The Lies That Bind(63)

“Yes. I think so,” Amy says. “She loves the strapless pewter dress in the window.”

“Wonderful choice,” Phoebe murmurs. She shifts her gaze to me and says, “Let’s see…You’re tiny. I’ll see if we have your size.”

I never can tell if this is a compliment or a slight criticism or just a factual statement, so I simply smile and shrug. Once she’s gone, I laugh and say to Amy, “Your client can’t afford this dress. Remember?”

“We’re just trying,” she says. “For fun. And, you never know, I may be able to get you a really good deal.”

I refrain from saying that unless it’s a ninety-percent-off kind of deal, it’s not going to work for me.

A few moments later, I’m in an oversize dressing room, taking my clothes off while Amy waits outside. I pause, gazing at myself in the mirror—first at my mismatched bra and underwear, then in between, at my stomach, as it hits me all over again that I’m pregnant—that there are two of us in this chic little chamber. I don’t officially show yet—not in a way that anyone else would be able to tell—but my stomach is slightly swollen the way it would be after a big meal, and I worry that this silk dress is going to reveal as much. I remove the loops of fabric from the hanger, unzip the back, and slip it over my head.

“Do you need any help?” I hear Amy say.

“Umm. Yeah. Maybe with the zipper,” I say, opening the door before I even look at myself. Immediately, I see Amy’s face, all lit up with approval.

“That’s absolutely fabulous on you. Take a look.” She motions for me to turn around. Now facing the mirror, I watch as she zips up the dress—which fits rather perfectly. “Wow. Just fabulous.”

“It really is,” I say, now up on my toes, turning a little to the left, then the right, admiring the sheen of the heavy silk and the interesting bias cut. I can’t help smiling at myself in a way I can’t remember ever doing in a dressing room.

    “Try it with the pumps,” she says, pointing to a pair of black Manolo Blahniks in the corner of the room, obviously kept here for this purpose—incidentally, an amenity not available at Macy’s or Ann Taylor.

I follow my stylist’s instructions, slipping into the shoes, which are about two sizes too big and remind me of playing dress up in my mother’s closet. But I still get the effect—and see that the dress, as well as my legs, looks even better with heels.

“Wow,” Amy says again. “I love it. Do you love it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I actually do.”

We both stare at my reflection for a few more seconds before Amy says, “So anyway. This is the kind of thing I picture you in for the party. This shape and silhouette and feel. Soft and ethereal.”

I nod and say, “It’s a really pretty dress….”

“You’re pretty,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say. “And you’re really good at this. I would never have picked that dress to try.”

“Aw, thanks. That’s nice,” she says. “I really do love my job.”

“Have you always loved clothes?” I say, sitting down on the built-in bench for a second as she does the same beside me. “I mean fashion?”

“Yes. Always,” she says. “Before this year, September was always my favorite month. Because of the September issues of fashion mags.”

“Even as a kid?” I say, then tell her that the back-to-school Seventeen issue used to throw me into a mild depression.

She laughs. “Well, I loved it. That satisfying heft of a five-pound magazine in your mailbox signaling the end of the vapid summertime and the rebirth of culture.”

“Did you ever think about being a fashion designer?” I ask.

    “Yes,” she says. “I still might go back to school for that. But right now, I’m really enjoying what I’m doing, and I’ve discovered what I sort of always knew. That it’s not about the clothes, but about making women feel their most beautiful. That’s what I love about this dress on you. We see you, not the dress, if that makes sense?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And that’s really nice of you. But what I love about this dress is most definitely this dress.” I laugh as I stand up and try to reach around for the zipper.

“Let me get that for you,” she says, coming closer to unzip the dress before slipping back outside the dressing room.

I quickly change back into my clothes, and a moment later, we are saying goodbye to Phoebe, telling her how much we both love the dress, and that we will definitely keep it in mind. She hands us each her business card.

As we step out onto the sidewalk, Amy turns, looks at me, and says, “So how excited are you?”

I look at her, startled by the question, wondering if she could somehow tell that I’m pregnant. “About what?” I blurt out.

“The party. Your engagement. All of this.”

“Um…I don’t know,” I say, babbling. “Very excited, I guess….It’s just a lot…all at once.” My voice trails off as I’m bombarded with so many intense feelings—about the wedding and the baby and the party where everyone and everything is about to converge, if not overtly, then at least in my own heart. It’s just so much.