smiled, my hand over the receiver, and shot her one of my nastiest glares.
“Satisfaction brought him back,” she whispered, and sunk back down behind the divider.
Idiot. What passes for wit around here would make Oscar Wilde turn over in his grave.
“Evie, I know you’ll lose the weight,” Mom continued. “And the lady at the store said they can do alterations as you lose. And even if you don’t—”
“Mom. Please!” I was trying hard to keep my voice down.
“Let me finish. The lady said they have styles that are flattering for every figure.”
“I know that already. God! I refuse to do this with you if you’re going to be mean about it. That means no ganging up on me with the saleslady, no insisting I try on something I don’t like, no embarrassing me whatsoever. Can you do that?”
“I can’t promise anything. All I know is that shopping with you for a wedding dress is like a dream come true for me. Who’d have thought? It’s actually happening for you. I wasn’t sure it would—” She was starting to sniffle, so I cut it short with a promise to meet her there at five.
Thankfully, Thelma had elected to remain in her own office across the floor instead of moving into Pruscilla’s, which meant my cubicle would be free from prying eyes for the next six weeks. So my first order of business on this Pruscilla-free Monday morn was to announce our engagement on seven different wedding Web sites, two of which offered free presents—one bar set and one wine-and-cheese backpack—to any couple who signed up for their online gift registries.
After lunch, I organized my dress folder, which was already overstuffed with pictures ripped out from magazines. I divided them into two piles: Dream Dresses and Just Okay. The Dream pile consisted mostly of Vera Wang ads (Vogue, September: “Gown Goddess: Why Society Brides Love Vera Wang”), along with a few runway shots of gaunt models draped in impossibly narrow but undeniably fabulous couture dresses. But I would definitely settle for anything from the Okay stack—delicate little spaghetti-strapped numbers with antique lace trains, strapless corsets encrusted with glittering Austrian crystals and fairy-princess gowns surrounded in yards of billowing white tulle. I’d been doing my research, and knew the importance of giving the saleslady an idea of my taste in order for her to help serve me best (Bridal Guide, October: “The Do’s and Don’ts of Dress Shopping”).
The afternoon flew by, and I snuck out early. On my way past the switchboard, I told the girls to transfer all of Andrea’s calls tomorrow to her boss’s extension. “She’ll be out all day at the Scents and Sensibility trade show, so send everything through to Teresa,” I told them. “She’s waiting for some important calls, so she didn’t want them getting routed to voice mail.” Andrea, whose cubicle is tucked away in a back corner, spends at least four hours a day on the phone gossiping with her friends. Once Teresa fields seventeen calls for her by noon, she should start to get the idea. It was a little mean, but so was making fun of a girl’s booger. And if it ever came out, well…who am I kidding? I’d be hailed as a hero—everyone hates Andrea.
By the time I met Mom outside Sternfeld’s, it had started to rain. We rushed inside and were met by a spindly old saleslady with a lazy eye and thinning hair. She introduced herself as Greta, and looked me up and down as best she could. “Let’s take our shoes off, ladies. We wouldn’t want to get the carpets dirty with all these white dresses everywhere!”
“Can she see anything?” I whispered to Mom as we chased Greta up a sweeping, pink-carpeted staircase with gold bannisters.
“She was the only one available tonight. I’m sure she’s fine.”
“I have a gift for helping brides find their dream dress,” Greta shouted back, as if she’d heard us. “It’s like what they call ESPN. I can tell just by looking at a girl which one she’s going to buy! Been working here near fifty years, you know!”
Mom grinned, pleased that we’d stumbled onto such a quaint character. At the top of the stairs, Greta directed us toward some ratty old slippers and a couple of overstuffed but thread-bare French-provincial-style chairs.
“Evelyn is very particular about fashion,” Mom offered loudly. “She’s brought some clippings from magazines so that you can see what she likes.”
“I may have a wonky eye, Mrs. Mays, but I can hear you just fine. No need to yell. And I think it’s best if we leave the pictures aside, for now. If fifty years has taught me anything, it’s that what we like isn’t necessarily what looks good on us. Now just you wait here while I see which room’s available,” she said and darted across the vast expanse of pink carpet and disappeared behind a maze of mirrored dressing rooms.
“Smooth, Mom,” I said as we sat down.
“Was I talking loudly?”
“You were yelling. I want to show her my pictures. I don’t trust her to choose something for me.”
“Be patient, Evelyn. Let’s give her a chance. I’m sure she knows her stuff,” she said, picking up an alarmingly old copy of something called Brooklyn Brides.
I slumped down in my chair and took it all in. All around the room, other pairs of mothers and daughters waited in chairs, whispering to each other and nodding. Some pored through the rows of plastic-wrapped gowns, under the watchful eyes of Gretas of their own. Everyone seemed perfectly coiffed, in their pastel twin sets and pearls. I looked over at Mom. Her damp black hair, dramatically streaked with gray for as long as I can remember, was plastered to her forehead, and she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. She was slouching, and her beige cotton blouse—with an I Heart NY embroidered on the front pocket—was missing a button. I could see the elastic waistband of her pants. Why the hell does she need an elastic waistband? She weighs about 103 pounds. She looked like she’d made her own clothes. But I have to admit, even I felt a bit out of place in my bright tangerine pantsuit (Cosmopolitan, November: “Orange: The New Neutral”). Not only that, but I was definitely the fattest bride-to-be in the whole joint.
Greta interrupted my reverie with a hurried wave. “Come on, let’s get you undressed,” she said as we walked across the floor into one of the large dressing rooms. “Did you bring a foundation garment or are we going to build something into the dress?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Do I really need something like that? I mean, I plan to lose some weight and—”
“Oh, no! You’re not one of them, are you? If I’ve seen it once I’ve seen it a thousand times,” Greta sighed. “We’ll get you a smart dress that fits you NOW. Most girls don’t lose half the weight they plan to, and end up with gowns that need to be taken out later, at quite an expense I might add.”
I glared at my mom, who was nodding treasonously in agreement.
“And I’m sure your fiancé thinks you’re quite beautiful as you are, or else we wouldn’t be here!” she continued. “So now, all I need to know from you is whether you prefer something traditional or a little more modern?”
“Traditional. She likes traditional,” Mom said.
“I do not,” I snapped. “Something modern, please.”
“So you have a seat Mrs. Mays, and Evelyn, you get undressed, and I’ll be right back with a girdle and a few dresses.”
I don’t know which was worse—the
