Pomegranate & Plum was the new must-have brand in Cambry-on-Hudson. I knew this because I saw their logo on roughly 80 percent of the mothers who dropped off their kids each day, the two Ps mirroring each other. Apparently, alliteration was a thing if you were a merchandiser seducing people into buying things they didn’t need.
More proof was in the welcoming sign: Pomegranate & Plum—Smile. Sweat. Slay. In other words, wear these clothes to your hot yoga classes as a status symbol to showcase your perfect, often surgically altered body, and rub it in to everyone bigger than a size 6. Or don’t go to hot yoga, or Vinyasa yoga, or whatever yoga was hip this year. Just wear the clothes, because really, it was all about the logo.
P&P didn’t carry sizes bigger than medium, because God forbid the fatties wanted to work out to, you know, lose weight or anything. They could do it in clothes from a less holy place than Pomegranate & Plum, which was a shrine to female physical perfection (and Photoshop, I hoped).
Marley, for all her bravado, appeared to be frozen as well. We stood at the front of the store, clutching each other’s arms as we stared. There was exposed brick on one side, which was ridiculous, because we were in the mall, not an old mill building. Hardwood maple floorboards, and none of that laminate, thankyouverymuch.
And oh, the obnoxious signs. J’aime yoga, the French making the statement that much less believable. Money doesn’t matter without love, which was ironic, because a person couldn’t shop at P&P without a good deal of money. Because I’m worth it, said another, contradicting the other sign.
Worst, though, were the pictures of the women clad in Pomegranate & Plum clothing (which didn’t look a lot different from the stuff I saw at Target and Marshalls, just saying). Giant silk-screened photos hung throughout the store, showing impossibly slender-yet-muscular women (all white, I noted) doing things that weren’t usually seen outside of a gulag.
One showed a beautiful, poreless brunette with skin that looked like it had been oiled, her perfect, gleaming teeth gritted. She was dressed, of course, in P&P’s muted colors, a harness on her shoulders so she could pull a pickup truck. As one does. The caption at the bottom read: Opera singer Elise Kierkegard keeps her vocal cords and her body in top shape while wearing Pomegranate & Plum’s Excelsior Low-Rise Workout Trousers.
“Trousers,” I whispered. “Because pants are so bourgeois.” Marley snorted.
Another showed a blond woman with a long, satiny ponytail and hypnotically sculpted thighs leaping across a mountain peak. When she’s not advising the secretary general of the United Nations, Merrin Hastings loves free-climbing in the Andes wearing Pomegranate & Plum’s Penultimate Fleece Hoodie.
“I went to Princeton with her,” I whispered.
“Just think what yours can say,” Marley whispered back. Whispering felt appropriate in this Church of the One Percent. “‘When she’s not wiping little bottoms in her preschool for extremely advanced children, Georgia Sloane enjoys lying on the couch in her Pomegranate & Plum SuperDuper Yoga Jodhpurs, watching Naked and Afraid.’”
“Why are we here again? I’m scared, Marley.”
She squeezed my arm. “It’s like hazing for skinny people. You might puke now, but you’ll look back on this day fondly.”
“The day I overpaid for workout clothes at a ridiculous store.”
“Happy times. That being said, let us not forget the immortal words. ‘Shop at a store for regular people.’ It’s on the list, and I can’t do it, so you have to.”
“You can shop at regular stores.”
“Only in the plus-sized sections, and you know that’s not what we were talking about way back when.”
She was right. The idea of being able to go into a “normal” store—those where the sizes stopped at 12 or 14—had been an elusive dream back then. I could still remember the three of us talking about it, how we’d go into the dressing rooms, not getting the side-eye from the clerks or other shoppers, trying on pants that were too big and having to go down a size. To single digits, even.
Now here I was, possibly about to fit into a medium, and it was weirdly terrifying. Marley took a shirt off the rack and held it up to her ample chest. The shirt looked as if it would fit one of my students. “Think I can get even one boob into this thing?” she asked, and I snickered.
“Can I help you find something?” a voice said, and we both jumped.
A beautiful woman, no more than twenty-five, smiled at me, revealing shockingly white teeth. Her skin was dewy, her hair shiny, her eyebrows magically perfect. She was tall and slim, her thigh gap visible, calves perfectly muscled.
“You should be a model,” I blurted.
“Oh, aren’t you sweet,” she said in a flat voice that said she heard it every day, and please, if she could’ve been a model, did I really think she’d be working here? “What can I help you with today?”
She stared at me, almost daring me to slink back out. Her gaze never flickered once to Marley.
“My friend and I are doing an Ironman,” I said, though me doing an Ironman and giving birth to Bruno Mars’s child had about the same odds. “I need some clothes.”
“Wonderful,” she said, still not blinking. “Right this way. My name is Aspen.”
“How about that?” I said. “I have sisters named Paris and Milan. And my name is Georgia. We love geography in my family.”
Aspen did not respond. Perhaps she was unaware that Aspen, Paris, Milan and Georgia were all places. Perhaps she felt she should be the sole bearer of her name, Colorado and trees be damned.
She led us through the store, past more silk screens of extraordinary people doing extraordinary things in extraordinarily expensive clothes.
“I think she may be a robot,” Marley murmured, still fondling the shirt she’d grabbed. “I have to say, this material is very nice. Very slippery. The sweat, should you be so crass as to sweat, will be whisked away.”
“I’m supposed to sweat. And slay,” I said, feeling the giggles coming on.
Aspen grabbed a few things off racks—gray, navy, black, white. Color was so passé.
“Let me know if you need other sizes,” she said, ushering me into a dressing room. She bared her teeth and left, checking herself out in the mirror on her way.
“I’ll be right here,” Marley said. “Go on. You can do this. I believe in you.”
The moment of truth.
I went into the dressing room and closed the door.
Obviously, shopping and I had never gotten along. Mirrors and I had never gotten along, either. My soul was scraped and battered from all the times my mom had taken me shopping as a kid, an adolescent, a teenager. She’d stuff me into a dress two sizes too small, wrestle with the zipper, her toothpick arms straining. “You’ve got to lose weight, Georgia. This can’t go on. You look horrid.”
As I got older (and bigger, then smaller, then bigger, etc.), I’d go on my own. The goal was always to hide my size, try to find things that didn’t have waistbands, that were loose and flowing. It never did the trick. What looked good on the hanger or the gaunt model on the website just made me look dumpy.
Marley had flair. She could pull off anything. She’d add a scarf to an outfit, put on a denim jacket and some bracelets, a cool pair of shoes, and she’d look great.
I lacked that talent. My outfit today was more of the same—a shapeless gray dress that had looked considerably more cheerful with the red sweater and plastic daisy necklace I’d worn to school. This was one of the many perks of working in a preschool; the kids didn’t care what you wore. Sure beat the law firm, where we associates were given an expense account at Saks and very conservative and simple guidelines to follow: suits, navy blue or dark gray.
“Get moving,” Marley said from the dressing room couch, where she was clicking away on her phone.
“Are you texting Camden?” I asked, opening the door to peek a
t her.
“None of your business.”
“So yes. I thought you gave up on him after Hudson’s that night.”
“I did no such thing. I’m just planning on telling him that I want to be a real girlfriend.”
“And have you?”
She cut me a look. “No. I want to do it in person. Now stop stalling and get dressed.”
I closed the door, pulled off the dress, took off my tights and looked at my nearly naked self in the mirror.
I saw colorless skin. My utterly unremarkable beige bra and panties. In a strange way, it was hard to see myself, almost like I was becoming invisible.
The stone in my stomach burned.
The door opened, and I jumped, covering myself with my arms. It was Marley, thank God, and not the Tree Woman, Aspen.
“Are you freaking out?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She gave me the once-over. “You’ve lost a lot of weight. Take a look.”
I lowered my arms, hating this. Marley had seen me much fatter, though. She knew everything already. Even so, my heart was pounding.
With her standing behind me, it was easier to see myself.
“Look. You have a waist. See? You actually curve in here. Turn. Look at your stomach. It’s almost flat. I mean, all you have to do is some sit-ups, hon. Fifty squats every day, twenty-five push-ups, twenty-five sit-ups.”
“You’re so cruel.”
“It’s not that you’re fat. You’re just out of shape.”
I swallowed. She was right. I wasn’t fat.
I was not fat.
That sentence needed to sit for a minute.
“Your face is frickin’ beautiful, Georgia. Look at your perfect skin. You have green eyes. You know how lucky you are to have green eyes?”
“Emerson had green eyes, too. And the best cheekbones.” The familiar lump came to my throat at the thought of our friend. I wanted to expunge the memory of her in that hospital bed. I wanted to remember the Emerson from Camp Copperbrook, who still had hope.
“Try on the clothes,” Marley said, her voice gentle.
“Is there a problem in there?” Aspen’s voice was hard.
“We’re making love. Leave us alone,” Marley said.
“One person at a time in there. Store policy.”
“Well, am I really even a person, if Pomegranate and Plum doesn’t make clothes in my size?” Marley said, opening the door to talk to her. “Your bitchy attitude doesn’t change the fact that you’re a clerk, does it? So go clerk. Go. Off with you.” She left the dressing room to stand guard.
I pulled on the shorts. They had a wide waistband that held in my non-ripped stomach. Regular bra off, muted green sports bra on, snugging up the girls quite nicely. Then a cropped shirt. Emerson might’ve died, but that didn’t mean I was going to run with only a bra on, no matter that it was reinforced with steel or whatever magical fiber Pomegranate & Plum had used.
I looked in the mirror again.
My reflection didn’t quite look like me.
Marley opened the door. “Wow! You look amazing!”
The hot stone in my gut flared again. “Tell me the truth, Marley. Will people think I look ridiculous?”
“For one, who cares what people think? And for two, only if you poop yourself crawling over the finish line. You look great. And the run’s only three miles.”
“Only three miles. You’re funny.”
“Buy these. Wear that snotty little insignia with pride. Let’s get out of here before I eat Aspen. I’m starving.” She left the dressing room.
I changed back into my gray dress, relieved at being able to cover up again.
The image of Emerson at the end, those weird protuberances, fat upon fat, the massiveness of her, the pain . . . Suddenly, my eyes were wet. I didn’t want looks to matter. I didn’t want size to matter. But they did. Size had killed Emerson. Size had me in this store, not quite recognizing myself.
My phone buzzed, startling me. I’d never be that person who could defuse a bomb, that was for sure. I wiped my eyes, pulled my phone out of my purse and did a double take when I saw the name.
Evan Kennedy. We’d entered our names into each other’s phones.
And he was calling. Calling, like a human and everything, though not the next day, as he’d said.
“Hello?” My voice was odd.
“Georgia? It’s Evan, the guy you met in the bar last week. Not the butcher. The other one.”
I smiled before remembering that we’d actually met years before at Yale. “Oh, yes, the not-butcher. Right.”
“I’ll get right to it. You want to have dinner with me next Saturday? I’m out of state at the moment.”
My mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Marley and I were going to Hakuna Matata this weekend, though I hadn’t actually told her anything other than it was a spa. Next Saturday was a week and a half away, which meant I could lose more weight, curse the thought. “Um . . . I have a thing that day. A fun run in Central Park to raise money for the city’s food pantry. So maybe Friday?”
“I love running!” Great. Another freak like my brother. “Can I come?”
God, no. “Well . . . the truth is, I’m a terrible runner and I don’t want to ruin any good impressions I might’ve made.”
This not-fat woman in the mirror was a pretty accomplished flirt.
“Okay,” he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. “Dinner after the race, then? In the city, or up your way?”
“In the city is fine.” I could shower and change at my father’s.
“Great! I’ll make a reservation somewhere nice. Any neighborhood better than another?”
“How’s Chelsea?”
“Chelsea works. I’ll text you the details.”
“Sounds good. Thanks, guy who is not a butcher.”
“You’re welcome, terrible runner.”
I ended the call.
A date with Evan Kennedy.
At some point, Yale was going to come up, and I’d have to admit to being that fat, quiet girl who made honors in every class, who’d worshipped him from afar for nearly three years.
But for now, it was disturbingly nice to be the pretty girl from the bar.
CHAPTER 18
Marley
Let a stranger touch your naked butt.
(No, of course it’s not on the list,
but somehow it was part of my birthday present.)
“Welcome to Sagrada Vida,” said the woman at the front desk.
“Thanks!” I said, giving her my best smile. “It’s so pretty here!”
“Please lower your voice. We have a quietude policy.” Indeed, her name tag said Whisper, which I now realized was maybe an order and not a name.
Georgia was glancing around furtively. Her mother was here this weekend, too. But what a nice surprise this was! A spa weekend with my best friend, her treat, here in the beautiful Catskills. This was the kind of thing that the Sex and the City gals would definitely do.
Emerson would heartily approve. And I could use a break. My parents’ house had sold in ten minutes, more or less, and all of a sudden, their move was looming on the horizon like a tornado. Relaxing with Georgia, getting a little pampering, drinking a few martinis would be good for the soul.
The man who’d brought in our bags now unzipped them.
“Um, excuse me?” I said. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer, just held up one of my Salt & Pepper boxes.
“Contraband,” the man said to Whisper.
“What?” I said. “It’s not drugs. It’s food. Dark chocolate truffles with toasted macadamia nuts. They’re fantastic. Would you like one? I’m a chef.”
“We don’t allow food from the outside,” Whisper, uh, whispered. L
ike the bellhop, she was dressed in gray. All the staffers were, apparently. The lobby was painted white, the floor was white, and I suddenly felt like I was in a futuristic alien movie in which Georgia and I would soon be spattered all over the wall.
“Oh,” I said, shooting Georgia a look. She wasn’t making eye contact. “Well, I’m not here to lose weight, not really. Just for the seaweed wrap and facials and manicures.” I gave another big smile.
“Sorry,” Whisper said, barely audible. “This type of food is distracting for the other clients, and obviously violates our policy.” She took another Salt & Pepper box out, giving a little hum of disappointment.
“But those are Mexican wedding cookies,” I said. “Everyone loves those.”
“White flour isn’t allowed here,” Whisper said. “Or butter. Or animal products. Or nonorganic produce from more than twenty miles away.”
I glared at Georgia. “What have you done to me, Georgia Sloane?”
“I signed us up for the weekend package,” Georgia explained. “The Inner Glow. It’s your early birthday present.”
“Oh!” I said, cheering considerably. “That sounds fun!”
“Please lower your voice,” Whisper said. “Also, it’s time for your first treatment, Miss DeFelice.”
“Goody,” I whispered. “So what’s first?”
“Let’s get you comfortable. Come to our relaxation room, please.”
“I like relaxing,” I whispered, and Georgia and I both started giggling like kids in church. With that, two gray-clad people took my arms and led me away as if I was headed for the dementia ward.
“Have a good time,” Georgia whispered.
“Bye,” I whispered back, still giggling. Uh-oh. There was her mother. Ah, well. Not my problem. I was about to glow.
My keepers led me to the relaxation room, which was so dark I bumped into a chair. They told me to change into a robe and sip some herbal tea. I obeyed. The robe was luxuriously silky, but the tea tasted like grass. Blick. Coffee was definitely more my thing, dark and delicious.
Good Luck with That Page 19