Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (34 page)

MY CUSTOMER TURNED
to go and said, “Thanks, I love your stuff.”

“Thank you,” I said in my singsong voice as she left.

I needed to be prepared for that evening with Jeff. Without a game plan, the risk would be too high that I’d weaken, kiss, and make up.

Another customer walked in—scary-skinny, with long blond locks and huge square sunglasses that she didn’t take off. When she lingered in front of the shoes, I asked if she needed help.

“No, thanks, just looking.”

If only I didn’t need his financial help. It wasn’t fair. My business could very well be going under, yet I couldn’t bring myself to ask him for more money. Not because he’d miss the cash one bit, but because it was too goddamn humiliating. Forget about whether Jeff truly loved me, was “there for me” and all that; the most important reason to be married was community property.

Gee, how did I become such a romantic?

“Those look great,” I said. The woman had slipped on a pair of lime-green sling-back sandals. “How do they feel?”

“Good. I’m just not sure about the color.”

“They’re fun. Very seventies.”

“Oh.” She pouted. “I thought they were eighties.”

“Late seventies,” I said, wanting to tell her the seventies were cooler than the eighties any day. “That crinkly patent leather was really in then—and the clunky heel.”

“I just don’t know what they’d go with.”

I resisted suggesting that she take off her sunglasses to appreciate them. “I could see them with yellow. Some darker blues. And they’d look great with anything white.”

“True.”

“They’re in excellent condition.”

“Considering how old they are.”

She continued staring at them in the mirror, but I could tell she wasn’t going to buy.

“Let me know if you have any questions.”

I’d give him an ultimatum. We were over—unless he left his wife and married me. Not in five years but now.

My customer had her own shoes back on. “I’m gonna think about them. Thanks.”

“Thank you,” I said as she left.

Or I could forget about giving my ultimatum and just blow him off. Don’t see him, delete him from my phone again, and get myself out of this mess.

I went to straighten up the shoes. The afternoon dragged. Browsers came and left without trying on. Meanwhile, I input as many eBay listings as I could. I was glad when three male German tourists walked in, looking for fifties-style Elvis blazers for downtown club hopping. I managed to match each of them with something snazzy and was especially pleased to find a home for a particularly outrageous gold lamé blazer with black velvet trim.
After they left, it was time to call it a day. I turned out the closed sign, pulled down the gate, and locked up.

Before heading to Jeff’s, I needed to go upstairs to change. Part of me wanted to wear a sexy dress, but the mixed signal might confuse him or, worse yet, me. Better to give my ultimatum wearing something down-to-earth so he’d know I meant business about ending the affair. Though my outfit should also be attractive enough to entice him to call a divorce lawyer in case our negotiations went in that direction. I settled on slim black Laura Petrie capri pants, a green scoop-neck Marimekko top with a purple pinwheel print, and black leather ballet flats comfortable for walking. Jeff would subliminally see me as the perfect wife with a touch of sex appeal.

The streets were unusually quiet: light traffic, empty sidewalks, no ambulance sirens piercing the calm. It was as if New Yorkers had made a collective decision to stay home for the evening. Walking up Bowery, I tried picturing trolleys, horses, and motorcars, and the El tracks overhead. I imagined crowds of people out for a good time at theaters, restaurants, stores, and saloons. It wasn’t easy. The dreary avenue reflected none of its former spirit.

Continuing up Fourth Avenue, I found where half the population was hanging out: Union Square. Vendors sold T-shirts, bad art, photos of the World Trade Center. I passed an entrance to the same subway station where Olive took her first underground ride with Angelina that rainy day so long ago. Some buildings from her era still stood, but it was easy to miss them among the mishmosh of high-end apartment towers that went up in the nineties and the big-box retail stores that came after.

Veering up Broadway, I reached the corner of the Flatiron. The triangular building with its terra-cotta facade really was extraordinary. The architect would despise the ugly seventies apartment building directly across the street. I couldn’t imagine that the passage of time would ever bring character to that clunker.

I crossed over to Fifth Avenue and noticed a historical plaque on the side of an office tower. It said the present building went up in 1909, after the Fifth Avenue Hotel was demolished. Aha. So Olive’s father had been right about the building’s demise. If he were alive today, Charles Westcott would be horrified to see what the city had become. Even Olive might feel a tug of nostalgia for her old neighborhood.

Continuing on to the corner where the Café Martin used to be—now a bank—I couldn’t resist turning back for another look at the Flatiron, directly south of me. From this vantage point, I faced the front of the building. People liked to say it was reminiscent of the prow of a boat, but I thought that was pushing it. Maybe the building fascinated people so much because it was just wrong. Unbalanced. Asymmetrical. Like a love triangle.

I turned east and cut through the park. Unlike Union Square, Madison Square Park offered a calm retreat from the city—not a vendor to be seen other than the Shake Shack. Jeff and I used to go there for burgers before it got trendy and attracted inexplicably long lines. I purposely kept myself from even glancing at Eleven Madison Park, the site of my aborted birthday celebration. Instead, I gawked up at the Metropolitan Tower. It had always been one of my favorites, more suggestive of an Italian campanile than an office building. Crossing the street, I passed the huge deco New York Life building. It stood right where Stanford White’s Madison Square Garden used to be. I thought of Olive and Angelina wandering around the Electric Show. Some would agree with Angelina’s distaste for the concept of electricity replacing servants. Some would say the human race had become servants to electricity.

A few minutes later, I reached Park Avenue. Approaching the entrance to Jeff’s apartment, I flashed on my nightmare from the other day. I looked down to make sure I wasn’t naked. The door to his building swung open without any problem, the lobby had no
living room furniture, and a gun-toting wife did not wait to greet me. The security guard sat behind his desk, armed with a copy of the
Post,
as usual. He knew me by sight and always managed, despite his consummately professional poker face, to make me feel like a hooker. We nodded to each other, and I took the elevator to the penthouse.

I rang the buzzer. The door opened, and there was Jeff, with a sheepish grin. “Hi.”

Damn. The man didn’t age. “Hi.” Tall and lean, with wavy brown hair, he still looked pretty much the same as the guy I dated in high school, except now he spent a fortune on clothes, designer labels like Tom Ford and Marc Jacobs. The wire-rimmed John Lennon glasses he’d worn straight through high school had been replaced by Oliver Peoples.

He stepped forward and held me in a tight embrace as if to squeeze out all my angst. I let him, even though he was the one causing the angst. Feeling his body against mine, I sensed myself softening. I had to get some control of the situation. This could not become just another kiss-and-make-up fight, goddammit; I wasn’t going to let that happen.

I stepped backward, and when he released me, I didn’t know how to look at him. I couldn’t decide what expression to have on my face. Anger? Affection? Sorrow? Guilt?

“You okay?” he asked. “Your eyebrows are all knit together.”

I relaxed my forehead and rubbed my eyes. “Just haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, giving me a gentle kiss on the cheek and then the lips. “I hope you’re hungry. I ordered some food.”

I followed him to the table. “Wow, this looks great.”

He’d already set our places and opened a bottle of wine. I recognized the assortment of six or seven round tins filled with pasta and side dishes. They came from an expensive Italian restaurant down the street. Each one probably cost at least twenty
dollars—same as on the menu, but without the service and ambiance. He generally didn’t bother with wines under fifty dollars.

As he poured me a glass of cabernet, I felt my willpower dissipating. Being face-to-face with the actual man was a lot different from being with fantasy Jeff, who was so much easier to confront and manage. I should’ve written myself a script. A list of points to be made and requirements to comply with. Instead, I wanted to avoid everything. Sperm, eggs, tendons, tears. The idea of telling him I was going bankrupt seemed not only humiliating but downright crass. “How’s your wife?”

“She’ll be fine, thanks for asking. I still feel horrible about the other night.” He reached into his pocket and said, “Happy birthday” while placing my present on the table. “I hope you like it.”

I stared at the small, instantly recognizable Tiffany-blue gift box.

He nudged it closer to me. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

I pushed away the notion that I’d find an engagement ring inside. “Yes, I am.” What I did find was a gold bangle bracelet with a heart as the centerpiece. The heart was embedded with a border of diamonds. “It’s beautiful,” I said, knowing it was expensive. Why couldn’t he buy something vintage? “I’ll put it on right now.”

“Do you really like it?”

I held out my wrist while pretending to admire it. “Yes, I love it. Thank you.” This made two birthday bracelets that weren’t to my taste. He had to know I’d prefer something deco or nouveau over this, a high school girl’s dream. We weren’t in high school anymore, and it wasn’t as if he had to impress me with Tiffany’s. Still, I tried to be gracious. Unlike my father’s chakra bracelet, at least Jeff’s jewelry had resale value. If I hocked all the pieces he’d given me, I could afford my rent for a year—or at least begin to pay him back.

“Thanks again. It’s so pretty.”

“You’re welcome. And I’m sorry again about the other night.”

“I mean, really,” I said, pretending to be offended, “how dare she end up in the emergency room on my birthday?”

“Inconsiderate of her,” he said with a little smile, “wasn’t it?”

“I can’t help but wonder, though . . . if her accident really was a coincidence.”

The smile went away. “You think she did it on purpose?”

“Well.” I met his eyes. “Accidentally on purpose.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Maybe she found out about us, and she’s angry but can’t confront you, and that’s how it played out.”

“Amanda, she was slicing an onion. It was an accident. You’re the one who’s upset, and I don’t blame you, so please. Let me make it up to you, okay?”

He loaded my plate with food. I sipped my wine and tried to enjoy his good intentions. It was such a relief to be taken care of, to allow someone to pamper me and let immediate gratification compensate for all the vicissitudes of life. As we ate dinner, he talked about a Warhol exhibit at the Guggenheim and how postmodernism was dead and hyper-reality was in and nothing was authentic anymore. “Which is all good for you,” he said.

“Me?”

“Your business. I know you think of yourself as an alternative to mainstream fashion, but I’m afraid you’re trendier than ever.”

“Yes,” I said, “I suppose there’s some truth to that.”
But the landlord is evicting me, and I’ll probably have to declare bankruptcy and won’t have enough money to live on. I’m tired of degrading myself by borrowing money all the time. So I’m giving you an ultimatum: You have to get a divorce and marry me now, or I’m going to leave you, and I’m not kidding.
“I’ll have to make sure to see that exhibit.”

“You’ll like it,” he said, “you should.”

“I should.” But what I shouldn’t be doing struck me as far more pertinent. Should not be thinking about how much I wanted to
kiss him. Should not forgive him for standing me up again, then fall into his arms just because he was getting up from the table and pulling me to my feet and circling his arms around my waist.

“I missed you,” he said, kissing my lips over and over.

I resisted, letting my arms hang by my sides.
Should
tell him he couldn’t blow me off on my birthday and then expect me to come here, at his beck and call, for sex.

His soft, tender kisses turned into one long warm kiss.

Should
tell him I was not going to do this anymore!

His gentle touch sapped my will. My hands sneaked around his waist. As we embraced, pressed flat up against each other, I kissed back, my body tingling and turning to mush.

He took my hand and led me to the bedroom.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I said, but my tone only told him we would.

So much for ultimatums.

We lay down on his bed—the one place in the world where I had his undivided attention. No phone calls, no family, no work, no electronics, just us. As we kissed again, his hands went to all the places he knew so well, fingers teasing me until I was dying for him. Soon I pressed against him. Wanted him inside me, right up against me, nothing in the way between us. He pulled my underwear down. I unzipped his pants. As he pulled them off, I unbuttoned my shirt and undid my bra.