Back to the bakery. I’m behind the counter, hair pulled back, starched white apron, positioned behind pyramids of sugary cookies like chocolate chip, chocolate fudge, vanilla nut, café au lait, anise, Italian macaroons, chocolate biscotti, lemon drops, raspberry dainties, and butter cookies.
I wear white gloves and it feels like I’m in a church, only the religion here is sugar worship, and for three solid hours I fold cardboards into snow white cubes and line them with white translucent paper, filling each box just so and then tying them tightly with white string.
Teddy is forever snooping to make sure I’m being neat and careful, and after do overs and do overs and him muttering something, I’m finally left on my own and I think about people who have this job and do this every day, five days a week and Jesus…
When he has nothing better to do, Clive comes into the bakery and hangs out even though Ro’s dad doesn’t like kids sitting there like all day and taking up a table if they’re just having a cappuccino and a few cookies. So I keep bringing him more cookies and more and his bill is like a hundred dollars for cookies that he doesn’t eat, but he doesn’t care. I sit with him on my break and drink so much espresso that I get bug-eyed. Finally when it’s seven I can leave and Clive comes with me and we parade past all the reporters outside my house, ignoring them and what they shout. My mom makes rigatoni and sausages and salad and I reach into my pocket and give her the pathetic twenty-one dollars I earned.
“Eh, good,” she says. “You learn the meaning of work.”
I make a face behind her back but don’t say anything because then she’d tell my dad and he’d make me work weekends too for being fresh. I go up to my room and Clive comes with me. My mom sits in the living room and makes sketches of fancy Cinderella dresses she’ll never wear and crochets lace doilies as if we need more.
The phone rings the next night. “Gia,” Clive sighs, “my parents are back, so would you please, please, please go to dinner with us?”
I hesitate for just a minute.
“They’re dying to meet you. I told them so much about you. We have a reservation at Le Bernardin, so please say yes.”
“Um, fine,” I say, staring into my closet.
What the hell do I wear to meet his parents, who are these major media moguls and world-class sophisticates, and what will they think of the little guidette?
“What time?”
“Seven. Thomas will get you.”
Thomas is now my partner in crime and he’s totally cool, especially after I gave him a joint once and he gave me one back, which we vowed never to tell anyone because it definitely could get him fired.
I look through everything I have and can’t decide and then just say screw it and go with the backless dress because where else am I going to wear it? I put on one gold cuff bracelet and cranberry heels and lipstick to match and I’m done. I wear a jacket over it though, so that when I leave the house it looks like lah-di-dah, Gia is just dressed in a nice, simple black outfit that’s totally appropriate.
Thomas is waiting and I get into the car and he takes me to West 51st Street. I bolt out of the car before he has a chance to open the door for me, never mind nearly falling on my fucking head again because there’s this massive pothole that Thomas obviously didn’t know about. But still he apologizes fifty times over and I stop and take a few large gulps of air and then try to relax.
Le Bernardin is unbelievably friggin’ cool and there’s this giant ocean painting, which is the first thing you see. It looks like if you reach up you’ll get soaked by ocean waves, it’s that real. The maitre d’ greets me and I tell him I’m meeting the Laurents and he acts like yes, yes, yes, how boring, because he already knows that. And after giving me the once over, he walks me back toward their table.
I had an image of Clive’s parents in my mind and it’s not at all like what I see.
His mom is pretty in a cool, elegant, chairwoman-of-the-board kind of way. She’s wearing a camel-colored cashmere dress with no jewelry at all except a ring with a diamond that could double as a paperweight. She has beautiful skin and blue eyes and sleek chin-length golden brown hair with amazing highlights. And she glances at my dress and seems to approve, but I haven’t taken the jacket off yet and when I do she’ll freak and think I’m a slut and snub me.
Clive’s dad looks like he goes with her because he’s wearing a simple tan and brown wool jacket that looks casual perfect and designer expensive with a tan shirt and a slim silk knit tie. His dad’s name, I know, is Claude and his mom’s is Alice, although they pronounce it Aleeze, Clive told me, because her mom is French.
Just to be on the safe side, I say, “it’s so nice to finally meet you Mr. and Mrs. Laurent and they immediately say please call them by their first names, which obviously makes more sense, so I do.
“Gia, we heard so much about you,” Alice says, “and Clive was right, you’re lovely. And you like clothes,” she says, touching the sleeve of my jacket. At that moment I feel comfortable enough to slip out of my jacket, and her eyes open wide. Just as I’m thinking oh crap, I just blew it, it’s over, she says, “Oh, Claude, that’s the dress I ordered in Paris but couldn’t get.”
After all the chitchat about the dress and all, we look at the menu, but duh, I don’t understand anything. I mean, geoduck? Tairagai? But Clive and his parents are familiar with every little morsel. Clive jumps in and saves me and says, “Gia, you’ll love the crab cakes,” so I order them.
At the end of the meal, Alice starts to talk about a new magazine that they’re doing a prototype for, even though I don’t really know what a prototype is. And she hints that they could use someone like me for an article they’re including on personal style and finally says, “Gia, would that interest you?”
“I…I’m not sure.” I’m almost stuttering because, whoa, I don’t really know. “What would I have to do?”
“Just take a quick trip over Christmas to Paris, London, and maybe Milan and Rome to see what you’d buy to lend a European feel to the piece.”
And I’m like, are you kidding me!? That’s work?
“Well, only if my parents are okay with it and if Clive could come to keep me company.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Alice says.
Clive nods, never mind the pained expression on his face.