“This is Rubicon?”
“This is Rubicon.”
“If it is, even more reason for me not to go in.” To be sure he understands my point, I perform a satirical catwalk twirl in my outfit—not as bad as the sweatpants, but almost: my boring denim skirt. “Besides, I can’t afford anything in there. And I’m not on the list.”
Yes, Rubicon is so selective it also maintains a tightly controlled guest list, the way nightclubs do. You need to be on it just to get in the front door. How you get on the list is a tightly guarded secret, according to Kitty. Now I understand why that poor woman was left tapping on the glass. She must not have been on the list, either.
“You look fine. Anyone they let past the threshold does not get judged.”
I shake my head.
He steps toward the bell.
“Don’t.”
“Iris,” he says. “I am on the list.”
I’m at a loss for words. “I can’t just leave Rocky out here on the sidewalk.”
He stops, his hand poised in the air. “Jack would reduce the place to shreds, but Rocky is welcome to come inside.”
He’s making this hard. If I can’t exit gracefully, perhaps I should take better advantage of the situation. “All right. Let’s say we do go in there. This can’t be a friendly outing.”
“I’ll try to be as surly to you as possible.”
“I mean, if I’m going to spend time with you, I want more tips for Vickie.”
Steve drops his hand. “I told you I wasn’t going to do that anymore.”
“Come on, Steve. It would make her happy. Just get together with me a few more times. Do some more wife coaching. What’s the matter?”
Steve’s happy face is gone. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, feet apart: partly defensive, partly defiant. “You wouldn’t give me the time of day if it weren’t for Vickie, would you?”
“That’s right.” I glare at him: What’s your problem? “I wouldn’t.”
“Even if I were single and we just happened to meet?”
“Especially if you were single.”
“Why not?”
You’re a despicable, cheating lout; that’s why not. “You’re not my type.”
“Couldn’t we be friends?”
I look across the street to Iglesia Sangre de Cristo. That dingy door could use painting. “Steve, you and I aren’t friends. We’re never going to be friends. I’m proposing a business arrangement, and when that’s over I don’t plan on ever seeing you again. Do you understand?”
“You’ve made yourself clear.” Steve’s mouth smiles, though his eyes don’t. “You don’t expect me to continue paying you for these meetings, do you?”
“I don’t need your money. I’m getting a real job. This interview I’m going on is just a formality. I’m practically hired already.”
He looks unconvinced. And unhappy.
“Please, Steve. I wouldn’t ask you to do this unless I thought it would help Vickie. And your coaching is helping. Vickie told me so yesterday. She said you’ve been so much better to her since she started being nicer to you.”
“Really?” Steve rubs Rocky’s stomach with his foot. “She said that?”
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Steve, and I can’t say I approve, but Vickie seems to be happy. Don’t you owe this to her?”
And at long last, Steve smiles for real, if a bit wanly. “You win.” He steps up to the porthole. “If it’s wife coaching you want, wife coaching you’ll get. But I can’t meet on Wednesday mornings anymore. I have somewhere I need to be. We’ll have to do it Tuesdays instead.”
“That’s fine,” I agree, wondering what exactly he could be doing Wednesday mornings.
“And I don’t want you to tell Vickie we went shopping. Deal?”
Before I can answer, or reconsider, he rings the bell. The doorman nods gravely and lets us in.
The store, elegant and minimal with high ceilings and modern furniture, and library silent already, gets even quieter as Steve, Rocky, and I enter. The shoppers who have been browsing through racks of stunning clothes stop and look up to see who’s come inside. It’s like a kids’ staring contest, where you try to get your best friend to blink before you do; nobody says a word, and every second seems an hour. That’s how it feels inside this place, until a chilly-looking saleswoman spots us.
“Darling!” She rushes over, heels tapping on the hardwood floor, satiny black hair swinging back and forth, throws her arms open to embrace Steve, and kisses him on both cheeks. Not air kisses; full lip-to-face contact. It’s a greeting I’d find intrusive. Steve doesn’t seem to mind a bit.
“I’ve brought in a friend. She’s new in town, from California, so go easy on her.” He guides me forward. “Iris, this is Ilona. Ilona, Iris. Iris has a very important interview coming up, and she could benefit from your help.”
“Welcome to New York, Iris, and to Rubicon. I’m at your service.” Ilona sandwiches my hand in both of hers—a protective, motherly gesture, even though she’s no older than I am. I watch her. How did she and Steve come to be so chummy? Is she his mistress? Would he bring me in here if she were?
“May I take your dog?” she asks.
Steve nods at me, and another equally chic salesgirl glides over with a biscuit, which she uses to lure the pug into a back room. Rocky follows obligingly, and I try not to imagine having to tell Simon I inadvertently turned his dog over to a cult of animal vivisectionists fronting as Manhattan’s boutique of boutiques. If so much as one “woo” comes out of that back room, I promise myself, I’ll kick down the door.
“Chantal will look after him. Would either of you care for a drink?”
“No, thanks,” I answer immediately.
“None for me,” Steve replies. “I’ve still got a full day ahead.”
“Our Mr. Responsible.” Ilona leans over and presses her cheek against his.
Steve pats Ilona’s shoulder and takes an infinitesimal step back. “You’re sure you don’t want something, Iris?”
“There’s bubbly in the back fridge. We should celebrate,” Ilona says. “It’s been a while since darling Steve has brought a woman in here. Not counting Jessica. Right, Steve?”
Jessica? I whip my head around to stare at Steve. He gives Ilona a hard look—the kind that communicates to the recipient, stop talking immediately. Ilona must interpret it that way, too, because without missing a beat, she turns to me. “Let’s choose you some clothes. You say you have an interview?”
I’ve been expecting her to act catty or snobbish. Do I trust her? I don’t suppose I have much choice. Steve is standing between me and the door, and the other cult members have spirited away Simon’s dog.
I begin guardedly, “It’s more of a lunch. But I’m not sure I can—”
I was going to finish the sentence, “afford anything in here.” But Ilona puts her finger to her lips. “A lunch, good. What field? Banking? Law?” She stops to look me over. “Your hair is adorable. It says ‘creative.’ Advertising. Publishing. But your clothing. It’s not giving me a clear idea of who you are.”
“I’m in marketing.” I’m surprised. I was prepared for a mean-spirited wisecrack about my outfit, but Ilona has kept her opinion, which can’t possibly be positive, to herself. I feel warmer toward her despite her suspiciously friendly relationship with Steve. And who is Jessica?
“You’re in marketing?” Steve interjects from across the room, where he’s perusing a display of shoes.
The shattering of the silence makes me blush, but having already checked me out once, none of the other shoppers pays me a speck of attention. “Was.”
“Huh,” says Steve, still over by the shoes. I wonder how he came to be so interested in fashion when the men I know, including Teddy, tend not to notice what a woman is wearing unless it’s short, tight, or low-cut. Perhaps his girlfriend Jessica is a model who takes him backstage at all the shows. Or is Ilona his girlfriend? My stomach aches. I shouldn’t know about any of this when Vi
ckie doesn’t, and yet I can’t imagine a way to tell her about it.
He holds up a delicate sandal. “This would be nice on you.”
It is a beautiful shoe, but the exchange makes me squirmy. What is keeping every customer in earshot from assuming I’m this man’s mistress?
“Marketing.” Ilona has tilted her head to one side and is studying me. “So, modern but not outrageous. I’m thinking Zelos Tolma Zoe for suits, and Caroline Blythe or Miss Muffy of Fresno for little dresses.” She addresses Steve: “Don’t you think?”
“You’re the boss, Ilona.”
She smiles and turns her attention back to me. “Size four, naturally. Where will you be lunching? The Red Room? Cyclone?”
“Undine’s.”
“Undine’s!” Ilona puts the back of her hand to her forehead and crosses her big, green eyes. The effect is so silly, I can’t help but giggle. “I love Undine’s! Make sure you order dessert.”
“As if you ever eat dessert,” Steve calls.
She calls back, “I eat dessert. Any woman who doesn’t eat dessert is guaranteed hopeless in bed.” That finally gets a few customers to look back up.
“I agree completely,” I say under my breath.
“Iris agrees completely!” Ilona announces.
“Ilona!” I gasp, but I can’t be angry with her. She’s not the slightest bit snooty.
Ilona leads me to a dressing room with three outfits she’s chosen. “I could never get away with that,” I protest at the first, a simple, dove-gray sleeveless dress with a daring neckline. I check the price and nearly swoon. “Or pay for it.”
“Try it.”
So I do, and surprisingly, it looks amazing. The neckline isn’t that low once I put it on; it accentuates my collarbone and somehow makes my cheeks look less chipmunky. There’s also a charcoal-colored skirt with a blouse of snowy cotton fine as a breeze on my skin, and a lightweight, subtly man-tailored pantsuit Ilona suggests wearing without a shirt underneath.
“That keeps it feminine,” she explains when she comes in to check on me. She rolls the pant legs up about a foot and a half, smooths my shoulders, tugs the jacket at the bottom, and steps back to admire me in the mirror.
“Isn’t it a little too sexy?”
“Not at all. While we’re doing the other alterations we add a hidden button so you’re not revealing too much.” She demonstrates by holding the jacket shut another half inch above the top button. I stare at myself in amazement. I look like a New Yorker.
“I love everything.”
“I knew you would!”
“But I can only buy one thing. I shouldn’t even be doing that.” I feel bereft already.
“You do get Steve’s VIP discount. Half off. See? It pays to be kind to our Steve. He’s such a sweetheart.”
That can’t possibly be right. Half off is almost the wholesale price. What kind of shop sells things at cost? The little voice inside my head has plenty to say, and this is one time it might be smart to listen. Instead I take a breath, preparing myself for a purchase I shouldn’t be making but to which I suddenly feel entitled. “Self-denial stifles the soul!” I imagine Joy crooning. For once, her philosophy kind of makes sense.
I tell Ilona I’ll take the dress.
“Wonderful!” She hugs me.
“May I ask one thing? Why does Steve get a VIP discount? Because he’s with the building?”
Ilona drapes the dress carefully over one arm. “He likes to say it’s because he’s close with the manager.”
“The building manager? Is that you?”
“The store manager, silly. And no, I’m just a shopgirl.”
“But I take it the manager is also a she?” It can’t be Jessica. Ilona said Steve brought Jessica into the store.
Ilona laughs. “Yes, the store manager is a she. But rest assured there’s nothing going on there, if that’s what you’re wondering. Really, you don’t have to worry about any of us here at Rubicon.” She openes the door to the dressing room. “You have Steve all to yourself. Well, pretty much.”
Steve is waiting in a chair near the register, with Rocky in his lap, when Ilona and I emerge from the dressing room. He puts Rocky on the floor and rises to his feet. He looks so formal, I almost expect him to shake my hand how-do-you-do.
“How did you do?”
“She’s beautiful in all of them,” Ilona says.
“I have no doubt,” he addresses me.
I try not to feel flattered. “I’m taking the dress.”
“Why not everything?”
“I wish.” I pull the American Express card from my wallet before I can change my mind. The dress costs almost a month’s rent. It is the most expensive single item of clothing I have ever purchased, aside from my wedding gown, though I’m counting on getting more wear out of it.
“You come back anytime you like. You’re on the list now.” Ilona eases the dress into a canvas garment bag, itself nicer than most of the things in my closet. I start to slide my card across the polished-cement counter.
“Wait.” Steve lays his hand lightly across mine.
My college friend Evie once told me that she realized her husband was her soul mate the first time their hands brushed together. It happened during a routine chemistry lab. Her entire focus telescoped down to the extraordinary sensation of Doug’s skin against hers. In that instant, she said, she knew that this man was someone special.
I never understood what she was talking about until now.
I stare dumbly down at Steve’s hand covering mine. I want to turn my palm up and entwine my fingers in his. I want him to wrap his arms around my waist and pull me to him. I want his hands on my body. I want to belong to him, and for him to belong to me.
“You should have everything,” he says.
He feels it, too, I think. He feels the same thing.
The room is too warm, the rustle of fabric and the hush of shoppers’ footsteps too loud. “I can’t.” My tongue is thick and clumsy inside my mouth. “I can’t afford to—”
“It’s all right.” Steve’s voice is kind. “Let me help.”
Ilona looks at him, smiles, and slowly, slowly, slides my card back to me.
That breaks the spell.
“Absolutely not. I can’t accept your money. Ilona, just the dress.” I slide my card back to her.
“Let me do this, Iris.” Steve’s eyes are deep and hopeful.
“No!”
“Call it a loan.”
“But why?” I don’t want you to tell Vickie we went shopping. Isn’t that what he said?
“Consider it an early thank-you for making Vickie’s life better. For making my life better. It will be another business arrangement. Strictly business, I promise. Every hour we meet, I’ll deduct a hundred dollars from what you owe me. If you get a steady job out of this interview, we’ll arrange the terms so you pay it off over time.”
Ilona finishes putting the dress in its bag. She takes the pantsuit next, marking the jacket with a pin at the spot where she suggested adding a button. She slides the blouse and skirt into a second bag and appraises Steve with a sidelong glance as she slyly curves up one corner of her mouth.
SEVENTEEN
I have to hand it to my conscience. Before unleashing the guilt storm, it lets me enjoy my good fortune for twelve hours. That’s twelve hours after I finally agree to let Steve lend me the money; twelve hours after Steve rushes out of Rubicon to the appointment he alluded to earlier, with instructions to Ilona to charge my new clothes, plus alterations, to his account and have everything delivered overnight to whatever address I specify. (To my apartment, only four blocks away? Not decadent, apparently.) It’s eleven and a half hours after I use Simon’s keys to deposit Rocky safely in his apartment, and eight hours after I drift off to sleep, pushing aside my memory of Steve’s hand on mine with fantasies of wearing the gray dress at dinner with Kevin, and the blouse and skirt for lunch with Sandy Christmas. Or should I wear the pantsuit? It’s the first happy di
lemma I remember having in months.
But by morning the clouds have begun to gather, and by the time the deliveryman from Rubicon drops off the proof of my sins and leaves, tip in hand, I’m awash in shame. What was I thinking, prostituting myself for a few new outfits? Prostituting myself to Vickie’s husband? Though I can’t put my finger on exactly what the impropriety is, I’ve clearly crossed the line into it. And Steve—what does he expect to gain from all this? My stomach roils with nausea.
“Kitten!” comes a cry from the hallway, followed by a knock on my door. I get up slowly from my chair to open it. “Good morning, sunshine! Did we do our part for the economy last night?”
I let Simon in, and he rushes for the garment bag. “How very A-list of you!” he says. “Rubicon!”
“How did you know?” The bag isn’t marked.
“I know. May I see?”
“If you want.”
“Why so gloomy? Don’t you like your clothes?” He produces the blouse and skirt and nods approvingly. “Perfect.” He extracts the suit. “Zelos Tolma Zoe! How could you possibly not adore this platonic ideal of a pantsuit? Make sure you wear it without a shirt.”
“I love it, but I have to return it. The way I got it is just wrong.”
“Sweet mother of the Almighty! What did you do? Steal it? Fork over your unborn children? Sell your soul to Satan?” He pulls out the dress and holds it up to me.
“Close.”
Simon steps back at arm’s length to take in the effect.
“Kitten. Give me your undivided attention. These things will be smashing on you. This is New York City. Thank the Lord you finally ditched that Yankees cap, but you cannot keep schlumping around in sweatpants and sneakers. You may think you’re the sweatpants-and-sneakers type, but you’re not. Unless you had to kill someone or give up a body part, keep the clothes! They’re perfection!”
“You think so?”
“Honey, I am ordering you to keep them. It’s an order! If you return anything in this bag, I will call nine-one-one and have the fashion police arrest you.” He whips out his cell phone and brandishes it at me. “Don’t make me use this!”
I have to smile a little. Of all the people currently trying to run my life, Simon is the only one whose advice has, so far, been pitch perfect.
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