The tap came again. This was annoying. Now she would have to deal. She swung her head around, anticipating a possible fight.
“Hey girl.” The tapper was a dark-skinned young woman in glasses.
“Yes?” Victory said.
The girl leaned slightly forward. “I like your pants. Sequins during the day. That’s cool.”
Victory looked down. The pants! She’d completely forgotten she was wearing the pants she’d stitched up yesterday afternoon and evening. The words “I like your pants” echoed in her brain like a suddenly cheery slogan. “Hey girl, I like your pants.” It was about more than just pants, though. It was Fashion with a capital “F”—the international language of girlspeak, the icebreaker, the compliment and soother, the automatic membership to the club . . .
“Thank you,” Victory said kindly, feeling all warm and fuzzy toward this young woman who was a stranger, but not so strange anymore now that they were united in the common ground of liking her pants.
“Oh God,” she almost cried out, experiencing a sudden burst of inspiration that nearly knocked her off her high heels.
The train came to a stop and she ran off, running up the steps and bursting out of the station onto Sixth Avenue like a rocket.
Her cell phone was still in her hand, and she dialed the number for her office.
“Zoe?” she said to her assistant. She paused. “I’m finally feeling fall,” she announced.
She began walking briskly up the sidewalk, expertly dodging the cro
wds. “I’m feeling Wendy as in Peter Pan. Grown-up women like Wendy Healy—women who have it all and pay for it all; CEO’s, women who can take care of everything . . . travel, children, maybe even baby-sick. I’m seeing tomboy: glasses and not perfect hair. Suits in peacoat material and white shirts with tiny rhinestone buttons and new shapes, slightly baggy, nothing nipping in the waist because an unfettered midsection is a sign of power. Billowing shirts paired with subtly sequined pants, and shoes . . . shoes . . . satin mules with kitten and three-inch heels, Louis XIV-style with rhinestoned designs . . .”
Continuing on in this vein for another six blocks, Victory Ford reached Michael’s restaurant, and, finally disengaging her cell phone, she composed her face and opened the door, feeling a rush of warm air on her face, and a sense of relief and triumph.
* * *
THE WHOLE SHANE DEBACLE was probably the most interesting thing that had happened in their relationship in years, Wendy explained, seated across from Victory at Michael’s. Lots of interesting outside things had happened to her, but, she realized sadly, maybe not to Shane in particular. But that wasn’t her fault, was it? And what the hell did he have to complain about anyway? He had the kids! He was lucky. He could spend as much time with the kids as he wanted. Didn’t he know how precious that was? And he was able to spend that time with the kids because of her.
Victory nodded knowingly. “Have you seen Selden Rose, by the way? He was going out as I was coming in, and he definitely did something to his hair. It looked like he had it straightened. That new Japanese technique. You have to sit in the salon for hours.”
At the mention of Selden Rose’s name and especially of his hair, Wendy reddened. “Selden’s okay,” she said. “He was nice about Shane.”
“Do you think he was . . . interested?”
Wendy shook her head frantically, her mouth full of lettuce from her salad Nicoise. “I’m sure he has a girlfriend,” she said, swallowing. “And Shane hired a couples counselor!”
“But what about Romania?”
“Not sure I have to go anyway. I’ll know in an hour or two. If that damn director ever calls back,” Wendy said. She picked up her cell phone and looked at it suspiciously, then put it down next to her plate so she’d be sure not to miss the call. “Besides, this is therapy, you know? We bark at each other for an hour and then I feel like everything’s okay, and I can survive for another week.” The phone rang and she snatched it up. “Yes?”
She paused and glanced over at Victory, the expression on her face indicating that this wasn’t the call. “Yes, Angel,” she said, a little too brightly. “That sounds wonderful. She’ll love that . . . No, I don’t know yet . . . Only for a couple of days. I could probably be back Saturday midday.” She grimaced. “Oh, and Angel? Thank you for arranging this. I love you.”
“Shane?” Victory asked.
Wendy nodded, her eyes widening as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard. “He’s planning a trip to Pennsylvania this weekend. To look for a pony for Magda.” She paused, reading the expression on Victory’s face. “It’s better this way, I promise you. Last week Tyler pooped in his pants, and he hasn’t done that for at least three years . . .”
Victory nodded understandingly. It probably was better for Wendy if Shane was back, even if he was a name-dropping male version of a rich, spoiled housewife. His only interests, outside of himself, seemed to consist of the famous people he and Wendy had met, and the glamorous parties and hot spots they went to on vacation and how much it had all cost, which was made all the more irritating by the fact that he had this fabulous life through no effort of his own. Even when they went to a restaurant, Wendy always paid for him—the apocryphal story was the time someone had asked Shane to put down five dollars for a cash tip, and Shane had shrugged and said blithely, “Sorry, I don’t have any money.”
“He didn’t even have five dollars!” Nico had exclaimed, incredulous. “Who is he? The queen?”
They both agreed, however, that Shane’s most egregious behavior concerned an incident at his birthday party last year. Wendy had bought him a Vespa scooter and had arranged to have it delivered to Da Silvano, where she’d organized a birthday lunch for him. It must have taken Wendy hours to plan the whole thing, because it was timed perfectly. Right after the cake arrived, a white tractor trailer with “Vespa Motors” emblazoned on the side had pulled up in front of the restaurant, the back had opened, and out came Shane’s Vespa, tied up with a red ribbon. Everyone in the restaurant had cheered, but it wasn’t good enough for Shane. The Vespa was baby blue, and Shane had had the temerity to remark, “Shit, Wen, I really wanted a red one.”
But Wendy always said that Shane was a great father (in fact, she sometimes complained that he was too good and that the kids asked for Shane and not her, which made her feel like a loser) and it was always better for children to have a father in the house. So Victory said, “I think it’s great you took him back, Wen. You had to.”
Wendy nodded nervously. She was always nervous when she was in the middle of a big movie, but she seemed especially on edge. “He’s getting better,” she said, as if reassuring herself. “I really think this shrink might be helping.”
Victory was dying to hear more about this shrink business, but at that moment her phone rang.