“I have them in black,” Sandra said. “And some Kate Spades that look sort of similar, but the heel doesn’t suit me.”
Oh, this was good.
Lorna had had a very hard time picking out three pairs of shoes to bring out for trading—she knew, as hostess, that she’d be sort of obliged to trade at least one pair since the whole thing was her idea—but now she was thinking she might have to run back and get more.
“So.” Florence slapped her hands against her thighs. “How do we do this? Like an auction?” She picked up the purple fake Choos. “These are very special, as I was telling Lana here. I was thinking I’d need two pairs in exchange, but since everyone only brought one or two pairs, I’ll settle for one. This time.” She held them up. “Anyone?”
There was a polite silence.
Lorna got uncomfortable. “Can I see them?” she asked, although she didn’t have any genuine interest in looking them over.
Once in her hand, the lack of quality was even more evident, if possible. Clear glue had dried around the edges of the soles, and the stitching on the patent leather was uneven. Lorna didn’t know how to comment on that, though, without sounding too insulting to her guest. Fortunately, there was a 10 stamped on the sole—another giveaway—and it gave her the out she needed.
“These are size ten,” she said. Then, suddenly uncertain, she asked, “Didn’t I say seven and a half in my ad?” Oh, God. Had she messed up and wasted everyone’s time?
“Yes,” Helene said quickly. “You did. That’s what I brought.”
“Me, too,” Sandra said, finishing her wine. She seemed to be a little more comfortable now.
Of course, wine had a way of doing that.
“Oh, come on,” Florence said, “with nutrition as good as it is today, ten is the new seven and a half.” She looked down at her own Jurassic feet, for which she undoubtedly had to order shoes specially.
Lorna got up and went to the kitchen to grab the bottle, saying, “I’m sorry if it wasn’t clear, Florence. If we’re all the old size seven and a half, we can’t swap for a different size.”
“I’ve got a whole bunch of sizes here,” Florence said, a little snappishly. She began to rummage, roughly, through the shoes. “Here’s…let’s see…ten. You’ve made it clear that won’t do. Five. Ah—seven.” She set that pair aside. “Those might work. You never know if the sizes run large.”
“I’ve never heard of Bagello,” Sandra said, peering down at the label in the shoes.
“It’s a Super-Mart store brand,” Helene said, without judgment.
Florence turned a sharp eye on her. “Is there something wrong with Super-Mart?”
“Of course not.” Helene looked like she was suppressing a smile. “But I don’t think a size seven Super-Mart shoe will fit anyone here.” She waited a beat before adding, “They actually tend to run small.”
Lorna poured more wine into Helene’s glass and wondered how a woman so elegant and obviously cultured knew anything about Super-Mart fashions.
“Well,” Florence said triumphantly, pulling out a pair of gray flannel flats. “Ralph Lauren should suit you, then.” She handed them to Helene and gave a smug smile. “Those babies cost a whole lot.”
Helene turned the shoes over in her hand and nodded. “They’re Ralph Lauren, all right. Vintage, even. I’d say 1993 or ’94.”
Florence looked very pleased with herself.
Lorna looked at the shoes while she poured more wine into Sandra’s glass.
“So. Who wants to make a deal?” Florence asked.
Sandra, who had already picked up her glass and taken a sip, said, “I’m too short to wear flats.”
Lorna looked at the shoes in dismay. They were very scuffed. Still, she was afraid it might be her hostess-y duty to make an offer.
She was about to do so when Helene said, “All right.” It was clear she was just being polite. Her amusement still shone plainly on her face, and she didn’t even look at the Ralph Laurens again. “I’ll trade you these Puccis for them.”
Lorna felt an actual pain on her chest. “Oh, no, not the Puccis! Wait—I’ve got…” She thought frantically. “Some Angiolinis you might like better.”
Florence glanced from one woman to the other.
Helene just looked at Lorna. “Oh, no. Not the Angiolinis. Those are way more expensive than these.” She winked.
She knew.
Sandra, on the other hand, had an undisguised look of confusion.
Lorna kept running with Helene’s game ball. “You may be right….” She was sure Florence would leap at the chance to score shoes that were too expensive to give up.
So it was a shock when Florence shook her head. “Sorry, ladies. These suckers are worth two pairs. Two designer pairs,” she added, as if everyone else had brought shoes they picked up at the grocery store.
Helene gave a rueful sigh. “You’re too rich for my blood,” she said. She was really a master at working people. “I don’t think I can help you out.”
“Me neither,” Sandra interjected quickly.
“I’ve only got a few pairs myself,” Lorna said, hoping her nose didn’t grow or twitch with the lie. “I thought mostly we’d sit around and, you know, talk about shoes.” She hoped she had Sandra and Helene pegged right, because she really didn’t want to turn them off.
“Okay,” Sandra said. Her face was slightly flushed, probably from the wine, and she had loosened up considerably. “Did you know that ancient man invented the first sandals by strapping a flat piece of wood or animal hide to his feet with the intestines of his prey?”
There was silence for a moment, while everyone looked at Sandra with surprise.
“I read a lot,” she said with a shrug, her face turning red like the top of a cartoon thermometer.
Lorna smiled. “Tell us more.”
“Well, shoes came after that, for people in colder climates. They just took the sandals and added tops made from animal skins. It’s pretty much what we wear today, if you think about it.”
“So, sociologically,” Lorna improvised, badly, “we’re not as evolved as we think we are.”
“Exactly!” Sandra said. “We share a great deal with our prehistoric ancestors.”
“Fascinating. So—”
“Uh, wait.” Florence held up a hand. “Excuse me. I’ve got to get going.” She started throwing her shoes back into her bags without regard to organization. I didn’t realize this was going to be like a book club or something. This isn’t my bag.”
Lorna’s impulse was to feign disappointment and object, but she squelched that. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” she said to Florence, walking to the door to prevent the woman from stopping and trying to cut a deal for Helene’s Emilio Puccis.
“Yeah, well…if you want some of my shoes, you’ll have to go to eBay. Look for ‘Flors Fashions.’ I’ll cut you a deal on shipping, since I know you guys live local.” She bustled out of the apartment. “Remember, that’s Flors Fashions.”
Lorna closed the door behind Florence and took a breath before turning to the other two women to see what their reaction was.
There was a moment of tense silence, during which Lorna imagined everyone was sizing the others up.
Finally, Sandra, on her fourth glass of wine, said, “Those poor shoes.”
“Don’t defend the shoes,” Lorna said immediately, parroting one of the funniest quotes from Tim Gunn on Project Runway. Immediately she remembered she didn’t know these women and they’d probably think she was crazy, so she tried to explain what suddenly seemed like an increasingly lame joke. “That’s from this show—”
“Project Runway!” Sandra said. “Oh my God, I love that show. And when Tim Gunn said that about Wendy—”
“Pure gold,” Helene interjected. “And she totally deserved it, those shoes were dowdy…”
Everyone laughed, and the relief seemed to fill the room like warm water.
It was at that moment, over something as inconseq
uential as a television show, that Lorna decided this really might work. This was a bonding moment. The mood in the room had lightened completely, and everyone was laughing and chattering now about designers and would-be designers from the show, and about the moment they’d realized they loved shoes, and finally about Florence.
“You panicked when I offered her the brocade Puccis, didn’t you?” Helene said to Lorna. “I saw it in your eyes. I’m really sorry about that.” She took off the shoes and handed them to Lorna. “Here. Take them. You deserve them after what you went through to bring us all here.”
Once again Lorna found herself saying the right thing instead of what she meant. “No, really. Thanks, but I can’t just take them. That’s not the point of the meeting.”
“But I don’t mind.” Helene looked at Sandra. “Do you?”
Sandra shook her head. “Not at all. I’m ready to give you mine, too. You must have been really surprised when Florence came in here and started unloading.”
Lorna laughed. “I was a little nervous that I hadn’t communicated very well in the ad.”
“Honey, there will always be people who don’t get it,” Helene said, like one who knew from painful experience. “I thought you handled it really well. Are you, by any chance, in sales?”
Lorna shook her head. “I’m a waitress. At Jico, over on Wisconsin Avenue.”
Helene smiled. “That’s where your people skills come from.”
“What do you do?” Lorna asked, then shifted her gaze to Sandra. “Both of you, I mean.”
Helene was silent for a moment, so Sandra volunteered, “I work telecommunications.”
“Telecommunications?”
Sandra nodded but looked uncomfortable. “It’s not very interesting, but it pays the rent.” She gave a small laugh. “And the shoe bills.”
Lorna nodded. It seemed they were all in the same boat, basically. “How about you?” she asked Helene.
Still the hesitation. “I used to be a salesperson at Garfinkels. Before they went under.”
“Really? Garfinkels?” Lorna had always thought of that as a store for old people, her parents’ friends and so on. And that was back before it closed, which was, what, ten years ago now?
Helene nodded. “I worked in men’s suits. The department, not the clothing.” She smiled and shrugged. “I met my husband there, so I guess it worked out as it was supposed to.”
“That’s Demetrius Zaharis, right?” Sandra asked.
Helene looked startled. “Yes. How did you know?”
Sandra shrugged. “I read a lot. A lot.”
“I thought you looked familiar,” Lorna said. “Your picture is in the ‘Style’ section sometimes.” It was probably in other sections, too, but Lorna only read the “Style” section.
Helene looked down for a moment, but then said, in a voice more casual than the expression on her face, “Those pictures are always so awful that I hope no one recognizes them as me.” She laughed lightly, but there was something chilly about it.
Lorna doubted it was possible to take a bad picture of Helene, but she could tell Helene was uncomfortable with the subject, so she changed it entirely. “Let me just get those Angiolinis, then. And a mirror. And let the trading begin!”
The trading took only a few minutes, but the conversation went on for another hour, and all the women grew more comfortable as the time—and the wine—wore on.
When things began to wind down, Lorna said, “So tell me, do you all have other shoes you want to swap? I mean, do you want to come back? I don’t really know how to go about organizing this.”
“I have a million pairs,” Helene volunteered. “And, to be honest, it’s nice to have a social occasion that doesn’t involve stuffy political causes and publicity.”
“Great.” Lorna was thrilled. Always one to be afraid no one would come to her parties, setting this group up had been a leap of faith that appeared to be working out. She turned to Sandra. “How about you?”
Sandra’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I don’t get out much,” she said, then shrugged. “But I do have a lot of shoes.” She took a quick breath in and nodded. “So…sure. I’m in.”
“Fantastic. I still have the ad on Gregslist, so I guess I’ll just let it run a little longer, in case there are more of us out there.”
Helene smiled. “Oh, there are plenty. The question is, how many are willing to come out of their overstuffed closets and be counted.”
From there, the conversation grew easier, and at the end of the evening, the women had agreed to meet the next week, and to bring more shoes than they had this time.
When Sandra and Helene eventually left, Lorna was feeling optimistic about Shoe Addicts Anonymous. Things had gone so well. She carried the wineglasses into the kitchen with a new bounce in her step—probably thanks to her new brocade Puccis—and stopped to look out the window as Sandra and Helene parted ways under the lamp in the parking lot.
Lorna was about to turn away when she noticed the taillights on the car the man had been leaning against earlier flare to life.
Interesting coincidence.
A black BMW drew smoothly out of its parking space. Helene’s, Lorna assumed. But after a moment, the car she’d been watching backed up and left the parking lot.
Lorna watched for a moment, expecting to see Sandra’s car pass, but it didn’t. She was just beginning to wonder if the man had driven Sandra over and waited in the car the entire time when there was a knock at the door.
Lorna hurried toward it, secured the chain, then opened it just enough to see that it was Sandra.
“I left my purse,” she said.
“Oh! Wait.” Lorna shut the door, undid the latch, then opened it again. “I didn’t even notice. Come on in.”
Sandra did so. “I’m really sorry to come back to the door so late.”
“Don’t worry about it. Actually, I have a question. Did you notice a guy in a little blue compact car when you were in the parking lot?”
Sandra considered. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“Well, it’s nothing, really.” Lorna hesitated. Anything she said would sound paranoid at best, and would make Sandra nervous at worst, and to what end? The guy was gone. She’d watched him drive away. “I thought I saw an old boyfriend of mine out there, but it must have just been my imagination.” She gave a laugh. “He wasn’t really the stalking type.”
Sandra eyed her shrewdly. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah. It was nothing.”
“Stalking is nothing to take chances with,” Sandra went on very seriously. “If you think there’s any chance this guy is dangerous, I think we should call the police.”
Lorna was touched. She hadn’t really had any close girlfriends since high school, and while this didn’t exactly qualify as “close” or maybe even real “friendship” yet, she liked Sandra and Helene, and she was glad they were coming back next week.
“Honestly, it’s nothing,” Lorna assured her. Then, to make things seem even more benign, she added, “Just wishful thinking, I guess.”
“Oh.” Sandra nodded, her eyes understanding. “Well…sorry. But if you broke up, maybe it’s best if it wasn’t him.”
“Probably so.” Lorna gave a rueful smile.
Sandra retrieved her purse and said, “So I guess I’ll see you next week.”
“Can’t wait.”
Sandra hesitated by the door, then turned back. “I want to thank you for doing this.” She gave a small smile. “I wasn’t really sure I was going to come out here more than once. Like I said, I don’t get out much. This…well, it was really nice.”
Lorna felt warm. “I’m really glad.”
Sandra left and Lorna went back to the sofa, thinking about what Sandra had said. More than that, she thought about how Sandra had looked. Like she really meant what she said.
Lorna had gone into this as a way to solve her own problems, to make herself feel better. She’d never anticipated her silly little shoe swap might mea
n much to someone else.
Chapter
9
Bart—Bart! Don’t lick that!” Jocelyn Bowen held one of her charges—twelve-year-old Colin Oliver—with one hand and reached for ten-year-old Bart Oliver with the other. His mother was having a cocktail party, so naturally Colin and Bart had decided to sneak out of bed to come down and make their presence known.
Colin did it by blowing spitballs at guests through a long narrow sterling silver straw.
Bart did it by licking the cheese puffs one by one and putting them back on the tray.
“Excuse me for just a moment,” their mother, Deena Oliver, doyenne of the Chevy Chase nouveau riche neotraditional housewives, came rushing over to her children and Joss with a pained expression trying to poke through her Botoxed face. “What are they doing down here?” she asked Joss through gritted teeth.
“I put them to bed, but they were determined to come down and see who was here.”
“So you let them?”
Joss wanted to point out that she was just their nanny and that, technically, since it was eight thirty at night, she was off-duty, but she wasn’t a person who enjoyed confrontation. “I tried to stop them, but the minute I went to my room they shot out of theirs like bullets.” She loosened her grip on Colin, whose wriggling was getting more intense. “Why don’t you tell your mom why you wanted to come down?”
“I wanted to say good night.”
“We already said good night, Colin,” Deena said, her expression frozen but her irritation clear in her eyes. “After dinner. I told you I was having company and I had a lot of work to do.”
One of the caterers walked by at that moment, stopping to offer Deena a glass of wine from a tray. She took one, and the waitress turned her gaze to Joss.
Before Joss could decline, Deena snapped, “She’s working, she’s not a guest.”
The red-faced worker moved on quickly.
“Please get these kids out of here,” Deena hissed at Joss. “Then come back down. I need you to run over to Talbots and get more wine. We’re running low.”
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