while I wrap a yellow and tangerine sarong beneath my armpits. This is good—light and campy. Dorothy Lamour joking around
on the beach with Bob and Bing and my shoulders look strong above the knotted cloth. I ask Tara about those hose with the
elastic tops, the kind that are supposed to stay up by themselves. Do they really work and would she bring me a pair in black,
medium opaque?
Frederica’s is full of ghosts. The last time I was here I was lingerie shopping with Kelly just before she married Mark. When
they heard that Kelly was shopping for her honeymoon, they put us in the dressing room on the end, a room so large it had
a pedestal for her to stand on and a full sofa for me. The salesgirl kept calling Kelly “the bride” in hushed tones, as if
she were referring to the recently deceased, and irritation had flashed across Kelly’s face, so fast that only someone who
knows her as well as I do would have even noticed. It’s like when people are all the time saying she’s pretty. Kelly hates
being reduced. But the salesgirl had insisted on bringing these big flowing peignoir sets, formless filmy clouds of pink and
white.
“They look like something Eva Gabor would wear to make flapjacks,” Kelly said, handing them back.
The girl was too young to get the reference to Eva Gabor and flapjacks but she did seem to understand that we would be requiring
something sexier. She returned with a black bustier with long flapping garters, and Kelly had nodded and begun pulling off
her jeans. Her body still looked great, her waist as tapered as always. I flopped down on the sofa and watched her struggle
to pull on the bustier, writhing like a snake trying to get back into its skin. It was a punishing sort of garment, thrusting
her breasts out the top and cupping her hips into an exaggerated curve. I asked her how you took it off when it was time to
have sex.
“You don’t, silly, that’s the whole point,” she said, and she’d twirled in the mirror, the garters slapping her thighs like
small whips. The salesgirl had brought us champagne—another perk, I suppose, if you’re in the big dressing room at the end
that is evidently the Frederica’s equivalent of a bridal suite. It was clear that she wanted us to be happier than we were.
She produced the champagne flutes with such a flourish that I think she expected us to squeal, maybe applaud or propose a
toast. When Kelly just said, very calmly, “That’s fine, put them down on the table,” the girl’s face had fallen in momentary
disappointment. But she pushed it aside with a professional smile and finally left me and Kelly alone. Kelly insisted that
I try on something too and—even though I was a little self-conscious about how my post-baby body looked in comparison to hers—I
stood up and yanked off my jeans and grabbed the first hanger on the peg. It was a red satin teddy that kept sliding down
my shoulders as I popped the champagne cork.
For the next hour Kelly and I gulped the cheap champagne, and we swapped the camisoles and slips and teddies back and forth
in a wild, pointless effort to mute our grief. Even though we were speculating about which of these garments might best seduce
her fiancé or my husband, the truth is we were really deep in mourning for men who weren’t there. The man who had left her,
the man who had not yet come for me. When Kelly had climbed up onto the pedestal, holding the empty champagne bottle with
her cheeks bright pink and her hair disheveled, I had almost asked her what she would do if Daniel came back. I had never
told her that he called me that time, never told her that his cell phone number was scribbled on the last page of my phone
book under the single letter D. “Leave her alone,” I had told him. “You broke her heart once and I’ll kill you if you show
up here and break it again.” It sounded good at the time I said it but when I saw her there in that dressing
on the beach with Bob and Bing and my shoulders look strong above the knotted cloth. I ask Tara about those hose with the
elastic tops, the kind that are supposed to stay up by themselves. Do they really work and would she bring me a pair in black,
medium opaque?
Frederica’s is full of ghosts. The last time I was here I was lingerie shopping with Kelly just before she married Mark. When
they heard that Kelly was shopping for her honeymoon, they put us in the dressing room on the end, a room so large it had
a pedestal for her to stand on and a full sofa for me. The salesgirl kept calling Kelly “the bride” in hushed tones, as if
she were referring to the recently deceased, and irritation had flashed across Kelly’s face, so fast that only someone who
knows her as well as I do would have even noticed. It’s like when people are all the time saying she’s pretty. Kelly hates
being reduced. But the salesgirl had insisted on bringing these big flowing peignoir sets, formless filmy clouds of pink and
white.
“They look like something Eva Gabor would wear to make flapjacks,” Kelly said, handing them back.
The girl was too young to get the reference to Eva Gabor and flapjacks but she did seem to understand that we would be requiring
something sexier. She returned with a black bustier with long flapping garters, and Kelly had nodded and begun pulling off
her jeans. Her body still looked great, her waist as tapered as always. I flopped down on the sofa and watched her struggle
to pull on the bustier, writhing like a snake trying to get back into its skin. It was a punishing sort of garment, thrusting
her breasts out the top and cupping her hips into an exaggerated curve. I asked her how you took it off when it was time to
have sex.
“You don’t, silly, that’s the whole point,” she said, and she’d twirled in the mirror, the garters slapping her thighs like
small whips. The salesgirl had brought us champagne—another perk, I suppose, if you’re in the big dressing room at the end
that is evidently the Frederica’s equivalent of a bridal suite. It was clear that she wanted us to be happier than we were.
She produced the champagne flutes with such a flourish that I think she expected us to squeal, maybe applaud or propose a
toast. When Kelly just said, very calmly, “That’s fine, put them down on the table,” the girl’s face had fallen in momentary
disappointment. But she pushed it aside with a professional smile and finally left me and Kelly alone. Kelly insisted that
I try on something too and—even though I was a little self-conscious about how my post-baby body looked in comparison to hers—I
stood up and yanked off my jeans and grabbed the first hanger on the peg. It was a red satin teddy that kept sliding down
my shoulders as I popped the champagne cork.
For the next hour Kelly and I gulped the cheap champagne, and we swapped the camisoles and slips and teddies back and forth
in a wild, pointless effort to mute our grief. Even though we were speculating about which of these garments might best seduce
her fiancé or my husband, the truth is we were really deep in mourning for men who weren’t there. The man who had left her,
the man who had not yet come for me. When Kelly had climbed up onto the pedestal, holding the empty champagne bottle with
her cheeks bright pink and her hair disheveled, I had almost asked her what she would do if Daniel came back. I had never
told her that he called me that time, never told her that his cell phone number was scribbled on the last page of my phone
book under the single letter D. “Leave her alone,” I had told him. “You broke her heart once and I’ll kill you if you show
up here and break it again.” It sounded good at the time I said it but when I saw her there in that dressing
Similar Books
