Scot on the Rocks

sobered up. I opened the suitcase and looked at a set of very lovely clothes. Very lovely men’s clothes. Even in my very hungover state, I was pretty sure that they were not mine.

“This is why people hate L.A.,” I said to Vanessa and Jack, who were still fast asleep. “The people are so phony. Here’s living proof right here. They lied about my luggage! That disgruntled airport employee probably knew about my predicament and wanted to torture me because of my fabulous hair and makeup.” Vanessa and Jack were still playing dead.

I jumped on top of Vanessa and woke her up.

“Five more minutes, Mom,” she muttered as I began to shake her by the shoulders.

“Do you remember last night when you said that it would really suck if we had to run around L.A. like complete idiots looking for a new dress and shoes?” I asked her.

“Don’t tell me,” she said.

She was right. I shouldn’t tell her. After all, this weekend is kind of like a minivacation for her, too, so I wouldn’t want to stress her out. So, I didn’t tell her. Instead, I reached over to the suitcase of dashed dreams and lifted a pair of silk boxers out.

“I’m guessing that those are not yours?” she asked.

A half hour later, we were out on the mean streets of L.A., hitting boutique after boutique, finding nothing. From Melrose to Rodeo, we hit every imaginable store in search of a black-tie gown suitable for a glamorous red- carpet wedding. Most of the stores only seemed to stock size-six gowns, so not only was I tired and cranky from all of the searching, I was also feeling a bit insecure and fat.

By my estimation, we’d hit over twenty-five stores, and still could not find a stitch to wear. Things were starting to look hopeless.

Hopeless, that is, until we came to a beacon of light. At first, we thought it was a mirage, we were so tired, but there it was. The unmistakable sign of all that is good and true in a harsh and unforgiving world: Barneys New York! Located conveniently for us right here in L.A.!

Barneys New York — my favorite store of all time. Barneys is to me what Tiffany & Co. was to Holly Golightly. Nothing bad could ever happen to me once I was inside. Except for this one time last year when I walked into the housewares department asking for some help in locating an anniversary gift for my parents. From across the floor (and at Barneys, it is a big floor, I assure you) the salesperson called out, “Are you one of our brides?” It seemed as if the world had stopped and everyone was staring at me, on pins and needles, waiting for my response. It was as if they were all a bunch of spies for my old Jewish grandmother. (“You’re not married yet? Can’t you just pick one and marry him?”) I meekly whispered back, “No,” to which the salesperson yelled, “Well, then, I can’t help you.” What is this? I thought. You only help engaged people? Why, this is discrimination of the worst kind! Call the Anti-Defamation League! Call Alan Dershowitz! Call the Supreme Court of the United States of America — this calls for the ordaining of a new protected class under Title VII! Even if she meant that she only worked the bridal registry and was unable to assist people in other departments, I still thought that I had a case.

But other than that little incident, Barneys is still my favorite store. What can I say? I’m very resilient.

Like two schoolgirls, we were giddy with excitement as we got into the elevator.

“Do you think dresses are on the same floor here as in New York?” Vanessa asked as she looked at the listing of what departments were on what floors.

“More importantly,” I said, “where are the shoes?”

“You always do that,” Vanessa remarked, pushing the button for the second floor.

“Do what?” I asked, checking my reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator.

“Take your eye off of what’s important,” she said as we exited the elevator. “We’re here for a dress. Not shoes. And here you are, still pining over Douglas, a man who treated you horribly, while you ignore Jack, a man who treats you like a princess.”

“Jack doesn’t even like me,” I said as we reached the racks, convincing not even myself. “Remember we tried this once before — South Carolina — and he put the brakes on it?”

“That is not my recollection,” Vanessa said. “Anyway, how many years ago was that?”

“We’re staffed on every case together,” I further reasoned. “Do you want me to get fired or something?”

“And give up the twelve-hour days and constant weekend work?” she countered. “What on earth was I thinking?”

“And even if he did like me, he’s totally on the rebound, anyway,” I said as I began to flip through the dresses. “He just broke off an engagement.”

“Six months ago,” Vanessa said, eyeing the racks.

“He’d never set a date,” I said, fingering a pale yellow cowl-neck column dress.

“Well, look at you,” she said, placing both hands on the rack as she stared at me. “I was just saying to give him a chance. You’ve gone and got yourself engaged to the guy already.”

“Anyway, he’s Jack. Now, be a good friend and look for dresses.”

I held up a beautiful black satin number that I clearly could not afford. Vanessa shook her head no.

“I would find it sexy, you know,” Vanessa said, holding up a short red dress to her frame. “Man travels three thousand miles to make a fool of himself all for a girl.”

“It really isn’t like that,” I explained, showing Vanessa a black-and-white off-the-shoulder gown. She shook her head no.

“Then what is it like?” she asked, putting down the red dress she was holding, waiting for an answer.

“Brooke?” a salesperson asked, seemingly on cue. Saved by the bell. Or salesperson, as the case may be. “Is that you? Brooke Miller?” I politely smiled back, even though I had no idea who this woman who knew my name was.

“Brooke, it is you! Oh, my God, it is so good to see you!” she cried, throwing her arms around my neck. As she did so, I threw Vanessa a very confused look. “How are you?”

“I’m great. Thanks,” I said. “How are you?”

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the woman said.

“I remember you,” I protested a little too quickly.

The salesgirl turned to Vanessa. “Well, could you expect the captain of the cheerleading squad, editor of the yearbook, etcetera, etcetera, to remember little old me? Senior year, voted most…”

“Of course!” I interrupted, “South Bay High! Yes!” Anything to make her stop reliving my glory days.

“You were a cheerleader?” Vanessa asked.

“Cocaptain,” I said. “And I only did layout on yearbook.”

“What were the etceteras?” Vanessa asked. She was having fun with this.

“Let’s see,” the salesgirl offered, “there was homecoming queen junior year.”

“And life has been downhill ever since….” I said to no one in particular.

“We were in Spanish class together for all four years of high school,” she explained to Vanessa. “You look exactly the same! You still have the same long hair —”

“Yes, of course! Spanish!” I knew that this was the part where I was supposed to show that I knew who she was, but I still had no clue.

“Nina Mitchell?” she said, making it more of a question than a declaration.

“Yes, of course!” I cried out. “Nina!” I was sure that if I said it emphatically enough she’d believe that I knew who she was, even though I was still piecing it together in my mind.

“And this girl, of course,” she told Vanessa, “dated the hottest guy at school for a million years!”

“Hot stuff! Go Brooke!” Vanessa said.

“He wasn’t anything special, I assure you,” I said to Vanessa and the moment the words came out of my mouth, I totally regretted them. In an instant, a thousand memories came flooding back to me from the ninth grade. How could I say that about Danny? I was talking to “Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria” — the girl who was totally, madly, deeply in love with him from the time we all met when we were fourteen. Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria: an unfortunate nickname that Danny himself had thought up, seemingly to relate to her large size. (What can I tell you, he wasn’t the brightest boy….) Now that I think of it, she wasn’t even that large back then, she just wasn’t as