“No, I don’t. I’m borrowing the dress, you’re borrowing me.” I thought about what I’d just said; borrowing me made it sound like I was some kind of paid escort, but Lillian had promised me the guy was gay. She was tabloid-obsessed and whispered in my ear, “It was all over the papers today. He’s definitely gay, don’t worry.” She knows me better than to think I would risk being taken advantage of by some scorned movie star. No way. And she knows that I have temporarily sworn off men, especially ones who walk into the store looking for a date.
“Please don’t worry about it. I’m happy to be going with you. I don’t even want to keep the dress.” He didn’t seem to believe me, so I changed the subject. “I think it’s ridiculous how much scrutiny you’re all under.”
He nodded in agreement. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt with him. He didn’t act like a big movie star. When I talked he looked at me—really looked at me, like I was the center of his attention.
“I hope you’re not disappointed—the movie’s not very good. And speaking of scrutiny, there’s a chance that your face will be plastered all over the papers tomorrow. You realize that, right?”
“I never thought about it,” I lied. In fact I was counting on it. It was the reason I’d said yes without a second’s hesitation once Lillian told me Jeremy was gay: the thought that maybe, just maybe, they would take our picture and put it on Page Six of the New York Post or, better yet, in that section of New York magazine that shows the most beautiful people wearing the most beautiful dresses in the most beautiful places. Either way it would stick it to Flip.
Flip was my ex-boyfriend. His real name is Philip Roberts. I couldn’t believe he was ever my boyfriend, let alone now my ex-boyfriend. I didn’t even want to go out with him at first. He had asked me out every day for nearly two weeks before I finally agreed. It was last winter, and on cold days he, like many commuting New Yorkers, cut through the store from Third to Lex, dodging the perfume sprayers, on his way to and from work. At the time I worked in men’s gloves, where I would meet a lot of men, some of whom would ask me out. I heard it all. As Ruthie, my older coworker, would say, they were right off the cob. Lots of corny glove references like “perfect fit” and “looking for the match to this glove” and, the worst and most common, “You know what they say—big hands, big…feet.” Which isn’t even the correct reference, and is so not true, by the way.
Flip was less cornball than that. I didn’t say yes the first few times he asked me out because he was older than me and short, with bad hair and a bit of a unibrow. But he grew on me. I didn’t say yes the next few times because I liked it that the challenge was making him try harder. I didn’t say yes the few times after that because it was beginning to feel like he wanted me just because he couldn’t have me, like some kind of prize he was trying to win. My gut told me that in the end I might not be enough of a prize for him and I’d get hurt. This isn’t about my insecurities, though I do have them—who doesn’t? I’m pretty enough, and I’m smart and funny and kind, but he didn’t really seem to value those things. He was a fancy lawyer who grew up on Sutton Place and went to an Ivy League school. I was a salesgirl at Bloomingdale’s who had never lived outside Astoria, Queens. I had no desire to leave my comfort zone, and wanted to find a man who would love me for me. But he wasn’t giving up.
Finally I gave in and we went out, and out, and out, for months and months and months, until one day, long after I had fixed his unibrow and fallen for him, he woke up and told me that something was missing. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. More like something he couldn’t put on my finger, as it turned out; two months later I read in the Times that he was engaged. Two months! The bride, I read, had also attended an Ivy League school and was also a fancy lawyer. They instantly fell in love at some fancy lawyer convention where they exchanged strategies, and no doubt bodily fluids. I bet it wouldn’t have been so instant if I hadn’t taken my tweezers to his eyebrow! After memorizing their wedding announcement, I continued torturing myself by writing our announcement in my head: Philip Roberts to wed Natalie Canaras. The bridegroom is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Roberts of Sutton Place and Sagaponack. Mr. Roberts attended Dartmouth as an undergraduate and got his law degree from Columbia. He was recently named partner at Hollingsworth, Hathaway, Horowitz, and Holtz, where his maternal grandfather, Frederick Hollingsworth, was a founding partner. The bride attended the school of hard knocks and is a salesgirl at Bloomingdale’s, where her grandmother once successfully lifted a pair of size 6 black patent leather Chanel pumps. Ms. Canaras was recently named Employee of the Month.