No. That Luke and I have decided . . .
No. That Elinor has very kindly offered . . . That we have decided to accept . . .
Oh God. My insides are churning, just thinking about it.
OK, I won’t think about it yet. Anyway, I don’t want to come out with some stilted, awkward speech. Much better just to wait until the moment and be spontaneous.
As I arrive at Barneys, Christina is sorting through a rack of evening jackets.
“Hi!” she says as I walk in. “Did you sign those letters for me?”
“What?” I say distractedly. “Oh, sorry. I forgot. I’ll do it today.”
“Becky?” Christina looks at me more closely. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine! I’m just . . . I don’t know, the wedding . . .”
“I saw India from the bridal atelier last night. She said you’d reserved a Richard Tyler dress?”
“Oh yes, I have.”
“But I could have sworn I heard you telling Erin the other day about a dress at Vera Wang.”
I look away and fiddle with the zip of my bag. “Well. The thing is, I’ve kind of reserved more than one dress.”
“How many?”
“Four,” I say after a pause. I needn’t tell her about the one at Kleinfeld.
Christina throws back her head in a laugh. “Becky, you can’t wear more than one dress! You’re going to have to fix on one in the end, you know.”
“I know,” I say weakly, and disappear into my fitting room before she can say anything else.
My first client is Laurel, who is here because she’s been invited on a corporate weekend, dress “casual,” and her idea of casual is a pair of track pants and a Hanes T-shirt.
“You look like shit,” she says as soon she walks in. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” I smile brightly. “I’m just a bit preoccupied at the moment.”
“Are you fighting with your mother?”
My head jerks up.
“No,” I say cautiously. “Why do you ask that?”
“It’s par for the course,” says Laurel, taking off her coat. “All brides fight with their mothers. If it’s not over the ceremony, it’s over the floral arrangements. I threw a tea strainer at mine because she cut three of my friends off the guest list without asking.”
“Really? But then you made up.”
“We didn’t speak for five years afterward.”
“Five years?” I stare at her, aghast. “Just over a wedding?”
“Becky, there’s no such thing as just a wedding,” says Laurel. She picks up a cashmere sweater. “This is nice.”
“Mmm,” I say distractedly. Oh God, now I’m really worried.
What if I fall out with Mum? What if she gets really offended and says she never wants to see me again? And then Luke and I have children and they never get to know their grandparents. And every Christmas they buy presents for Granny and Grandpa Bloomwood, just in case, but every year they sit under the tree unopened, and we quietly put them away, and one year our little girl says, “Mummy, why does Granny Bloomwood hate us?” and I have to choke back my tears and say, “Darling, she doesn’t hate us. She just—”
“Becky? Are you all right?”
I snap into the present, to see Laurel peering at me concernedly. “You know, you really don’t look yourself. Maybe you need a break.”
“I’m fine! Honestly.” I summon up a professional smile. “So . . . here are the skirts I was thinking of. If you try this beige one, with the off-white shirt . . .”
As Laurel tries on different pieces, I sit on a stool, nodding and making the odd absent comment, while my mind still frets on the subject of Mum. I feel like I’ve got so far into this mess, I’ve lost all sense of proportion. Will she flip out when I tell her about the Plaza? Won’t she? I just can’t tell.
I mean, take what happened at Christmas. I thought Mum was going to be devastated when I told her Luke and I weren’t coming home, and it took me ages to pluck up the courage to tell her. But to my astonishment, she was really nice about it and told me that she and Dad would have a lovely day with Janice and Martin, and I mustn’t worry. So maybe this will be the same. When I explain the whole story to her, she’ll say, “Oh darling, don’t be silly, of course you must get married wherever you want to.”
Or else she’ll burst into tears, say how could I deceive her like this, and she’ll come to the Plaza over her dead body.
“So I was going into Central Park for my marathon training, and who should I see, standing right there like a Barbie doll?”
Laurel’s voice filters into my mind and I look up.
“Not the blond intern?”
“Right! So my heart starts thumping, I’m walking toward her and I’m wondering what I’m going to say. Do I yell at her? Do I hit her? Do I completely ignore her? You know, which will give me most satisfaction? And of course half of me wants to run away and hide . . .”
“So what happened?” I say eagerly.
“When I got up close, it wasn’t even her. It was some other girl!” Laurel puts a hand to her head. “It’s like, now she’s messing with my mind. Not content with taking my husband, wrecking my life, stealing my jewelry . . .”
“She’s stolen your jewelry?” I say in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“I must have told you this. No? Things started going missing around the time Bill was taking her back to our apartment. An emerald pendant my grandmother gave me. A couple of bracelets. Of course, I had no idea what was going on, so I thought I was being careless. But then it all came out, and I realized. It had to be her.”
“Couldn’t you do anything?” I say, appalled.
“Oh, I did. I called the police.” Laurel’s chin tightens as she buttons up her dress. “They went and asked her some questions, but they didn’t get anywhere. Of course they didn’t.” She gives me a strange little smile. “Then Bill found out. He went crazy. He went to the police and told them . . . well, I don’t know exactly what he told them. But that same afternoon the police called me back and said they were dropping the case. It was obvious they thought I was just some vindictive, spurned wife. Which of course I was.”
She stares at herself in the mirror and slowly the animation seeps out of her face. “You know, I always thought he would come to his senses,” she says quietly. “I thought he’d last a month. Maybe two. Then he’d crawl back, I’d send him away, he’d crawl back again, we’d fight, but eventually . . .” She exhales slowly. “But he’s not. He’s not coming back.”
She meets my eye in the mirror and I feel a sudden pang of outrage. Laurel’s the nicest person in the world. Why would her stupid husband leave her?
“I like this dress,” she adds, sounding more cheerful. “But maybe in the black.”
“I’ll go and get one for you,” I say. “We have it on this floor.”
I walk out of the personal shopping department and head toward the rack of Dries van Noten dresses. It’s still early for regular shoppers and the floor is nearly empty. But as I’m searching for another dress in Laurel’s size, I’m suddenly aware of a familiar figure in the corner of my vision. I turn, puzzled, but the figure has gone.
Weird. Eventually I find the dress, and pick out a matching fringed stole. I turn around—and there he is again. It’s Danny. What on earth is he doing in Barneys? As I get nearer, I stare at him. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair is awry, and he’s got a wild, fidgety look.
“Danny!” I say—and he visibly jumps. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh!” he says. “Nothing! Just . . . browsing.”
“Are you OK?”
“I’m fine! Everything’s fine.” He glances at his watch. “So—I guess you’re in the middle of something?”
“I am, actually,” I say regretfully. “I have a client waiting. Otherwise we could go and have a coffee.”
“No. That’s fine,” he says. “You go. I’ll see you later.”
“OK,” I say, and w
alk back to my fitting room, rather puzzled.
Laurel decides to take three of the outfits I chose for her, and when she leaves she gives me a big hug. “Don’t let the wedding get you down,” she says. “You shouldn’t listen to me. I have a somewhat jaded view. I know you and Luke will be happy.”
“Laurel.” I squeeze her tightly back. “You’re the best.”
God, if I ever meet that stupid husband of hers I’m going to let him have it.
When she’s gone, I consult my schedule for the rest of the day. I’ve got an hour before my next client, so I decide to wander up to the bridal department and look at my dress again. It’s definitely between this one and the Vera Wang. Or maybe the Tracy Connop.
Definitely one of those three, anyway.
As I walk out onto the sales floor again, I stop in surprise. There’s Danny, standing by a rack of tops, fingering one casually. What on earth is he still doing here? I’m about to call out to him, and say does he want to come and see my dress and then go for a quick cappuccino? But then, to my astonishment, he glances around, surreptitiously bends down, and reaches for something in his canvas bag. It’s a T-shirt with glittery sleeves, on a hanger. He shoves it onto the rack, looks around again, and reaches for another one.
I stare at him in utter stupefaction. What does he think he’s doing?
He looks around again—then reaches into his bag and pulls out a small laminated sign, which he props up at the end of the display.
What the hell is he up to?
“Danny!” I say, heading toward him.
“What?” He gives a startled jump, then turns and sees me. “Sssh! Jesus, Becky!”
“What are you doing with those T-shirts?” I hiss.
“I’m stocking myself.”
“What do you mean, stocking yourself?”
He jerks his head toward the laminated sign and I read it in disbelief.
THE DANNY KOVITZ COLLECTION
AN EXCITING NEW TALENT AT BARNEYS
“They’re not all on Barneys hangers,” says Danny, thrusting another two T-shirts on the rack. “But I figure that won’t matter.”
“Danny . . . you can’t do this! You can’t just . . . put your stuff on the racks!”
“I’m doing it.”
“But—”
“I have no choice, OK?” says Danny, turning his head. “Randall’s on his way here right now, expecting to see a Danny Kovitz line at Barneys.”
I stare at him in horror.
“I thought you said he would never check!”
“He wouldn’t have!” Danny shoves another hanger onto the rack. “But his stupid girlfriend has to poke her nose in. She never showed any interest in me before, but as soon as she hears the word Barneys, it’s like Oh, Randall, you should support your brother! Go to Barneys tomorrow and buy one of his pieces! So I’m saying, you really don’t have to do that—but now Randall’s got the idea in his head, he’s like, well, maybe I will pop in and take a look! So I’m up sewing all fucking night . . .”
“You made all of these last night?” I say incredulously, and reach for one of the T-shirts. A piece of leather braid falls off, onto the floor.
“So maybe the finish isn’t quite up to my usual standards,” says Danny defensively. “Just don’t manhandle them, OK?” He starts to count the hangers. “Two . . . four . . . six . . . eight . . . ten. That should be enough.”
“Danny . . .” I glance around the sales floor to see Carla, one of the assistants, giving us an odd look. “Hi!” I call brightly. “Just . . . helping one of my clients . . . for his girlfriend . . .” Carla gives us another suspicious look, then moves away. “This isn’t going to work!” I mutter as soon as she’s out of earshot. “You’re going to have to take these down. You wouldn’t even be stocked on this floor!”
“I need two minutes,” he says. “That’s all. Two minutes for him to come in, see the sign, then go. Come on, Becky. No one’s even going to . . .” He freezes. “Here he is.”
I follow his gaze and see Danny’s brother Randall walking across the floor toward us.
For the millionth time I wonder how on earth Randall and Danny can have come from the same parents. While Danny is wiry and constantly on the move, Randall fills his double-breasted suit comfortably, and always wears the same disapproving frown.
“Hello, Daniel,” he says, and nods to me. “Becky.”
“Hi, Randall,” I say, and give what I hope is a natural smile. “How are you?”
“So here they are!” says Danny triumphantly, moving away from the rack and gesturing to the T-shirts. “My collection. In Barneys. Just like I said.”
“So I see,” says Randall, and carefully scrutinizes the rack of clothes. I feel sure he’s about to look up and say, “What on earth are you playing at?” But he says nothing—and with a slight dart of shock I realize that he’s been completely taken in.
There again, why is that such a surprise? Danny’s clothes don’t look so out of place, up there on the rack.
“Well, congratulations,” says Randall at last. “This is quite an achievement.” He pats Danny awkwardly on the shoulder, then turns to me. “Are they selling well?”
“Er . . . yes!” I say. “Very popular, I believe.”
“So, for how much do they retail?” He reaches for a T-shirt, and both Danny and I involuntarily draw breath. We watch, frozen, while he searches for the label, then looks up with a deep frown. “These have no price tags.”
“That’s because . . . they’re only just out,” I hear myself saying hurriedly. “But I think they’re priced at . . . erm . . . eighty-nine dollars.”
“I see.” Randall shakes his head. “Well, I never was one for high fashion—”
“Telling me,” Danny whispers in my ear.
“But if they’re selling, they must have something. Daniel, I take my hat off to you.” He reaches for another one, with rivets round the neck, and looks at it with a fastidious dismay. “Now, which one shall I buy?”
“Don’t buy one!” says Danny at once. “I’ll . . . make you one. As a gift.”
“I insist,” says Randall. “If I can’t support my own brother—”
“Randall, please.” Danny’s voice crackles with sincerity. “Allow me to make a gift to you. It’s the least I can do after all your kindness to me over the years. Really.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” says Randall at last, with a shrug. He looks at his watch. “I must go. Good to see you, Becky.”
“I’ll walk to the elevator with you,” says Danny, and darts me a jubilant look.
As they walk away, I feel a giggle of relief rising in me. I can’t quite believe we got away with it so easily.
“Hey!” comes a voice behind me suddenly. “Look at these! They’re new, aren’t they?” A manicured hand appears over my shoulder and plucks one of Danny’s T-shirts off the rail before I can stop it. My head whips round and I feel a plunge of dismay. It’s Lisa Farley, a sweet but completely dippy client of Erin’s. She’s about twenty-two, doesn’t seem to have a job, and always says whatever pops into her head, never mind whether someone might be offended. (She once asked Erin in all innocence, “Doesn’t it bother you, having such a weird-shaped mouth?”)
Now she’s holding the T-shirt up against her, looking down at it appraisingly.
Damn it. I should have whipped them down off the rack straight away.
“Hi, Becky!” she says cheerily. “Hey, this is cute! I haven’t seen these before.”
“Actually,” I say quickly, “these aren’t for sale yet. In fact, I need to . . . um . . . take them back to the stock room.” I try to grab for the T-shirt, but she moves away.
“I’ll just take a look in the mirror. Hey, Tracy! What do you think?”
Another girl, wearing the new Dior print jacket, is coming toward us.
“Of what?”
“These new T-shirts. They’re cool, aren’t they?” She reaches for another one and hands it to Tracy.
?
??If you could just give them back to me—” I say helplessly.
“This one’s nice!”
Now they’re both searching through the hangers with brisk fingers, and the poor T-shirts just can’t take the strain. Hems are unraveling, bits of glitter and strings of diamante are coming loose, and sequins are shedding all over the floor.
“Oops, this seam just came apart.” Lisa looks up in dismay. “Becky, it just fell apart. I didn’t pull it.”
“That’s OK,” I say weakly.
“Is everything supposed to fall off like this? Hey, Christina!” Lisa suddenly calls out. “This new line is so fun!”
Christina?
I wheel round and feel a lurch of horror. Christina is standing at the entrance to the personal shopping department, in conversation with the head of personnel.
“What new line?” she says, looking up. “Oh, hi, Becky.”
Shit. I have to stop this right now.
“Lisa—” I say desperately. “Come and see the new Marc Jacobs coats we’ve got in!”
Lisa ignores me.
“This new . . . what’s it called . . .” She squints at the label. “Danny Kovitz! I can’t believe Erin didn’t tell me these were coming in! Naughty naughty!” She wags a finger in mock reproach.
I watch in dismay as Christina looks up, alert. There’s nothing to galvanize her like someone suggesting her department is less than perfect.
“Excuse me a minute,” she says to the head of personnel, and comes across the floor toward us, her dark hair gleaming under the lights.
“What didn’t Erin tell you about?” she says pleasantly.
“This new designer!” says Lisa. “I never even heard of him before.”
“Ow!” says Tracy suddenly, and draws her hand away from the T-shirt. “That was a pin!”
“A pin?” echoes Christina. “Give me that!”
She takes the ragged T-shirt and stares at it bewilderedly. Then she catches sight of Danny’s laminated sign.