“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 walk 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 Tshirts?” 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 Tshirts on the rack. “But I figure
