“I know, I know.”
“You have to be, like, a genius—”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Well—it was right after I got out of ballet class. Oh, I’ll tell you about what happened in class later! But anyway. It was after class and I walked outside and went to sit down by that fountain they have, the big one that’s all lit up at night. I was just sitting there when I noticed this cute boy with a cello, and I started looking at him, and then he started looking at me too. And then he came over and talked to me!”
“What did he say?”
“‘Are you a dancer?’ is what he said.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“Val!”
“Whatever.”
“But you know he must just assume you’re a ballerina?”
She tossed her head and said, “Well, what of it? If you were a man, wouldn’t you fall in love with a ballerina?”
I had to admit she had a point. When it came to Love, ballerinas had the edge over the rest of us.
“Val, how old is he?” I asked.
“Twenty-one.”
Twenty-one! The perfect age, it seemed to me, for any cute boy to be. I thought it only appropriate that one’s first love should be a couple years older anyway. And definitely not younger: no way.
“How old does he think you are?”
“Well,” said Valentine, “I’m not exactly sure, but he thinks I go to the ballet school.”
I looked at Valentine sitting across from me, and I understood that she now lived in a different world from me. It was the world of being a beautiful young woman, a world in which dark-haired, blue-eyed strangers carrying cellos saw you and felt compelled to speak to you out of nowhere. And it was also a world, I saw, of small lies. But lies were important when one was in love. The truth, not so much. I saw that now.
Our food arrived: egg salad and tomato sandwiches, and ones with chicken salad and lemon zest. For tea, we got a pot of something called Vanilla Darjeeling Royal.
“You know what, Franny?” said Valentine, reaching for a sandwich and popping it into her mouth in one bite. I always take tiny bites of tea sandwiches, to make them last longer. “Maybe being in love is all right for your appetite after all. This is delish.”
We ate our food and sipped our Vanilla Darjeeling Royal tea and were perfectly happy. One of those meals to remember, I was thinking. Aunt Theo was quite right to tell me to “take notes.” And afterward when we got back to the apartment I did. As I was writing up the afternoon’s events in my journal, for the first time ever I thought to myself that maybe someday I would write a novel too.
9
The Fifi or the Framboise?
“So you’re in love,” said Clover that evening. “Is it the first time?”
Valentine nodded gravely that it was.
“Well,” said Clover calmly, as if she were a priestess overseeing an initiation ritual of some kind, “then there is only one thing to be done.”
“What?”
We were both dying to know.
“Lingerie shopping, of course.”
Lingerie shopping! The words alone were enough to thrill us.
“Oh!” said Valentine. “Oh! Mom never lets me get fancy underwear. And you know what I want? Black lace, with, what are those things called, garters—”
“It might not be time for black lace just yet,” said Clover. “We’ll have to see. But we’ll get you something, and whatever it is, it will be beautiful.”
Valentine looked a bit sulky, because I knew she thought that black lace was just the thing, the only thing, when it came to lingerie.
“We’ll go shopping tomorrow,” said Clover. “We’ll make a day of it. But one thing to keep in mind, girls: just because I’m taking you lingerie shopping doesn’t mean that I expect you to wear it in front of somebody. Not necessarily and not by any means soon. I’m taking you lingerie shopping because lingerie is something for you. Not for a man. If there’s a man, that’s just a perk, but not the point. Understand?”
But I don’t think poor Val did, because later that night, when we were lying in our twin beds, she said, “What was Clover talking about, anyway? I’m so going to show Julian my lingerie.”
I rather wanted to tell her that I saw Clover’s point. But I didn’t, because I thought she’d only say that I was fourteen and didn’t have any boobs yet or anyone to show them to anyway. And you know what? She would have been right.
The next morning, Clover appeared at the foot of the staircase in a white cotton dress and this wonderful pale blond straw hat with a navy grosgrain ribbon. On her hands were a pair of little white gloves. I thought she looked like a most beautiful chaperone.
“No trousers please,” she said.
“But my green skirt’s dirty!” exclaimed Valentine, who was wearing a white T-shirt and black leggings, with her hair up in a messy bun. Perhaps she was thinking that if she ran into Julian, she’d better continue to look like a ballet dancer.
“Oh, all right,” said Clover. “Be glad Theo’s not here yet. When I was younger, she always made me dress up whenever we went shopping. When I was around Franny’s age or maybe a little younger, we used to dress up and go to the Armani store. Theo looks marvelous in Armani. She’d leave her credit card at home, and we’d pretend I was a young heiress from Denmark and that Theo was my British governess. So I’d get to try on all the clothing, see. We never bought anything but we did make them believe we were serious. Then I grew up and I didn’t really fit into Armani anymore.”
Clover sighed, remembering.
“Why not?” asked Valentine. “Shouldn’t you have fit into it better, once you grew up?”
“Oh, no,” said Clover, “not once I got my shape. Armani is for tall, narrow people. But who cares? There’s always lingerie! Come on, you two.”
We went outside and stopped for “caffeine, God help me,” said Clover. Once she was caffeinated, she said, “Now. I suggest we do a tour. Like you do with museums. The art of undergarments. The demure and the not so demure.”
“The not so demure, please,” said Valentine.
“That settles it then. Demure it is, to begin with.”
So the first store we went to was this tiny place in the Village that looked like a country store, with creaky wooden floors and everything smelling like lavender and sage. It mostly sold men’s button-down cotton shirts and women’s cotton dresses in pale, subtle colors, so we saw right away why Clover liked it.
“Is this where you get your dresses?” I asked her.
“A lot of them. Beautiful cotton is my favorite thing. Feel this.” She rubbed the sleeve of a blush-colored peasant dress. “See, you could make the most divine sheets out of that, no?”
I rubbed it, and it was heavenly.
“And see, these are the underpants they make.”
She gestured to a wooden barrel filled with white ruffled underpants in the softest cotton imaginable, and on the white backdrop were scattered various patterns: seersucker, bluebells, sun-washed plaids.
But Valentine said, “But cotton is boring. Where’s the lacy stuff?”
The salesman said, “Sorry, all of our stuff is cotton. It’s a hundred percent organic and it’s made right here in New York.”
Although Valentine left the store still thoroughly unconvinced that cotton could be sexy, she did say as soon as we got outside, “That salesguy was cute.”
I said I thought so too.
Clover said, “Yes, but I am afraid that he is not of the heterosexual persuasion.”
I am afraid that he is not of the heterosexual persuasion. I made a note of this phrase, to take it back to San Francisco. My friends would be so impressed—so much more ladylike than saying, Too bad, I think that guy’s gay.
Following Clover’s lead, we found ourselves in SoHo, “which is where the edgier stuff is,” Clover explained. “Oh, good,” said Valentine.
First stop, a store
on Mercer Street.
“Now this is more like it,” said Valentine when we walked inside.
“I thought you would think so,” said Clover. “As a matter of fact, their stuff isn’t exactly my cup of tea. Some of those more traditional places, like up on Lexington, have truly exquisite European things. That’s where Theo and I go for our robes. Theo has this blue-and-white crepe de chine one she used to always wear in the summer, in Sag Harbor, when I was a girl. She was always very big on having the proper cover-up. One of her favorite sayings was: ‘Little girls should not be seen at breakfast-time without their wrappers.’”
“Do we have to get wrappers then?” I asked.
“No, silly,” said Val, before Clover could answer.
“Well…” Clover considered this carefully. “It might be nice if you did, actually, for when she comes to visit. She is staying in the apartment after all.”
“When is she coming again?” Val yawned.
“August,” I said. “August 14.” I was so looking forward to it—no way could I have forgotten the exact date.
Clover gestured to the lingerie on the racks and said: “For your more flamboyant tastes, Valentine. I thought you’d like to go someplace a little more new for a change. And since you’re in love, you must be treated with the utmost gentleness.”
“Gentleness?” said Val, not getting it. “But I’ve never felt happier in my whole life! Being in love and all.”
“Oh,” said Clover, with her light little laugh. “Happiness! But happiness is the most fragile thing in the world.”
Before we could ponder that one we got carried away by all the bright, beautiful things in the store. The inside was all pink and black and reminded me of the bedroom an old movie star might have. The salesgirls all wore the same thing: these pink button-down dresses with fishnets and spiky gold heels. The dresses were almost like men’s shirts and made me think they weren’t wearing anything else. But that was silly, I told myself. It was a lingerie store, so of course they must have been wearing lingerie underneath. There was a dizzying array of it—bras, panties, garters, things I couldn’t even name—all over the store.
Valentine immediately gravitated to a strawberry-pink one-piece edged in black lace. It was sort of like a bathing suit except it was satin. On what occasion would one be wearing that? I wondered.
“One doesn’t begin with teddies,” said Clover, shooing Valentine away.
Teddies: so that’s what the one-piece satin numbers were called. I made a note of the name. Just another thing to bring back to San Francisco with me.
Valentine said, “But…” I could tell she really wanted that teddy. She was looking at it as though it were a wonderful, melting bar of milk chocolate.
“I think what you need is a special matching bra and undie set that fits really well and makes you feel like magic when you put it on. And for you, Franny, I was thinking of a pretty little nightie. Would you like that?”
I absolutely loved Clover at that moment. For one thing, she had not forgotten me. For another, she understood that I was not quite ready for serious lingerie, but that I still wanted something. And I hated the thought of spending money on an expensive bra when I was still hoping my boobs would grow.
“But not here for your nightie, I don’t think,” Clover went on. “You want something more—sophisticated. I know just the place.”
“This is sophisticated,” said Valentine.
“No, it’s not,” said Clover firmly. “It’s glamorous. There’s a difference.”
“But glamorous and sophisticated are the same thing.”
“Not at all, Valentine. Not at all.”
The lingerie sets all had names: the Cara, the Fifi, the Framboise, the Nikita. Valentine tried them all on, and in the end, it was between the Fifi and the Framboise. The Framboise was champagne-pink satin with a black Chantilly lace overlay, but the Fifi, the Fifi was pleated tulle, not satin, and it had ruffles. The Fifi won.
“But how are you going to wear those underneath your clothing?” I asked, looking at the Fifi underpants, which had pleats and ruffles exploding all around the bottom. They were certainly pretty, the prettiest pair of underpants I had ever seen, but …
“Who cares?” said Valentine. “I’m just going to wear them around the room. I’m going to wear them all the time.”
Oh dear. I suddenly had visions of her striking ballet poses in them in front of the mirror. How insufferable that would be!
When we were outside again, with Valentine merrily swinging her shopping bag, she said, “Julian has dark hair and blue eyes. Did I tell you? Wavy dark hair and deep blue eyes.”
“You did,” said Clover with extraordinary patience. “But tell me more.”
We walked along the streets of SoHo till we got to Clover’s next destination, which was on Greene Street. It was very different from the previous store, and I saw right away what Clover meant about it being more sophisticated. It was almost more like a museum than a store, done in a palette of mauves and almonds. There were black-and-white photographs on the wall and display cases with delicate, indeterminate objects. I thought they must have been miniature sculptures, but what were sculptures doing in a lingerie store?
“Cool!” said Valentine. I turned around and saw that she was trying on a black satin cat-eye eye mask. Then she took off the eye mask and said, “Oh my God, Franny, look!”
I looked and saw that she was pointing at a display of white cotton underpants. At first glance, they all appeared to be the same and very innocent-looking, almost like what Valentine and I used to wear when we were little girls, but then on the backs black cursive letters spelled out different words: Aime-Moi, Touche-Moi, Attache-Moi …
“Oh, I forgot you two speak French,” said Clover, with a twinkle. “Come along, girls.”
What Clover chose for me eventually was the Amour Baby-Doll in Wild Rose. It had tiers of chiffon and was trimmed in nude lace. I had never owned anything so exquisite in my entire life. The color was just right and reminded me of something Aunt Theo would choose.
For herself, Clover bought a pair of silk stockings, white, not black, with lace on top.
“Why can you get stockings and I can’t?” asked Valentine.
“Stockings come later,” said Clover.
“Later? Later when?”
“Later on in a woman’s life.”
“Oh my God,” squealed Valentine, “I can’t wait!”
10
Valentine’s Knee
For the next several days, there was no word from Julian, and poor Val looked like she was going to perish (Clover’s word) of waiting. This was what all the songs I loved meant about being in love being full of pain: just to look at Val’s face every night before we got into our twin beds. She looked sunk. And then when we turned off the lamp every night, I’d hear her let out this great big sorrowful sigh.
But then, the most wonderful thing! A surprise! A phone call. A real, what Clover called a proper, phone call, inviting her on a real, a proper, date. Since Julian was a cellist, what he had in mind was a musical evening. He took Val to this place called Barge Music, just over the Brooklyn Bridge, where the orchestra played chamber music floating out there on a barge in the East River. They heard a Russian program, which was very emotional, Val said, telling Clover and me all about it later. Which was why when Julian took her out on the roof-deck during intermission and took her in his arms and kissed her all of a sudden, with a view of the whole skyline winking behind them, she just couldn’t resist.
I thought that Clover might object to this—Val letting herself be kissed on the first date. I thought back to how she had said, “Why not try to place something of a value on yourself, Valentine?”—a question that I’d been thinking about ever since then and planned to bring up with my friends back in San Francisco. So I was surprised when Clover exclaimed, “So you let him kiss you! How romantic.”
Val just had this silly melting look on her face and couldn’t even say anyt
hing. Now you know Val is ordinarily very talkative and opinionated, so that just shows you: love does extraordinary things to a woman.
Finally, she found her voice and admitted: “It wasn’t my first kiss, actually. But it was so romantic, it felt like it, you know? Like the beginning of something. There was this boy at music camp—well actually, there have been a couple of boys at music camp…” She blushed. But then as if she had gone too far, she explained: “All we did was make out.”
“Quite all right, Valentine,” said Clover smoothly.
But I was thinking I’d never been kissed yet, myself. There’d never been any “boys at music camp” for me.
* * *
And I can’t help but notice, the more time Val spends with Julian, the more she isn’t quite so interested in spying on that couple on the other roof-deck anymore. Maybe she doesn’t need to figure out what they were doing, now that she’s doing the same things herself: they don’t hold quite the same mystery anymore.
Now whenever Valentine has a date with Julian, Clover lets her upstairs to use her bathroom, Theo’s bathroom, to get ready. She emerges wearing light makeup—Clover insists on light makeup only—and smelling of lavender, and with this kind of glow.
Meanwhile, I still have to use the bathroom downstairs.
One night Clover was brushing Valentine’s hair out with a marble-backed Italian hairbrush in front of one of Theo’s antique mirrors.
“I once read,” she remarked, “that women’s hair is at its thickest at the age of fifteen. Your hair certainly is plenty thick. Do you think it’s true?”
“Oh, no,” Valentine said, in real despair. “But I’m seventeen already. Does that mean mine is thinning?”
Clover laughed as she gathered Valentine’s red curls up in a twist.
“There,” she announced.
When Valentine had gone, I asked Clover, “Why do you think that is?”
“What?”
“Why do you think they say women’s hair is the thickest at the age of fifteen?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Clover casually. “I suppose it must have something or other to do with youth.”
The Summer Invitation Page 6