Nine Women, One Dress(49)

“Where the hell is everybody?” she said under her breath; then, more professionally, “I’m so sorry, can I help you with something?”

“More like everything!” I said, immediately throwing myself on her mercy. She seemed like the straightforward type, so I came right out and explained my predicament. Including that it was nearly Christmas, that I had yet to find a job, and that the Max Hammer dress might be just the break I needed. She was honest in return.

“I have one size small in the back, but it’s a mess, and it’s set to go back to the manufacturer.”

“Can I buy it today and return it tomorrow?” I asked, playing up my sheepishness, hoping she would take pity on me.

She took a beat and agreed. “Sure, to make up for no one being here to help you.” She put a finger to her lips. “But mum’s the word. There are major rules about that lately.”

“Mum’s the word,” I repeated as she went off to get it.

Maybe my luck was changing. I hoped so. Tonight was beginning to feel like my last chance. I am nearly twenty-three, you know.

As she rung me up I responded to Thea Baxter:


Of course, sorry for the delay. Should I leave it with my doorman?



She answered as if she’d been waiting by the phone, though she struck me as the type who always was.


Yay!!!!! Yes, text me your address.


40 East 71st. I need it back for a wedding this weekend.


I’ll drop it back in the a.m. Who’s getting married?


My boyfriend’s BFF from Choate. I think he’s a Kennedy.



What the hell is wrong with me?


Wow! GTG. See you tonight.



I had so convinced myself that I actually worked for Sotheby’s that I felt a twinge of guilt upon entering the Christie’s soirée. I mean, work there or not, everyone in the art world knows that Sotheby’s and Christie’s are in daily competition. Every prominent piece of art heading for auction, as well as every collector, is fair game for one or the other. The art market, flat or exciting, high or low, is determined by what goes on at these two houses. Last year it was Sotheby’s that ended up on top in annual sales, mostly because of its acquisition of one mammoth Impressionist estate. For the few years prior Christie’s had been ahead. From the looks of this party, it seemed Christie’s was going to great lengths to get back on top. Including trying to steal away some cool new blood with excellent taste and, might I add, a following on Instagram that as of party time had reached, wait for it…1700 followers. Finally things were coming together. Soon I would be buying a little black dress for keeps to hang in my very own closet in my very own crib. Crib—I felt awkward even thinking the word. I was so not cool.

Thea Baxter came running over with open arms. She gave me a quick hug and spun around. “I love this dress. I wish I could keep it!”

I laughed a compulsory laugh. “Remember, I’m wearing it to that wedding this weekend—you promised.”

“I promise,” she said with a pout.

I felt a strange allegiance to the saleslady at Bloomingdale’s. I wasn’t sure if it was because she smelled like my Grandma Freda or because she seemed so dedicated to her job, but I didn’t want to break my word. Whatever it is that my word meant at this point.

“So how are things over at Sotheby’s?” Thea said Sotheby’s in a weird voice usually reserved for impressions of Satan.

“Same old.” I brushed off her question as if she couldn’t possibly be looking for a real answer. But it worked—she moved on.

“Let’s get some bubbly and then I’ll introduce you to my boss, Sheldra Fine.” She led me to the bar as she talked about the things you talk about when you see someone with whom your only connection is your alma mater. Benign questions, like Did you hear that so-and-so got engaged? or that so-and-so is in rehab? She was so basic.

Just as we were running out of nothingness she caught the eye of her boss and we were summoned over. The boss was the kind of woman that my grandmother would describe as handsome. She spoke in a monotone: “Hello, Sophie. Thea has told me so much about you.” I smiled, thinking, Thea doesn’t know so much about me.

She took a step back and looked me over from head to toe, purposefully, not discreetly. She asked, “Whom do you consider more innovative, Shiraga or Yves Klein?”

Please, so easy. “Shiraga painted with his feet years earlier than Klein used his body.”

She didn’t react. “Shinzo or Kikuji?” she asked.

“Eiko,” I responded with a confident smile.

“A photographer? And don’t say Moriyama or Kawauchi.”

I smirked, as I had what I knew was a great answer. “Fan Ho. For his drama and simplicity.”

“Hmmm. I like your style. Call me Monday morning to set up a formal interview.”

Thea was more excited than I was. “You nailed it. Let’s do a shot!” she shrieked as soon as her boss was out of earshot. We both sat down. “Two shots of Patrón, please,” she asked the bartender before I’d even agreed. As we toasted I held up my phone and took a selfie. We checked it before we drank, in case we needed a redo.

“You can’t post that!” she quickly objected.

“Why? You look great!”