Nine Women, One Dress (16 page)

It turns out that it took all of two interviews for Felicia to get another job, and so it was that in the blink of an eye I was sitting at my desk trying to compose a toast in her honor. Everything was set for the party. I did it all myself and I really went all out, though I had to be careful. There are company rules and budgets for such things, and I didn't want anyone to catch on to our relationship. I filled the room with celebration cakes from Payard and bottles of Veuve Clicquot and bought her a beautiful bouquet of flowers from her favorite florist. Writing the toast turned out to be the most difficult task. I didn't know what to say.
Good luck, thank you, goodbye
. Every word I chose but the last seemed trite. It bothered me that after all this time together at work my words would seem generic. Not to the room, but to Felicia. Time was up, and I shoved my note card in my breast pocket and headed to the party.

Even with the standard two weeks' notice, I was completely unprepared for Felicia's departure. Deep down I was happy for her and glad that our relationship would soon be out in the open, but my misery at the thought of not seeing her all day masked it. It seems her competence and loyalty had landed her a job at one of the most prestigious law firms in the city. The office was down on Wall Street, far away from midtown, and every time I thought of the distance between the two, a lump formed in my throat. I really had to pull myself together.

I entered the room and downed my first glass of champagne to calm my nerves. Everyone was chatting and milling about, and the time went quickly. Before long the type-A people that made up our firm wanted to get back to work. They encouraged me to make my toast.

I began with the words on my note card.

“I want to say a few words on behalf of everyone at Canner, Silfen, Sheanshang, and Winters, to express our appreciation for Felicia's unmatched term of dedicated service. Felicia has spent eighteen years with us, and in that time she has served as an example of excellence to everyone around her, foremost myself.”

So far I was keeping my composure. But as I paused to allow the new associates their obligatory laugh, it gave me time to catch Felicia's eye, and I started to lose it. I fumbled with my card and begged myself to get it together as I continued with the words I had written.

“Felicia, for eighteen years I have walked off the elevator and been greeted by your smile.” My voice cracked and I felt moisture building up in my eyes. “I…I can't imagine not seeing…that smile every day…” I squeezed my eyes tight, but it was too late; a tear had escaped. One sizable lone tear. The sight of it set off murmurs across the room, and nearly every woman took my cue and welled up too. At this point they were probably sad to see Felicia go and happy that a boss could cry over his assistant's departure. I found Felicia's eyes again and it was over. The tears were pouring down her face. I couldn't bear it, any of it. I was sixty years old. I had lost the first love of my life already; I wasn't about to waste any more time. I tossed my note card over my shoulder and got down on one knee.

“Felicia, I refuse to spend even one more day apart from you. If you are no longer going to work for me, would you please do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Her reply nearly bowled me over as everyone shouted and cheered.

“Yes. Yes!” she cried.

Suddenly I became very conscious of the fact that I had just cried and proposed in front of a roomful of my colleagues. I followed with a sheepish joke: “I guess the cat's out of the bag.”

Everyone laughed and toasted our long, happy life together. My partners had the company limo brought around and we were escorted out, along with the extra bottles of champagne, by nearly everyone in the firm.

We sank into our seats and caught our breath.

“Where to, Mr. Winters?”

I had no idea. “Let me ask my fiancée.” It felt so good to say it out loud—my fiancée, soon to be my wife.

Felicia seemed to enjoy it as well. She laughed and said, “We never did walk across the Brooklyn Bridge!”

They came busting into my office like Bonnie and Clyde on crack. My intern followed them, trying to stop them, but she didn't stand a chance.

“Don't worry, Devan, it's okay. Hello, Natalie, nice to see you again.” I was pleasant, partially because I had liked her when we met and mostly because of the tall drink of water that was her escort. I was single again, and this Latin guy was gorgeous. (Natalie and Jeremy weren't the only couple who didn't survive the Tab Hunter scandal, as we had taken to calling it.) “What can I do for you?” I asked, though I had a feeling this involved today's
New York Post
.

Natalie was nervous, so the tall drink of water spoke for her, introducing himself first. “Hi, I'm Tomás. Natalie wants to surprise Jeremy on set but doesn't know where that is, so we were hoping that you could tell us.” He was pretty gorgeous and definitely gay, but there was no way I was pulling back on this thing; I had leaked that photo to Page Six myself and was sticking with the illusion of Jeremy and his new girl. The caption said nothing but the name of the movie. People could assume anything they wanted.

“I'm sorry to tell you, though I think it's pretty obvious from the picture, Jeremy has moved on. Just a happy couple kissing on the slopes.”

Tomás looked as if he would cry, but Natalie from Astoria wasn't buying it. “I don't believe you,” she said. “There's no way he got over me so quickly, and I read the script for
Snowbound
. I remember the scene.”

She was right, of course. I'd sworn I was done staging things after the red-carpet fiasco, but when the movie's publicist sent me the photo yesterday, I hit Forward and sent it over to my guy at the
Post
, partly to make it up to him for the red-carpet pix that never materialized and partly to solidify my boy's sexual orientation among the doubters. A picture is always worth a thousand words, even if it is just a publicity still.

I hated myself for it, but I denied her denial. She had had her chance with him, and I would happily have gone with their story if it had worked out on its own—the truth is always easier than the made-up stuff. But this girl had played with Jeremy's head—I had seen it firsthand—and he needed to concentrate on his career. It was best for me to scare her off, I was sure of it. I kissed goodbye any chance of hooking up with Tomás and stuck to my guns.

“It's true that they're filming a movie together, but the romance is real. He's a big Hollywood star. What did you expect?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “But he's not like that!” she cried. “He always made
me
feel like the star.”

Oh, for the love of Bette Midler, why'd she have to go and say that? She understood what was so special about him: it wasn't his looks or his smile or his swagger, it was the way he brought out the good in everyone around him. He did it onscreen and he did it in person. She got him, and it broke me.

“He's staying at the Inns at the Equinox in Manchester, Vermont. She's not his girlfriend. He didn't get over you—he can't even say your name.” I buzzed Devan. “Devan, have the company car meet us on Third Avenue. And tell the driver to fill up the tank. We're all going to Vermont.”

Tomás's face lit up. “All?”

I smiled. “The more, the merrier!” adding to save face, “It's a closed set—you'll never get in without me.”

Natalie hugged me and kissed me all over my face. Tomás was tickled pink. She looked at him, then back at me, and winked.

“Maybe it'll be happy endings all around!”

I was all set to attend the Christie's holiday party that night when a text from Thea Baxter derailed me.

Be a doll and let me borrow that Max Hammer you wore to the library benefit?

I couldn't believe she was so last-minute. I'd had my outfit set since the day she invited me. I had been careful to pick something classic and modest. I didn't want my clothes to define me in any way. Damn. I doubted that dress was still at Bloomingdale's.

I could have texted her right back saying that it was at the cleaner's, but I knew that lending her the dress would balance the favor scale between us. I know that logically a dress can't compare to a possible job, but this really was some dress. She would turn heads in it. And I needed to do whatever it took to get a job. So I decided I would run to Bloomingdale's in hopes of finding it, buy it on my mom's emergency credit card, and return it within the billing cycle. I would need to delay responding to her text in case my plan didn't work. I needed an aligram.

Aligram
is a word I made up: part alibi, part Instagram, an aligram is when you use social media to back up a lie. Posting a photo that serves to confirm an excuse, or your supposed whereabouts. I threw my fluffy white terry robe over my clothes, pulled my hair off my face with a thick headband, and snapped a picture.

#IHeartMassages #Bliss @Bliss

I now had the time a ninety-minute massage would take to either find the dress or send back an apologetic
Sorry I didn't text back sooner, at bliss spa.
dress at cleaners.

I ran to Bloomingdale's, practically breaking my neck on a huge crack in the pavement while crossing Lexington Avenue. When I got there, the dress department was empty. There was actually no one there to help me. Everything seemed to be going against me today, and I was running out of time. I should've included a mani-pedi in my aligram. I searched all over and was about to give up when an older woman who smelled a bit like my Grandma Freda, a pleasant mix of Shalimar and Marlboro Lights with a slight hint of fried onions, approached me. She was quite apologetic and very surprised that the department was empty. She seemed like one of those hardcore women who had worked there forever, a lifer who took real pride in her job. I had a feeling that if anyone could help me, it would be her.

“Where the hell is everybody?” she said under her breath; then, more professionally, “I'm so sorry, can I help you with something?”

“More like everything!” I said, immediately throwing myself on her mercy. She seemed like the straightforward type, so I came right out and explained my predicament. Including that it was nearly Christmas, that I had yet to find a job, and that the Max Hammer dress might be just the break I needed. She was honest in return.

“I have one size small in the back, but it's a mess, and it's set to go back to the manufacturer.”

“Can I buy it today and return it tomorrow?” I asked, playing up my sheepishness, hoping she would take pity on me.

She took a beat and agreed. “Sure, to make up for no one being here to help you.” She put a finger to her lips. “But mum's the word. There are major rules about that lately.”

“Mum's the word,” I repeated as she went off to get it.

Maybe my luck was changing. I hoped so. Tonight was beginning to feel like my last chance. I am nearly twenty-three, you know.

As she rung me up I responded to Thea Baxter:

Of course, sorry for the delay. Should I leave it with my doorman?

She answered as if she'd been waiting by the phone, though she struck me as the type who always was.

Yay!!!!! Yes, text me your address.

40 East 71st. I need it back for a wedding this weekend.

I'll drop it back in the a.m. Who's getting married?

My boyfriend's BFF from Choate. I think he's a Kennedy.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Wow! GTG. See you tonight.

I had so convinced myself that I actually worked for Sotheby's that I felt a twinge of guilt upon entering the Christie's soirée. I mean, work there or not, everyone in the art world knows that Sotheby's and Christie's are in daily competition. Every prominent piece of art heading for auction, as well as every collector, is fair game for one or the other. The art market, flat or exciting, high or low, is determined by what goes on at these two houses. Last year it was Sotheby's that ended up on top in annual sales, mostly because of its acquisition of one mammoth Impressionist estate. For the few years prior Christie's had been ahead. From the looks of this party, it seemed Christie's was going to great lengths to get back on top. Including trying to steal away some cool new blood with excellent taste and, might I add, a following on Instagram that as of party time had reached, wait for it…1700 followers. Finally things were coming together. Soon I would be buying a little black dress for keeps to hang in my very own closet in my very own crib.
Crib
—I felt awkward even thinking the word. I was so not cool.

Thea Baxter came running over with open arms. She gave me a quick hug and spun around. “I love this dress. I wish I could keep it!”

I laughed a compulsory laugh. “Remember, I'm wearing it to that wedding this weekend—you promised.”

“I promise,” she said with a pout.

I felt a strange allegiance to the saleslady at Bloomingdale's. I wasn't sure if it was because she smelled like my Grandma Freda or because she seemed so dedicated to her job, but I didn't want to break my word. Whatever it is that my word meant at this point.

“So how are things over at Sotheby's?” Thea said
Sotheby's
in a weird voice usually reserved for impressions of Satan.

“Same old.” I brushed off her question as if she couldn't possibly be looking for a real answer. But it worked—she moved on.

“Let's get some bubbly and then I'll introduce you to my boss, Sheldra Fine.” She led me to the bar as she talked about the things you talk about when you see someone with whom your only connection is your alma mater. Benign questions, like
Did you hear that so-and-so got engaged?
or
that so-and-so is in rehab?
She was so basic.

Just as we were running out of nothingness she caught the eye of her boss and we were summoned over. The boss was the kind of woman that my grandmother would describe as handsome. She spoke in a monotone: “Hello, Sophie. Thea has told me so much about you.” I smiled, thinking,
Thea doesn't know so much about me
.

She took a step back and looked me over from head to toe, purposefully, not discreetly. She asked, “Whom do you consider more innovative, Shiraga or Yves Klein?”

Please, so easy. “Shiraga painted with his feet years earlier than Klein used his body.”

She didn't react. “Shinzo or Kikuji?” she asked.

“Eiko,” I responded with a confident smile.

“A photographer? And don't say Moriyama or Kawauchi.”

I smirked, as I had what I knew was a great answer. “Fan Ho. For his drama and simplicity.”

“Hmmm. I like your style. Call me Monday morning to set up a formal interview.”

Thea was more excited than I was. “You nailed it. Let's do a shot!” she shrieked as soon as her boss was out of earshot. We both sat down. “Two shots of Patrón, please,” she asked the bartender before I'd even agreed. As we toasted I held up my phone and took a selfie. We checked it before we drank, in case we needed a redo.

“You can't post that!” she quickly objected.

“Why? You look great!”

“It says Christie's behind us!” she said, alarmed.

“So?”

“So it will raise suspicion!”

“I'm quitting anyway. What's the difference?”

She looked at me like I was a total moron. “Obviously Sheldra is going to want you to do some spying before you leave—you know, some internal espionage,” she said, without humor.

“Who are you, Edwina Snowden?” I said, laughing at my own joke. “I can't spy for you!” Of course I meant I actually couldn't spy, because I had no way of getting into the building, but I wouldn't have spied on Sotheby's even if I could have.

I had begun to Instagram the pic when she grabbed my phone away from me. “I'm serious, Sophie!”

I got serious too. Somehow the fact that I'd been lying made me even more self-righteous.

“Listen, Thea, it's one thing for me to leave Sotheby's but quite another to screw them over in the process. If Sheldra doesn't want me for my style and my knowledge, then I'm out.”

“Then I guess you're out,” Thea said as she placed her still-full shot glass back on the bar and stormed off. I laughed at my ambiguous principles. I guess it was one thing to quit a fake job but quite another to be the kind of girl who would fake-screw my employer. In a strange way it felt good to hold on to my values, convoluted as they may be.

The man beside me hijacked Thea's shot and raised it to toast. “To you!”

I clicked his glass and we drank. “Why are we drinking to me?” I asked upon recovering from the burn.

“I don't often see that kind of integrity in young people. I'm impressed.”

I thanked him as he ordered us another round.

“Was she a good friend?” he asked curiously.

“Not really,” I said, playing with the rim of my glass. “She wasn't really my type—a snob, and for no reason. She was a slush-fund baby.”

“You mean a trust-fund baby?”

“No, a slush-fund baby—her father paid for her entire education by stealing from his company's petty cash.”

He laughed spontaneously from his gut.
Hmmm, I'm cool
and
funny.

“I wish I was in the art game. I would snatch you right up.”

“What do you do?” I asked, more out of courtesy than because I cared.

“I own a marketing company, DrinkTheKoolAid.com,” he said, as if I should have heard of it. My face must have given me away. “Drink is made up of a group of influencers. We bring ideas to the mainstream consciousness through social media. It's like reality television for the three-second attention span.”

I laughed. “That's actually what I do!”

He asked me to explain, so I went on to describe the road that led me to the seat at the bar next to him. Everything from my very first aligram to borrowing the little black dress from Bloomingdale's in a last-ditch effort to keep up appearances. As I told the story I realized how much I had enjoyed the whole trip. Not the lying, but the creativity involved in getting the right photo, choosing the right caption, and the instant and constant gratification of the likes and new followers. I was good at it. It was actually what kept me from sinking into a depression through all the rejections of my unsuccessful job search. He ate it all up and promised me that if I came to work for him, I could hashtag my way to a crib of my own in no time.

“You put on a good show,” he said. “Right down to your red-bottomed shoes.”

I kept that one lie to myself: my red soles were courtesy of a very resourceful shoemaker on 82nd and Third and not, as my #IHeartLouboutin pre-party post would lead my followers to believe, the genuine article.

As far as the finest little black dresses were concerned, he promised me that designers would be dropping them at my doorstep in the hope of the right tweet or the right photo. He wanted me to help him co-opt an entire generation—my generation—of doe-eyed followers. Who was I to say no? In the past that was an honor bestowed on cultural icons like Andy Warhol and Oprah, but now it seems that I, Sophie Stiner, am cool enough to lead the way.

Go ahead and tag me! @SophieStiner @DrinkTheKoolAid #dreamjob #cool