Nine Women, One Dress(24)

“It’s my hair, Mom—I don’t know what to do with it. You know I’ve been trying so hard to get a job and I can’t even afford to get my hair straightened anymore.” I welled up—it’s a talent of mine, I can do it on cue. She had to understand, she had the same hair. Although she wears hers like some kind of badge of honor. She took my hand and led me to her bedroom. Oh, good, she’s going to give me a little cash, I thought. Cash would be nontraceable; my father would never know. She’d done the same thing two weeks earlier when I needed new interview shoes. But this time she sat me down in front of the mirror and pulled out a pair of barber’s shears.

“No way, Mom!” I immediately protested.

“Embrace it,” she said. “You’re not going to want to spend half your salary on your hair when you get a job, either!” She added, “Come on, I’ll make you look cool.” We both laughed. Cool has never been a word you would use to describe me. Practical, driven, competitive, and, more recently, mediocre, lost, and unemployable—but never cool.

“What the hell,” I said, relenting. “I’ll wear it ironically.” According to Bitsy Bouvier’s compliment, it was working for me.

“How are you? What have you been up to?” she asked, doubtless expecting to hear a success story, since I’d been one of the stars of our high school class.

“Keeping it real,” I responded with a smile. What I should have said was keeping it real cheap.

“Where are you working?” And there it was, the question I had come to dread.

“You look fabulous—where are you working?” I countered.

“Goldman Sachs!” Goldman Sachs? She didn’t even go to an Ivy League school! Maybe I should have gone to a little Ivy—less pressure and more room to flourish. I was beginning to question every decision I’d ever made.

“That’s great,” I said, adding a bit viciously, “I’m surprised they let you out of the office at all, let alone to traipse through Bloomingdale’s at five-thirty on a weekday!”

She laughed. “I’m treating myself to a new dress—I’m going to the ballet tonight with my boyfriend and his parents.”

A job and a boyfriend, with parents who attended the ballet? I nearly imploded from jealousy. But instead I lied. “That’s funny. I’m here to buy a new bathing suit, because I’m going to the Ocean Club next weekend with my boyfriend and his parents!”

She looked sincerely happy for me. God, I’m awful. She whipped out her phone to take a selfie of us. I leaned in as she put her arm around my shoulder. Snap.

“I’ll Instagram it! What should the caption be? Got it! #TwoDaltonWorkingGirls. So cute—I’ll tag you. Where did you say you work again?”

“Sotheby’s,” I answered, as quickly as if she had asked my shoe size.

She pecked away on her phone: #Dreamjobs #Sothebys #GoldmanSachs.

And that’s how it began.

With each new like on Instagram I felt less like a loser and more like the twentysomething success with a great boyfriend and a job at Sotheby’s that I’d told Bitsy I was. I checked Instagram all night, and by the time Bitsy Bouvier was watching the last plié at Lincoln Center, the photo had 179 likes. One hundred and seventy-nine people thought I looked fabulous—possibly even cool—and had a dream job at Sotheby’s!

I was instantly addicted.

By the next morning people were on to liking the hot matchachino that Bitsy had for breakfast and I found myself feeling like a total loser again. I didn’t even know what a matchachino was.

With nothing to do, I wandered back over to Bloomingdale’s and ended up drifting through the bathing suit department. It was empty and a saleswoman approached. “Are you going somewhere warm?” she asked.

“Yes, to the Bahamas with my boyfriend and his family.” The lie came out again without my even thinking about it. If I couldn’t have it all, I could at least imagine having it all, couldn’t I?

She pulled out a beautiful Eres bikini. “Try this.”

I headed for the dressing room. She soon knocked on the door with a few more suits for me to try. I fell in love with an orange Norma Kamali with lavender flowers.

“It looks great on you!” she said as I timidly opened the changing room door. I looked at the tag—$185, just for the bottom.

“It’s a little expensive for me,” I said. Even when fantasizing I was pragmatic. I’m so not cool.

“Well, you look great. Give me your phone—I’ll take a picture for you to send to your boyfriend. Maybe he’ll buy it for you.”

I want to be able to buy my own Norma Kamali suit, I thought as I handed her my phone and posed for a photo. She looked at it and laughed.

“Check this out—with that picture of palm trees behind you, it looks like you’re already in the Bahamas!” As she left she added, “Here’s my card. Tell your BF that if he really loves you, he should call me for that suit!”

I sat down and looked at the picture. I looked great in the suit, and she was right, it did look like I was in the Bahamas. I couldn’t help myself. I posted it on Instagram—#ItsBetterInTheBahamas. There were seven likes by the time I hooked my bra, double that by the time I zipped my jeans. And in the all-caps word of my first comment, I was once again AMAZING!!!!!!!