Nine Women, One Dress(12)
We approached, and as soon as she looked up and saw me I went with a quick-to-backfire joke. I held up a red dress and said, “Do you have this in my size?”
She seemed not to get it and answered as if I was really asking. “Um, I don’t think that would fit you.”
“I was joking,” I said, somewhat defensively.
“Oh—sorry. I…didn’t want to be politically incorrect.”
I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but she followed it with her pretty smile so I chalked it up to awkward attempts at humor on both sides and moved on to explaining the situation. She agreed to the photo shoot, but there was one problem. Tomás, her associate, had just sent the very last Max Hammer small out for delivery to a customer. She called him over, and for some reason, which he refused to explain, he said he was almost certain the dress would be exchanged for a bigger size by Tuesday at the latest. Hank wasn’t happy about the delay but texted Albert to set up the shoot for Wednesday. He told Natalie and me that under no circumstances were we to be seen together before then, and left mumbling something about his three wasted years at Harvard Law.
“I’m kind of disappointed,” I confessed to Natalie. “I thought maybe we could’ve had dinner together again.”
She seemed thrilled by the invite. “We can—let’s go back to Queens! No one will be looking for you there. You could even hide out. I’m off work until Tuesday. We could be incognito till then—just in time to get the dress.”
Tuesday! I thought. Maybe she does like me after all.
I was in the suit for the photo shoot, so I went down to the men’s department to buy something more casual for my furlough in Queens while Natalie finished up her shift. She said that she would meet me down there and we could blend right in with the crowd on the subway. I kept my baseball cap on the whole time, and there was something exciting and clandestine about the whole thing. Plus I hadn’t been on the subway in such a long time, and never to Queens. When the tracks rose aboveground and I saw the outside world from the train, I felt like a kid. Natalie said I looked like one as well.
We walked the few blocks from the Ditmars Boulevard stop to her garden apartment. It was so nice to be away from Manhattan again. I imagined the paparazzi camped outside my building and loved the idea that they would be waiting for me all night. I didn’t want to think about going home.
Her apartment was tiny and charming. Like her. One L-shaped room with a white fluffy bed filling the shorter arm and a long couch along the other. A big-screen TV hung in the corner, making it visible from either the bed or the couch. Natalie handed me the remote. “Here,” she said, “entertain yourself while I get ready.” The Rocky marathon was still on, and somewhere around the time Dolph Lundgren shot his first dose of steroids, Natalie changed out of her work shirt and into another right in front of me, as if I were her college roommate. The brief view of her sexy lace bra and belly-button ring threw me.
“What do you feel like eating?” she said. “Let me give you the whole neighborhood rundown. We’ve got nearly every type of ethnic food you could ask for.”
“Surprise me,” I said, mostly because I hadn’t heard a word she’d said. It’s hard to get the full audio when the visual is so…distracting.
She seemed to love that answer and happily skipped to the bedroom, where I imagined her finding something to cover up her very sexy lace bra and her boy-pants underwear, which barely grazed the sweetest little belly button that I had ever seen. Never in my life had I met such a free spirit, and never in my famous life had I met someone so uninterested in me. This Flip Roberts must be something else.
She came out fully clothed, ran a wand of lip gloss across her lips, and clapped her hands together twice. “Let’s go!” I followed her like a puppy dog to a Moroccan restaurant where we sat on the floor and ate with our hands. She gushed, “It’s just like that scene in Sabrina, the new one, not the old one with Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn, remember?” I didn’t. She was surprised that I’d never seen either of them.
We talked about everything you can imagine, including how badly I didn’t want the night to end. When I realized what I’d said, I bit my lip and added somewhat fraudulently, “Because of the paparazzi at my apartment, of course!” She confirmed that I was genuinely invited to stay over.
When we got back to her apartment, she hunted through a collection of what looked like every romantic comedy ever made and found the original Sabrina. “You have to start with this one,” she said gleefully, handing me the DVD. She dug through her T-shirt drawer and pulled out the biggest one she could find and tapped on her bed. “This is my side. I’ll just be a few minutes.” I got undressed and climbed under the covers wearing my boxers and a T-shirt that read I don’t sweat, I sparkle. I tried not to let it add to my insecurity and waited to see whether she would reappear in sexy or BFF mode. She came out in sweats and a tank, plunked a big bowl of popcorn between us, climbed in, and turned on the TV.
“I haven’t had a sleepover in ages. How fun is this?” she said.
This girl was definitely not attracted to me. I couldn’t take it anymore—I had to know more about this ex-boyfriend, who apparently so eclipsed me in every way that she was completely uninterested.
“Before we start the movie, I’m curious. Do you have a picture of Flip Roberts?”