Nine Women, One Dress(8)
Finally I gave in and we went out, and out, and out, for months and months and months, until one day, long after I had fixed his unibrow and fallen for him, he woke up and told me that something was missing. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. More like something he couldn’t put on my finger, as it turned out; two months later I read in the Times that he was engaged. Two months! The bride, I read, had also attended an Ivy League school and was also a fancy lawyer. They instantly fell in love at some fancy lawyer convention where they exchanged strategies, and no doubt bodily fluids. I bet it wouldn’t have been so instant if I hadn’t taken my tweezers to his eyebrow! After memorizing their wedding announcement, I continued torturing myself by writing our announcement in my head: Philip Roberts to wed Natalie Canaras. The bridegroom is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Roberts of Sutton Place and Sagaponack. Mr. Roberts attended Dartmouth as an undergraduate and got his law degree from Columbia. He was recently named partner at Hollingsworth, Hathaway, Horowitz, and Holtz, where his maternal grandfather, Frederick Hollingsworth, was a founding partner. The bride attended the school of hard knocks and is a salesgirl at Bloomingdale’s, where her grandmother once successfully lifted a pair of size 6 black patent leather Chanel pumps. Ms. Canaras was recently named Employee of the Month.
I felt like a fool. He came into the store two weeks later. He was meeting her at the bridal registry. He couldn’t have picked another store? He stood a bit too close to me while he spoke. As if he had a right to. The small talk was running out and I was beginning to feel vulnerable. I excused myself, saying I had to go back to work.
As I walked away he grabbed my arm. “Maybe we can go to one of the dressing rooms and say a real goodbye,” he said, totally serious. I couldn’t believe it. I had envied this Ivy League girl that he was marrying—now I just felt bad for her. Even with the satisfaction of knowing that he still wanted me, though, I was hurt, and months later I was still feeling vengeful. Tomás, my friend from the dress department, promised that after they registered we would totally get revenge by changing their china pattern every time someone checked something off so they would end up with mismatched place settings and multiple gravy boats. That seemed like fun and all, but my photo in the pages of the New York Post with Jeremy Madison was revenge on steroids! I was good enough for a movie star but not for Flip Roberts. For the rest of his life he’d be haunted by having let a good thing go. I would definitely win the breakup. It was perfect.
The movie star interrupted my thoughts. “So, we should make a plan?”
I already had my plan, so I played flexible. “As long as it involves popcorn I’m good. I haven’t eaten all day.”
He looked worried. “There aren’t usually concessions at a premiere. I think they think it’s tacky.” I felt as tacky as the MIA concession stand. He must have noticed, because he smiled his big movie-star smile and said, “I think they should have popcorn too. I may even put it in my next contract!” He really was surprisingly sweet, this movie star. He continued, “There’s an after-party, but I don’t think I’m up for it—too many reporters. Would it be okay with you if we walk the red carpet, take a few pictures, and sneak out for dinner before it’s over?”
I was thrilled with this plan. “Perfect!”
But apparently Jeremy Madison was less in control of his life than even he knew. His publicist, Albert, had told his agent, Hank, that Jeremy was bringing a salesgirl, me, from Bloomingdale’s. Hank didn’t feel the overwhelming confidence that Albert did in Lillian’s matchmaking skills and panicked, leaking to the press that we were entering the theater through the back to avoid the red carpet. The press ran like cattle to the 55th Street door and the fans followed. We arrived to one newbie photographer from the AP who was too scared to leave his post on the red carpet. Unfortunately for everyone, he was so nervous that he shot on a used memory card and none of the pictures came out. His rookie mistake cost him his big shot at the front page and my big shot at sticking it to Flip. I guess people like me never get to make people like Flip Roberts feel less than.
Not yet knowing the unfortunate outcome of the photo, and with our stomachs rumbling, we snuck out midway through the movie. We got into the movie star’s limo and the small talk that started with him asking, “Where are you from?” ended with us in Queens, happily munching on tzatziki and spanikopita at my favorite Greek restaurant. It was the best date I had been on in ages, and somewhere between me telling him the big bad Flip story and him telling me about his parents’ heartbreaking divorce and what it’s really like to have no privacy, I began to wish that he wasn’t gay. He walked me home and thanked me by joking, “Bloomingdale’s really does have fantastic customer service!” and kissing me sweetly on the top of my head.
The next morning I searched the Internet every which way possible but did not come up with a single red-carpet photo. All I found was a photo of us from behind on one site, Radar Online. It looked like nothing more than a cell-phone picture of us escaping out the back, holding hands like the good fake couple we were supposed to be. The headline read “Gay or Straight?” and underneath, “Who is Jeremy Madison’s mystery girl?” I wanted to claim my place in celebrity history, to yell out, “It’s me, Natalie Canaras, third-floor dresses, Flip Roberts’s old girlfriend!” But instead I got on the R train, little black dress in hand, and headed back to work. After all that talk about privacy, I would never betray Jeremy like that.