The Lies That Bind(62)

“Wait. Can I dress you?” she says. I know she’s using her stylist lingo, but I still picture a mother thrusting a turtleneck over the head of a squirming child. As in—Amy literally dressing me.

“Seriously?” I say.

“Yes. You have the cutest figure. You’d be so fun to style.”

Not for long, I think, but simply thank her for the compliment.

“So can I? Please? No charge, of course!”

I hesitate, trying to come up with an excuse to say no. Beyond the weirdness of having Grant’s wife dress me for my engagement party, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of having a professional stylist at all, especially for a party that is supposed to be low-key. At the same time, I don’t want to hurt her feelings by turning down such a sweet offer, so I waffle, saying, “Aren’t you too busy for that? Don’t you have celebrities to be styling?”

“Oh, please! Those C-listers can wait,” she says with a wave. “Besides, I’m never too busy for a friend.”

I smile, and say thank you, that’d be really nice.

Her face lights up as she does a cute little clap. “Wanna go now?” she says. “Do you have a little time? We could hit a few shops around here….”

“I guess I could shop for a bit,” I say. “But Madison Avenue isn’t really in my price range.”

    “Oh, I get that. But we could at least look? Get some ideas. Barneys is having a sale.”

“Macy’s is more my speed,” I say with a laugh. “Or Ann Taylor if I’m going to splurge.”

“Um, yeah. Ann Taylor’s great…but not for your engagement party. No way.” She shakes her head. “What if someone shows up wearing the same thing?”

“Horrors,” I say, smirking.

“It would be horrible!” she says with an endearing laugh. “Now, let’s get the check and go shopping!”

A few minutes later, after I’ve insisted on picking up the check since she comped my yoga class, we are strolling up Madison Avenue, still chatting.

At one point, she asks me who my favorite designers are. “You know,” she adds, “if money were no object?”

My mind goes blank. I know the names of designers, of course, from fashion magazines and watching the red carpet at the Oscars. But I certainly don’t own any clothes like that, and can’t really match names with particular looks, other than a few broad strokes—like I know that Calvin Klein’s clothing is often monochromatic and Ralph Lauren has an aspirational preppy feel and Versace loves bright patterns. But I couldn’t tell you the difference between, say, Oscar de la Renta, Prada, and Chanel. I tell Amy as much as she abruptly stops in front of Carolina Herrera and points in the window to a strapless silver dress with an asymmetrical knee-length skirt.

“What about that one?” she says. “I can see you in that.”

I start to protest, but she’s already pulling open the heavy door and sailing past the imposing security guard with complete regal confidence. I follow her into the placid oasis filled with subtle floral scents and soft classical music. Looking around, I see startlingly few garments on display, with several inches between hangers. Definitely not the Macy’s approach.

As a beautiful thirtysomething saleslady approaches us, I have impostor syndrome, the shopping scene from Pretty Woman popping into my head.

    “May I help you?” the lady says in a prim voice.

“Thank you, but we’re just looking right now,” Amy says.

As she walks down the aisle, she touches fabric with her fingertips, a look of deep concentration on her face. She doesn’t check the prices, so perfectly at ease in this world of fashion house luxury. I follow her, indiscriminately reaching out to also touch a dress here and there, but not really able to concentrate.

At some point, just as I’m checking a price tag on a sweater, aghast to see that it’s twelve hundred dollars, Amy turns to me and says, “Her fall collection is a nod to the early eighties. See all the feathers? Like a Madonna video. I went to her runway show. It was incredible.”

The saleslady, who has been hovering nearby while pretending to tidy an already immaculate display of scarves, looks up at us and says, “I thought you looked familiar! I think we met at Fashion Week—last spring. Weren’t you backstage at Bryant Park?”

“I was, yes!” Amy says, tilting her head to the side. “I thought you looked familiar as well. Tell me your name again?”

“Phoebe Tyler. And yours?”

“Amy Silver Smith,” she says, running the last two words together so it sounds like Silversmith.

“Yes, that’s right. And you work with Sydney Gaither, correct?”

“I do,” Amy says, then turns to me. “And this is my newest client, Cecily Gardner. Cecily was just recently engaged,” Amy says. “We’re looking for something for her engagement party.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Phoebe says, then turns to me. “Best wishes to you.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling self-conscious—and like a complete poser in my Nine West boots and Banana Republic sweater, both circa 1995.

“Have you seen anything you might like to try?” she says.

    I start to tell her no, we’re just browsing, but before I can, she shifts her gaze to Amy for our official answer, as I guess that’s how this stylist thing works.