I delay answering her by asking about her daughters, Gigi,Bebe, and Coco, all of whom I taught at some point in middle school and none ofwhom I can tell apart.
The girls are all doing well at college, and we continuemaking small talk as we head up the stairs and into Sophie’s expansive livingroom. The entire thing is done in crisp white, from the couches to the brickfireplace to the shelves lining one wall. The far wall has the samefloor-to-ceiling windows as the foyer, beyond which lies the recently manicuredlawn and a pool, not yet open for the season.
But what makes the living room unique is not the all-whitedécor or the breathtaking view beyond. It is the handbags.
Covering every nook in every couch, covering every inch ofevery shelf, lined up neatly across the glass coffee table and against thefireplace, and propped atop, astride, and next to the Mies van der Rohe chairand ottoman, are handbags.
Sophie’s pristine, high-ceilinged, light-filled livingroom is holy.
Here is where rich ladies come to pray.
Gucci, Prada, Chanel. Amen.
Judith Leiber, Louis Vuitton, Ferragamo. Amen.
Balenciaga, Chloe, Bottega. Amen.
And, every once in a while…Hermès Birkins and Kellys! CanI get a Hallelujah from the crowd? Amen.
Sophie, who used to work in fashion, had been searchingfor a way to work from home when her kids were small. She contacted some fabfriends looking to trade their bags for cash, and the next thing she knew, herliving room was open for business.
Sophie gives an entirely new meaning to the concept of themom who works from home.
“I’m the bag lady!” she boasts whenever I introduce her toa new client. “Look at me. I have bags under my eyes and bags under my chins. Ieven have bags under my arms that I won’t show you for fear of scaring youaway. I do not have a body made for clothes.” Here, she always pausesdramatically and takes a step closer to the newcomer. “I have a body meant forhandbags. And I want to share my love of bags with you.”
Women melt at those words.
I am not one of Sophie’s most devout clients, but I dolike to, you know, pay my respects every once in a while. Once a year, Icelebrate getting older by spending some of my hard-earned teaching salary on agorgeous designer bag. And the rest of the time? I buy regular bags. Lots of ’em.Doug likes to joke that I was born—or, at any rate, bred—in a handbag.
As I come fully into view of the living room, I amoverwhelmed, as usual. There is just so much to see, so much to touch. All ofit is sexy, and all of it comes with Sophie’s testimonies. There is soft, tan,fringed suede (“isn’t that luscious”) and bumpy black leather (“it’sostrich, you know, ridiculously high-end”) and slouchy and quilty and patent…ohmy!
Sophie picks up a large red bag with interlocking Gssplattered all over it and a wooden shoulder strap. “Now, I know this is notyour style, Lauren, but isn’t it just fierce?”
I make a face and tilt my head. “Not so sure.”
She shakes her hairsprayed helmet at me. “How long have weknown each other? Eight, ten years? You always go for the safe bag. Theclassic. Everything about you is sort of…” She looks me up and down. “Conservative.You need to break out a bit. Try something messy, less structured, more…fun!”And with that, she throws me a shockingly purple Balenciaga motorcycle bagcovered in hardware.
For good measure, I sling it over my shoulder and pose inthe mirror against one wall. “Yeah, nope.”
“Today’s the day. I can just sense it,” she says, clearlynot deterred. On tiptoe, she weaves in and out of the piles of bags, wigglingher fingers over them like a magician conjuring a rabbit from a hat.
And then she stops, bends over, and grabs one. It is alarge, somewhat slouchy, dark blue Chloe. I actually gasp upon seeing it.
“Ta-dah!” she announces triumphantly.
“It’s so…rock-and-roll!” I gush, immediately taking itfrom her and putting it over my arm. “It’s seriously glam.” I turn one way,then the other. “I love it.” I size up my reflection, as if I’m another woman.“I’m just not sure it’s me.”
“It’s so you,” Sophie concludes. “The new you.”
As I stare at my reflection, I think, Maybe it’sactually the old me. Coming back. In high school and college, I usedto dress sort of funky. I used to be playful and edgy and…interesting.
What the hell happened to me? When did I start to equate“growing up” with being dull and conservative? What’s the big deal aboutbreaking out a bit, being a little glam, a little fun?
I smile and tell Sophie I’ll take it.
I eventually end up with the Chloe bag tucked like apoodle at my feet and a cup of tea in my hand. From time to time I reach downand stroke the soft leather as if it actually is my new pet: dead calf. Sophieand I have taken a break from posing in front of the mirror with the bags(which all look great on her; she’s the best model for her merchandise) and aresitting cross-legged in an available corner of her living room floor.
“This just occurred to me…how do you entertain?” I ask,looking around. Even her dining room table, on the other side of the fireplace,has bags piled high across it.
“Oh, I don’t!” She laughs. “I don’t like cooking. Andbecause of my business”—she gestures around the room—“I feel like I am alwaysentertaining. It’s a tad exhausting, actually.”
“So is my job,” I say.
“Yes, work is…work.” She shrugs. “Otherwise it would becalled something else. Speaking of which, you never did explain…why aren’t youat school today? Mental-health day?”
I look at her and nod my head yes, then no. “What I meanis…” I drift off, considering for a moment spilling the story, telling Sophiehow I purposefully tried to get selected as a juror. But then I’d have toexplain why, and I’m not really sure I have a clear answer for that one. I lookdown at my new purchase and stick to
