I didn’t know whether to laugh or make for the door. “You want to buy me something to wear?”
“There’s a boutique just two blocks east, Ooh La La. They have what you need. We’ll go right now. It’s a five-minute walk.” He waved to the waitress. “Add all this to my monthly bill, Paula,” he said, “and add a twenty-percent tip.”
She smiled and nodded.
“You have a bill here?”
“I have a running account at a few of my favorite places,” he said, standing. “Shall we go?”
I got up. He nodded toward the table. I had forgotten to take his license. I picked it up and put it into my purse and then followed him out. All the while, I was thinking, This is insane. He’s going to turn out to be some sort of nutcase for sure, but then why would the restaurant trust him? I looked back at the waitress as we left. She smiled at me and gave me a thumbs-up.
Huh? What did she know?
“So, tell me more about yourself,” he said as we started toward the corner of the street. “Where exactly does your family live?”
“The East Side,” I said. I didn’t want to give him the exact address.
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“A much younger sister. My mother wasn’t supposed to have either of us.”
“Oh. My mother always used to tell me that,” he said. “I was brought up in Philadelphia. My father was a very successful dentist. I have an older sister. She lives in California. So what subject did you like the best at school?”
“English, I guess.”
“Yes, that’s right. You read. Any boyfriends you’ve left behind?”
“All of them,” I told him, and he laughed. “I wasn’t ever attached to anyone too long.”
“I bet they regretted it,” he said.
“Yes, but I didn’t.”
He laughed harder, and we crossed a street, turned, and stopped halfway down the block at the store he had described. He opened the door for me, and as soon as we stepped in, the young woman attending a customer turned and immediately smiled. She said something to her customer and approached us quickly.
“Mr. Bob, how are you?”
“I’m a hundred and five percent, Clea. This is . . .” He suddenly realized he didn’t know my name, and that made him blush. For a moment, I thought I would let him dangle and look foolish, but then I smiled and came to his rescue.
“Roxy,” I told the salesgirl.
“Yes, Roxy. We need an elegant black cocktail dress, and I know you have the right shoes and purse to go with it,” he added.
Clea looked me over. “I have the exact dress for her, Mr. Bob. Please, follow me.” She led me to the changing room in the rear.
I was anticipating that she would ask me questions to find out who I was and why I was with Mr. Bob, but she said nothing. She opened the changing room and went to get the dress she was proposing. She returned quickly, as if she did know exactly what I should wear. She held it up, and the label dangled. It read “Emilio Pucci,” and the price was $1,500. I looked at her as if she was crazy.
“Believe me, this is your dress,” she said. It was a figure-fitting, lightweight jersey knit with a bold butterfly print in a modern one-shoulder design. I took it from her slowly. She smiled and closed the door. For a moment, I just gazed at myself in the mirror. Is this nuts? I asked my image. I took off my clothes and put on the dress. It fit me as if it had been custom-made for me. The beauty of the dress and the way I looked seemed to wash away the sadness and defeats of the day. I saw the flush flow through my neck and into my face.
Many times I had looked at myself and thought, I’m not bad, but at this moment, I suddenly realized I was far more than that. I really was very beautiful. I didn’t have to convince myself of it. I had spent so much time being angry and resentful that I hadn’t permitted what could flower and blossom in me to do so. Right now, it was doing just that. I heard a knock on the door. The salesgirl smiled when she saw me and then handed me a pair of platform pumps in shiny pink patent leather. These, too, had been made in Italy. The price tag read “$700.” I slipped them on. They were also a perfect fit. The four-inch heels made me statuesque. I stood staring at myself in the mirror.
“How are we doing?” I heard Mr. Bob ask.
“I think magnifique,” the salesgirl said.
I stepped out slowly, and Mr. Bob’s smile widened, his eyes brightening. “How can I be so right all the time?” he asked the salesgirl.
“Some people have an eye for beautiful jewelry, beautiful art. You have an eye for beautiful women,” she replied.