break my word. Whatever it is that my word meant at this point.

  “So how are things over at Sotheby’s?” Thea said Sotheby’s in a weird voice usually reserved for impressions of Satan.

  “Same old.” I brushed off her question as if she couldn’t possibly be looking for a real answer. But it worked—she moved on.

  “Let’s get some bubbly and then I’ll introduce you to my boss, Sheldra Fine.” She led me to the bar as she talked about the things you talk about when you see someone with whom your only connection is your alma mater. Benign questions, like Did you hear that so-and-so got engaged? or that so-and-so is in rehab? She was so basic.

  Just as we were running out of nothingness she caught the eye of her boss and we were summoned over. The boss was the kind of woman that my grandmother would describe as handsome. She spoke in a monotone: “Hello, Sophie. Thea has told me so much about you.” I smiled, thinking, Thea doesn’t know so much about me.

  She took a step back and looked me over from head to toe, purposefully, not discreetly. She asked, “Whom do you consider more innovative, Shiraga or Yves Klein?”

  Please, so easy. “Shiraga painted with his feet years earlier than Klein used his body.”

  She didn’t react. “Shinzo or Kikuji?” she asked.

  “Eiko,” I responded with a confident smile.

  “A photographer? And don’t say Moriyama or Kawauchi.”

  I smirked, as I had what I knew was a great answer. “Fan Ho. For his drama and simplicity.”

  “Hmmm. I like your style. Call me Monday morning to set up a formal interview.”

  Thea was more excited than I was. “You nailed it. Let’s do a shot!” she shrieked as soon as her boss was out of earshot. We both sat down. “Two shots of Patrón, please,” she asked the bartender before I’d even agreed. As we toasted I held up my phone and took a selfie. We checked it before we drank, in case we needed a redo.

  “You can’t post that!” she quickly objected.

  “Why? You look great!”

  “It says Christie’s behind us!” she said, alarmed.

  “So?”

  “So it will raise suspicion!”

  “I’m quitting anyway. What’s the difference?”

  She looked at me like I was a total moron. “Obviously Sheldra is going to want you to do some spying before you leave—you know, some internal espionage,” she said, without humor.

  “Who are you, Edwina Snowden?” I said, laughing at my own joke. “I can’t spy for you!” Of course I meant I actually couldn’t spy, because I had no way of getting into the building, but I wouldn’t have spied on Sotheby’s even if I could have.

  I had begun to Instagram the pic when she grabbed my phone away from me. “I’m serious, Sophie!”

  I got serious too. Somehow the fact that I’d been lying made me even more self-righteous.

  “Listen, Thea, it’s one thing for me to leave Sotheby’s but quite another to screw them over in the process. If Sheldra doesn’t want me for my style and my knowledge, then I�
��m out.”

  “Then I guess you’re out,” Thea said as she placed her still-full shot glass back on the bar and stormed off. I laughed at my ambiguous principles. I guess it was one thing to quit a fake job but quite another to be the kind of girl who would fake-screw my employer. In a strange way it felt good to hold on to my values, convoluted as they may be.

  The man beside me hijacked Thea’s shot and raised it to toast. “To you!”

  I clicked his glass and we drank. “Why are we drinking to me?” I asked upon recovering from the burn.

  “I don’t often see that kind of integrity in young people. I’m impressed.”

  I thanked him as he ordered us another round.

  “Was she a good friend?” he asked curiously.

  “Not really,” I said, playing with the rim of my glass. “She wasn’t really my type—a snob, and for no reason. She was a slush-fund baby.”

  “You mean a trust-fund baby?”

  “No, a slush-fund baby—her father paid for her entire education by stealing from his company’s petty cash.”

  He laughed spontaneously from his gut. Hmmm, I’m cool and funny.

  “I wish I was in the art game. I would snatch you right up.”

  “What do you do?” I asked, more out of courtesy than because I cared.

  “I own a marketing company, DrinkTheKoolAid.com,” he said, as if I should have heard of it. My face must have given me away. “Drink is made up of a group of influencers. We bring ideas to the mainstream consciousness through social media. It’s like reality television for the three-second attention span.”

  I laughed. “That’s actually what I do!”

  He asked me to explain, so I went on to describe the road that led me to the seat at the bar next to him. Everything from my very first aligram to borrowing the little black dress from Bloomingdale’s in a last-ditch effort to keep up appearances. As I told the story I realized how much I had enjoyed the whole trip. Not the lying, but the creativity involved in getting the right photo, choosing the right caption, and the instant and constant gratification of the likes and new followers. I was good at it. It was actually what kept me from sinking into a depression through all the rejections of my unsuccessful job search. He ate it all up and promised me that if I came to work for him, I could hashtag my way to a crib of my own in no time.

  “You put on a good show,” he said. “Right down to your red-bottomed shoes.”

  I kept that one lie to myself: my red soles were courtesy of a very resourceful shoemaker on 82nd and Third and not, as my #IHeartLouboutin pre-party post would lead my followers to believe, the genuine article.

  As far as the finest little black dresses were concerned, he promised me that designers would be dropping them at my doorstep in the hope of the right tweet or the right photo. He wanted me to help him co-opt an entire generation—my generation—of doe-eyed followers. Who was I to say no? In the past that was an honor bestowed on cultural icons like Andy Warhol and Oprah, but now it seems that I, Sophie Stiner, am cool enough to lead the way.

  Go ahead and tag me! @SophieStiner @DrinkTheKoolAid #dreamjob #cool

  CHAPTER 30

  Snowbound Bound

  By Natalie, the Beard

  I was so nervous that when we settled into the limo I began biting my nails, and I wasn’t even a nail-biter. I wanted to chicken out, call the whole thing off, but one look at Albert and Tomás and I realized that this road trip was no longer entirely about me. In fact, from the way they were looking at each other I calculated my relevance to be at about 10 percent. This was confirmed by Tomás’s enthusiastic announcement of our first scheduled stop: a quick lunch at Miss Florence Diner, just outside Northampton, Massachusetts. Before I could say anything, or even ask if it was on the way, Albert blurted out with equal enthusiasm, “Oh my god, I’ve never been to Northampton!”

  But a stop meant more time to work myself up into a nervous wreck. My face must have indicated as much, because Tomás spoke as if I had protested out loud.

  “Natalie, he’s never been there!”

  I wouldn’t have cared, really, I was happy for them and their sparks that were flying around me, but I am a rip-the-Band-Aid-off-quickly kind of girl and this would take forever. I tried to think of it from their point of view: Northampton isn’t just any cute town. It’s the LGBTQ capital of the Northeast, a place that promised acceptance and solidarity and something for Tomás and Albert to bond over. Unless I was willing to get into a whole conversation about my heterosexual privilege, I would need to just smile and acquiesce. Besides, we would probably be hungry by then.

  When we arrived at Miss Florence, my anxiety seemed to melt as quickly as the cubes of butter on my scrumptious blueberry pancakes. I don’t know if it was the quaint town, the good company, or just that hopeful feeling that seems to ride along on a road trip, but I was thinking less about the possibility of a disastrous outcome and more about just enjoying the ride. In true buttinski form, Tomás convinced us that we should go all out to surprise Jeremy. Going all out for Tomás always began with the right outfit. Now that I was enjoying myself I was totally game. His plan included a stop at a ski shop in Bennington, where I would buy head-to-toe skiwear so I could disguise myself on set. I thought for sure Albert would veto the whole thing, but he was so smitten with Tomás that he didn’t want to dampen his spirit. I was all in—it was the most fun I’d had since Turks and Caicos. But once I zipped up my ski suit my nerves kicked back in and I begged Albert to call Jeremy and feel him out. What if he never wanted to see me again? Albert dismissed me, saying he didn’t want to bother him during filming—a pretty absurd answer, considering we were driving up to crash his set. But I let it go.

  According to my close friend and personal concierge, Siri, we would arrive at the set just before dark. This was apparently of great significance, because Albert became particularly adamant that we not interrupt the last hour of daylight at the shoot in any way. We swore we wouldn’t, arrived on the set, and did just as we’d promised. I even wore my ski mask to ensure that Jeremy wouldn’t recognize me and blow his scene. Albert ran off to pee and Tomás and I stood quietly on the side as discreetly as possible. We were both nervous and excited. It was in between shots and the director was calling for the extras to come up. A group of ski bunnies paraded right by us, and Tomás nudged me into the line. Swept away in the moment, I didn’t protest—the right outfit can really give a girl confidence, I guess!

  A stylist quickly perused the group, tucking, zipping, and unzipping seemingly at random. When she got to me, she ripped off my face mask. “Where did this come from?” she asked.

  “Quiet on the set!” someone shouted, saving me from answering.

  I remembered the scene well from reading the script. Spoiler alert: it was the final scene, an après-ski in front of the lodge, following that frustrating ten to twenty minutes in the last act of a romantic comedy when the boy and girl break up due to some unavoidable obstacle, only to realize the foolishness of their ways and travel by foot/cab/horse, or in this case snowmobile, to reach each other and confess their undying love. The irony was not lost on me.

  Jeremy was supposed to sit with his feet up, gazing at the mountain, melancholy, while sipping a hot chocolate. I looked around for him but only saw Albert wildly gesturing for me to cease and desist. I searched the crowd for Tomás, hoping for a nod of support, but he was nowhere in sight. He had been eyeing the craft services cart when we walked in; hunger or nerves must have gotten the best of him. Some ride-or-die chick he turned out to be!

  Jeremy walked onto the set in all his glory and my heart dropped to my knees, which both began to wobble. All the confidence that I’d had around him when he was gay seemed to have disappeared, along with any anger I’d felt over the whole misunderstanding.

  The director yelled, “Action!” The scene began just as I remembered from the script. Jeremy sat, sipped, and gazed up at the mountain, the sound of a ski patrol rescue snowmobile revving in the dis
tance. Another skier, fresh from the slopes, ran to him and grabbed him by the jacket. It was Lance Ludwig the Third, Jeremy’s character’s arch-nemesis.

  “It’s Nancy—she took a horrible fall,” he said, sobbing. “I’m not sure she’s gonna make it.”

  Jeremy stood and shouted with guttural anguish up the mountain, “Nancy!”

  As his cry echoed in the woods, he grabbed his ski poles and headed for her. He was so convincing and I was so crazy for him that my gut impulse was to stop him from reaching her. It was a legit knee-jerk reaction—I stuck out my leg and tripped Jeremy Madison mid-ski, causing him to lunge forward and bang his head on a tree stump. As he grabbed his head and rolled to his side, groaning, I ran to him and kneeled down, taking his face in my hands. He opened his eyes and smiled at me, and I responded by kissing him sweetly on the lips. He stood up and shook the whole thing off like a tackled linebacker at the Super Bowl. He grabbed my arm and raised it in the air like we were champs, and then pulled me toward him for the kiss of all kisses, the one formerly destined for his leading lady.

  The director screamed, “We’re wasting light here!” while Albert ordered everyone with a camera to take photos and post them to their feeds. We were trending by sunset.

  And so it was that I finally ended up on the pages of the New York Post. “Who is that mystery girl with Jeremy Madison? The enchanting”—that’s a quote—“Natalie Canaris.”

  Go on, ask me if Flip Roberts saw it.

  My answer? “I don’t know and I don’t care!”

  CHAPTER 31

  A. This Story Ends Badly

  B. You Won’t Feel So Bad About It

  By Ruthie, Third Floor, Ladies’ Dresses

  There are three different types of salespeople in a department store: those who hang out in the dressing rooms (“Do you need another size?” “We have that in a beautiful aquamarine if you’d like”), those who hang out by the register and get the “Did anyone help you with this?” leftovers, and those who walk the floor asking if anyone needs assistance. When I first started out I was a big floorwalker, not much interested in gossiping in the dressing room with the other salesgirls.