of a paper bag any more than she can. And I figure, hey, if Nikky Katz can make it, then there’s hope for me.
Granted, I’ve known how to sew since I was five. I can make up anything from a pattern, and I’m a magician at alterations, if I say so myself. I can rework and adapt with the best of ’em. But let me tell you, I’ve got more filled sketchbooks than you can possibly imagine crammed in my closet at home, without a single creative, original, hot idea among them. In fact, my design teachers at FIT kindly suggested I switch to merchandising, because I was wasting their time and my money otherwise.
So, yep, forget the designing. Somebody else can design…and I’ll do the marketing. Because that, I am good at. Yeah, I know, most people would consider drawing the pretty pictures and playing with the fabrics the “fun stuff.” But see, it’s the whole philosophy of fashion that fascinates me so much: whatever it is that drives people—women, primarily—to wear what they wear. How we costume ourselves, choosing each article of clothing, each accessory, to telegraph to the world who we are. Or who we think we are. Or, in many cases, who we’d like to be. Even the most casually donned attire says something, if nothing other than that the wearer doesn’t give a damn.
For me, the rush doesn’t come from designing a garment, but from figuring out why it appeals. I mean, that scene back at the store? Honey, watching all those women get worked up got me worked up. Like fashion porn. And I got a real early start—not to mention all the cute shoes I wanted—hanging out at my family’s shoe store in Queens when I was a kid. I learned early on that the relationship between a woman and what she chooses to put on her body is a sacred thing. And I knew I had to be part of it, even if I was woefully untalented.
So. Working for Nikky Katz is my dream job, for the moment. And until she figures out what to do with me, I get to do a little bit of everything. I can deal with a little yelling, a little craziness, now and then if it helps me reach my goal….
The phone rings on Angelique’s desk. She answers it, says, “It’s for you.”
One day maybe I’ll have my own desk with my own extension.
One day maybe I’ll be able to get a phone call without my heart clogging my throat.
But it’s nothing scary, only Tina, my best friend since she, her mother and two older sisters moved across the street from us when I was five. Tina’s married to my other best friend, Luke Scardinare. His family—he’s one of six brothers—and mine have lived next door to each other my whole life. Luke used to make my life miserable on a regular basis and I’d kill with my bare hands anybody who even thinks about bad-mouthing him. Which is the same way I feel about Tina, even though she didn’t make my life miserable on a regular basis.
I realize she’s asking if we can meet up at Pinky’s, a bar a couple blocks from where I live. “I need to talk,” she says, her voice giving nothing away, which is unusual for Tina because usually her voice gives everything away. Twelve years ago she says to me, “Does this lipstick make me look slutty?” and I instantly knew she and Luke had done it for the first time.
“Sure, okay. What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. Seven okay?”
“Eight, eight-fifteen would be better.” Her Queens accent calls to mine, buried deep beneath the Manhattan persona I apply like makeup every morning. “I gotta read to Starr at seven.”
“Couldn’t you skip it, just this once?”
Tina and Luke don’t have kids, even though they’ve been married for five years already. They don’t talk about it, and I don’t pry, but I know Luke’s mother, Frances, wonders. Tina’s mother is blessedly no longer close enough to inflict direct damage. Although my guess is Tina and her sisters will be mopping up the fallout from their childhood for some time. On the outside, Tina’s your typical smartmouthed Outerborough Broad; on the inside, thanks to Dear Old Mom, she’s a tangled mass of insecurities.
“No, I can’t skip it, I promised her this morning.”
There’s a tiny pause, like when a reporter halfway around the world doesn’t answer the New York anchor’s question right away. “Okay, fine,” she says on a sigh, and hangs up. I’m tempted to feel guilty, until I realize if it was that important I would have heard it in her voice. Or she would have been sobbing and incoherent, like she was that time Luke and she broke up their senior year. Of course, they were back together before the weekend was out, although not before Tina had gone through three boxes of tissues and two pans of brownies. Not a fun weekend. Well, except for the brownies, which she shared.
Before I have a chance to cancel my guilt trip, I get another call. Angelique hands it over. Judging from her expression, I’m guessing she’s finding this an interesting way to break the afternoon’s tedium.
It’s Luke this time. “You gonna be home tonight? I need to talk.”
Gee—you don’t suppose these two calls are related, do you? And why, out of the approximately eight million relatives these two have between them, do they pick me to help them sort through whatever it is this time?
Because they always have, that’s why. Because they know they can trust me.
I’m quiet for too long, I guess, because Luke says, “Shit— Tina already called you, huh?”
And the cornerstone of my trustworthiness? An ironclad policy of not lying. Unless I absolutely have to. “Uh…yeah. She did.”
That gets another “Shit” and a very heavy sigh. Then: “She say anything?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I say, thinking even admitting her wanting to talk is probably a confidence violation. However, telling him we’re meeting up at Pinky’s definitely is. I can’t help it, I’ve always been protective of Tina. Probably more than is good for her, I know, but I can’t help it. Although my wanting to shield her from life’s doo-doo is nothing compared to how Luke treats her. The term “spun glass” comes to mind.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Gotta go, I’ll talk to you later.”
And he hangs up.
Luke and Tina. My very own reality show. With extra cheese.
“He sounds sexy,” Angelique says after I hand back the phone.
Sexy? Luke? Yeah, I suppose. In that heavy-lidded Italian thug kind of way. Not that Luke’s a thug, but put him in tight jeans and a T-shirt, dangle a cigarette from his lips, put lifts in his shoes, and you got it.
“Married friend.”
“How married?”
“Very. Five years. To the woman who called earlier, in fact. They’re nuts about each other, have been since ninth grade.”
“Huh.” Some keys click. “Bet that voice sounds even better in the dark.”
She may have a point. However, as I’ve been listening to Luke since we were communicating in monosyllables and grabbing our Gerber teething biscuits out of each other’s hands, I can’t say as his voice has made much of an impression on me. Okay, maybe once or twice, in a weak,
