The driver takes us to Fifth Avenue, to the luxury department store Bergdorf Goodman. And I’m bursting with giddiness—half champagne buzz, half genuine excitement—at being dropped off by a chauffeur at the front door of this iconic store.
Dazzling bright lights beckon to us from inside, shelves and racks filled with gorgeous fabrics, divine to the touch. Gucci. Dolce & Gabbana. Tom Ford. New arrivals placed center stage and showcasing Saint Sarah and Givenchy. Valentino Garavani shoes and Balenciaga handbags.
A woman in a Prada coat walks nearby, allowing a saleswoman to spritz her with perfume. My head is dizzy with fascination as I marvel at the hundreds of thousands of dollars in price tags around me, fashions that have been highlighted on the runway.
This is a dream—somewhere I’ve never imagined setting foot inside, let alone shopping. Fashions that I’ve clipped out from magazines are hanging right there on that rack. I’ve seen those designs on clothing blogs too. On impulse, my hands reach out to touch. On another rack, the very Givenchy silk scarf blouse that inspired several of my sketches is displayed in all its grandeur. I pause at the table, letting my hands run across the silk bow at the neck.
But Collette is cruising ahead, zigzagging through the crowd and maneuvering around display counters like she knows exactly where she’s going, knows exactly what she’s looking for, and I race to keep up. But then she stops. She’s confused. Lost. Her last visit to this store may have been months or years ago, and the counters and displays are turned around.
She looks up before taking off again, and I follow her to the elevators. At the fourth floor, a sign reads Couture Evening Collections. A sea of glittering gowns lies ahead and my head swivels, taking it all in, my feet stepping double-time to keep up with Collette. We pass blank-faced mannequins in Marchesa Notte dresses, sequin threads in bright red, and a new designer’s wares from a successful run at Fashion Week on center display. I just saw this dress online.
I want to start at one end of the store and touch every item, feeling the satin and beaded material between my fingers. I want to try something on. I want so much to have my sketchbook. Maybe I can return here—maybe with Collette—
A dress stops me in my tracks. An Oscar de la Renta gown.
A gorgeous black and white V-neck number, tea length with a tulle A-line skirt and mesh bodice and unlike anything I’ve ever seen: ballerina-inspired with the most intricate threadwork—and did I mention it’s an Oscar de la Renta? Not a print ad I’ve torn from a magazine or an Instagram post, but the real thing. The actual gown.
My hand reaches out to the dress, the black tulle swishing against my arms as I trace my fingers along the seamed waist. The price tag: $5,990.
“You can have it,” Collette says.
An electric jolt strikes through my chest.
She touches the gown. “It’s yours.”
I step away. “No, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” And she eyes me up and down. “What size are you? A six or eight?” Collette waves at a salesgirl, who rushes over. “A six, please,” she decides for me. When the salesgirl reemerges, the dress she carries is even more divine. She holds it against me.
“Stunning,” Collette says, the look on her face approving. “You have great taste.”
My heart skips a beat.
Collette’s eyes are sparkling, and there’s a sudden flush to her cheeks that resembles something akin to pride. She looks, all at once, more vibrant and alive than I’ve ever seen her. A woman who enjoys lavishing gifts on people. A woman who wants to buy a girl a dress.
And I get it now. She’s still trying to win me over.
But I’m also touched. She remembers what we talked about in my interview, my love for fashion. How I studied design in school.
I shouldn’t take it, it’s a bribe. But it’s working.
“Do you want it?” Collette asks. I still haven’t taken hold of the dress, too afraid to touch it as the salesgirl holds it aloft. “Shall we find a dressing room for you?”
Once I put this on, I’m a goner. No way will I want to put the dress back. One look in the mirror and I’ll want to keep it forever. You can’t decline something like this.
I think about Aunt Clara, and my memory flashes back to Homecoming, my senior year. We hadn’t gone dress shopping because we couldn’t afford it. I planned on borrowing my friend’s dress from the year before, but Aunt Clara surprised me, saying she’d saved up enough money to buy several yards of fabric she thought would work perfectly for a design I’d been sketching. Over the next two weeks, I made my own dress.
When Aunt Clara saw me leaving the night of Homecoming, she’d touched the jade-green fabric and told me I was the most beautiful girl at school. She had never looked happier. Prouder.
And now here’s Collette, with no need to buy me a dress at all, whipping out her credit card and charging six thousand dollars as if it’s nothing.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Stephen thrusts the apartment door open as soon we arrive on the twelfth floor. His face is red, his eyes wild, bright crimson streaks on his neck.
“What in the hell, Collette?” he seethes, yanking her by the arm.
She whimpers as his fingers press tight against her skin until white splotches appear. “I went out,” she tells him.
He hauls her to one side and channels his anger at me next. “I see you’re not sick,” he says, his words cutting and sarcastic. “But somehow you managed to meet up with Collette.”
I look to her for an explanation, the story we’ll give him. But when it’s clear there isn’t one coming, I say, “She came looking for me.”
Stephen whirls on Collette. “You can’t go out. Not without telling us first. Remember what happened last time?”
Collette shrinks away.
He swings his attention back to me and takes one look at what’s in my hands, the heavy garment bag I carried in from the car. “What’s that?”
“A gift,” Collette tells him. “I didn’t want her to leave us, not like the last nanny.” She gives Stephen a begging look. “We can’t go back to square one, not again.” She tugs his arm, then turns to me. “This one is so kind, so easy to talk to.” Her eyes grow teary. “I don’t want to lose her.” She cries for me. “Sarah, please say you’ll stay. Please promise.”
“Well, she has to stay,” Stephen informs her. “The contract required her to commit to at least three months.” He shoots me a look. “She won’t want to give up her rent money.”
I squirm in my shoes, even more wary of the man I once thought was so caring and kind.
Pauline rushes toward us, her arms extended as if she can’t reach Collette fast enough. She wraps the woman in an embrace before fawning all over her. “Oh, Collette, don’t do that to us again. You gave us such a fright.” She’s patting Collette now, touching and reviewing every inch of her body as if she might be hurt. As if she’d been to a war zone and not another neighborhood of New York.
She sets her eyes on me next. “What were you thinking? Keeping her out like that?”
“It wasn’t her,” Collette says. “I went on my own and Sarah took care of me.”
But Pauline flaps her arms about like a concerned mother hen, murmuring in Collette’s ear and whispering to her that everything is going to be fine. No wonder the woman feels like an invalid at home—they treat her like one.
Pauline whisks Collette away as if she were a wounded animal, talking about running a bath before returning her safely to her bed. They leave me stuck with Stephen.
“Follow me,” he says, and I do so, reluctantly, draping the garment bag over my shoulder.
We return to the family room, where the lush blue rugs blanket the floor and he tells me to sit. It takes him a few seconds to gather his thoughts. He’s looking not at me but down, the red of his face having faded and his cheeks returned to a normal color.
“How did she find you?” he asks.
I set the garment bag across my lap. “Somehow she figured out I was at the restaurant. I have no idea how she knew.”
“Did she try going to your apartment first?”
“I don’t think so. I was at work and she showed up wanting to order lunch.” I look at him quizzically. “How would she know where I work?”
“Pauline said you told her about Hearth. She must have mentioned it to Collette. She must have assumed you were there.” He pauses. “How did she get to you?”
“The driver.”
He makes a face. “Not our driver. He knows better than that.”
“Well someone drove her there because the same man drove us to some bar and then out shopping.”
A panicked look crosses his face. “Did she drink?”
I shake my head.
He releases his breath, but it’s not enough to calm him. “She must have called for one of those driver services. Henry would have never let her leave this place. He’s under strict orders.” He thinks some more before asking, “How was she?”
I hesitate. How much should I tell him—that she was fine until a mood swing came from out of nowhere and she freaked in front of the entire restaurant, managing to get both Jonathan and me fired? That I’m not sure who all was there, I don’t think anyone knew her, but I’m not positive none of the customers took her picture or recorded a video of her outburst?
I decide not to tell Stephen any of this. He’s got enough to consider and has spent the last three to four hours worrying himself sick. The less he knows, the better.
“She was okay. She ate, we talked. She wanted to shop.” I point to the dress. “I think she had an okay time.”
“Did she talk about Patty?”
“Of course.”
“Did she act like Patty was there?”
“No. She said Pauline stayed home with her while she was out with me.” I leave out the part where she’d shoved his dead sister’s hair into my hands. “She was fine, really.”
Stephen holds my stare. He wants to believe me, he desperately needs to believe me. The alternative—public outburst, pictures, neighbors talking, another breakdown—would be too much to bear.
He steals a glance at his watch. “My father will be coming home soon and he already knows what happened.” He frowns. “It could get ugly. You should probably go before he gets here.”
But it’s too late. From down the corridor comes the sound of a door opening, then slamming. Keys thrown onto a side table. Heavy footsteps I assume belong to a man march steadily down the hall, shoes pounding against marble until at the far end the sound comes to a stop.
Another door opens, then slams with a boom.
The cries of a woman—Collette. Shrieks from Pauline as she rallies to her employer’s defense.
A loud baritone voice. A deluge of words, anger and outrage and something about his wife disobeying him. Something falling to the floor.
That is how I first come to know Alex Bird.