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THE BEAUTY OF BORROWING
The only time Lorraine had ever heard of personal shoppers was when she’d watched Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous with Chrissy. They’d watch it in the summer, hair semi-damp, forming crunchy S waves over their shoulders, after hours in the pool in Petey’s yard, their skin too tanned and flaking at the surface. They were high school freshmen then (or “freshwomen” as they often corrected), so freakin’ bold with the idea of everything lying out before them—the fresh denim binders they’d just bought, new shiny locker mirrors, folders in rainbow colors, loose-leaf paper lined with slim rows for notes. They thought it looked nicer with their bubbly penmanship, hearts topping i’s.
This one time, Robin Leach was telling the audience, as the camera zoomed in on an elegant department store with pink carpets, that Wonder Woman, Lynda Carter, had a personal shopper. She was too busy to buy her own gifts, to choose her own wardrobe, and besides, she wasn’t great at it. “After all,” she joked, “I’m no Wonder Woman.” Of course Robin Leach laughed. It was his job to laugh. But the girls had said what they thought he couldn’t: obnoxious. That was the word they’d used to describe the idea. Too good to choose your own clothes? The whole idea smacked of snobbery and supremacy. After that, when they’d see reruns of Wonder Woman on TV, they’d sing in unison, “Bitch!” and then they’d laugh as if it were the funniest idea in the world.
What would Chrissy and that girl say of Lorraine now? By the end of September, Tabby in the junior’s department had become Lorraine’s own personal shopper. They worked on barter. Tabby was one of those change addicts, and she would alter her hair color the way someone else might switch shoes. Lorraine had colored Tabby’s hair four times by then, free of charge, and now that Lorraine was actually an official senior stylist with a top clientele, Tabby was treating her with even more importance. She’d announce Lorraine loudly when she arrived so everyone would know the stylist written up in Page Six that morning depended on Bendel’s very own Tabby for her wardrobe decisions. The girl had a dollar sign tattooed on her arm. Literally.
“Lorraine Machuchi!” she boomed, throwing herself on Lorraine in a deluge of kisses and hugs. “Have I got a dress for you! You know I don’t really work in the formal department, but when I told the manager it was for you, she said, “Go right ahead!”
Lorraine didn’t know just how she felt about the heads turning her way, ostensibly wondering who she was, assessing whether or not they should emulate her long nails or laugh at them, love the way she wore her hair or imagine their own style a better choice. On the one hand, she’d never been much for the spotlight, but on the other hand, she now understood the importance of fame. The more visibility, the more people who knew about you, the more business you got.
It was a lesson that came easily. Ever since that fateful Princess day, Lorraine’s life had been barely recognizable, as a result of the publicity the event had afforded her.
“Just wait until the monthly magazine articles come out in a few months,” Don had said to her over lunch the previous day. “Allure’s ‘Most Wanted’ fetches the best results. You’ll be booked straight through the next millennium.” Don had been quiet, much more reserved toward her for the past week.
In fact, she was thrilled he’d gone to lunch with her at all. She missed him. Sure, there were other assistants and stylists she could lunch with, but Don was her friend. And she hated to think she’d damaged that. A few days away from him really cemented that fact for her. Still, she’d understood and wanted to give him space to work through whatever he had to.
Probably, she’d thought, he’d taken some slack from Guido about Lorraine’s audacious behavior, since he’d been the one to find her. But she guessed now that Matt was probably right to a certain extent—that after the reality settled in, Guido had likely reassessed his business plan to include Lorraine. One thing was clear—whatever had happened, Guido now had a calmer, if not rosier, outlook on the whole thing. And Lorraine guessed that had eased Don’s situation somewhat.
“You should ask for a raise,” Matt had advised her after she’d shared with him Don’s warming trend. She might have known Matt would have some idea like that tucked in his head—he was always looking toward the next step, looking for more. She could see how his family would find him indispensable to their business. Still, she wasn’t quite ready for another jump, and for the moment, she was happy just to be doing what she wanted, to have the Florida trip to look forward to, even a television spot lined up with Today in a few weeks’ time. There was a lot to be happy about.
Besides, she still had to get used to all this attention. The reality hit her once again as she and Tabby made their way to the dress department. They wove through rounders and wall racks, paillettes and lace, silk chiffon and organza, like the world’s most stylish labyrinth—all the way to a secret room, done up in marble and blond wood, a leather wing chair with nail heads alongside an ornate mirror, in front of which, on a golden hook, hung a garment bag.
“Ta-da!” Tabby uncovered the dress and exclaimed so loud the two syllables echoed, making Lorraine wince.
She didn’t judge Tabby’s over exuberance, her theatrical display. Though they had some different manners, Lorraine could understand wanting to be part of something, feeling blindsided by the desire, not knowing how to act. She’d been there before. “Tabby, it is gorgeous. Oh my God, is it gorgeous.” And it was. Silk. The most tiny bodice that could lend anyone a miniature China doll look. Strapless, and from the waist, the floor-length skirt feathered out in thousands of chiffon layers, or rather leaves, which would flutter weightlessly with each step. She gingerly touched a finger to one, afraid she might damage this beautiful dress that was surely meant for someone else—some Princess or Queen.
“Ah, go on,” Tabby urged.
The dress hugged Lorraine perfectly. Her new, light musculature gave her tall frame a delicate precision that offset the softness of the dress beautifully. But the gown’s most outstanding characteristic was the color. Never had Lorraine seen a color like this—a bold Caribbean Sea blue. It was everywhere, all you could see. It made her dark hair brilliant in the light, her dark eyes intense. It wasn’t the kind of thing the old Lorraine would have chosen, waiting in the background for Tommy to finish whatever, or whomever, he was doing at the moment. But now, here, for the new Lorraine, it was perfect.
They both stood staring at her in the mirror for a moment. Even Tabby was speechless.
“How much?” Lorraine asked as soon as the question popped in her head. It was the Band-Aid theory: get the pain over with as quickly as possible so you can move on.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Is it that bad?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to read your mind, Tabby?”
Tabby’s face was all puckered up, like she was about to give a deadly prognosis to her patient.
“Just rip off the Band-Aid, Tabby. Go ahead, tell me.” Lorraine’s eyes softened. Already, she was bracing for disappointment. She couldn’t have a dress like that. Sure, she’d never cared or even dreamed up any gown like that before. But now she was here, and knew the reality, the potential of things, and wanting could hurt her. It could hurt her to realize that in a Princess’s world, she wasn’t really a Princess. She was just Lorraine Machuchi, Guidette who happened to be a good colorist.
She barely even heard Tabby read from a piece of paper a number that could pay for the state of Massachusetts. Twice.
The illusion had been shattered. Who did Lorraine think she was, going to a ball, anyway? Wearing these clothes? Living on Park Avenue? Freakin’ Cinderella? Please. She started to unzip the dress, awkwardly positioning her elbows behind her waist, watching herself as the material around her loosened, fell to the ground, revealing the real Lorraine—a medley of stretch marks and scars that told the story of her life. She even noticed a small tear in her Cinderella bra.
Apparently, Tabby saw the desperation in her face, because her own screwed up sadly. She opened her mouth to say something and then stopped, cupped one hand over her mouth, and with the other smacked herself in the forehead. “Wait a fucking minute! Lorraine, I think I have a way to get you in this dress!”
“Paging Caroline Simmons! Paging Caroline Simmons!” Tabby’s voice boomed over the P.A. system before she hung up the receiver with a bang. “Caroline’s the formal department manager! She can let you borrow the dress if she wants to, if we explain to her how important it will be for Bendel’s that you look fabulous at the event. That you get photographed in the hottest dress of the season!”
Boy, Tabby was smart. That sounded like a great idea to Lorraine, who, grabbing at the dress like a couture life preserver, made a silent prayer to her grandmother to help her out this one time. “I know, Grandma. I swear, I am not wearing it for Tommy. It’s for me. She wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but she hoped there was a chance it might be. It was a wonderful thought, anyhow.
Caroline, however, didn’t see quite the same novelty in the idea that the girls did. To her it must have sounded a lot like something she was asked to do about nine million times a day because she was looking up from a pile of paperwork she was paging through, and said, “Girls, I get asked the very same thing about nine million times a day.”
“But this is Lorraine Machuchi! You know, Lorraine!”
Caroline yawned, closed her eyes for a stretch, and then said, unimpressed, “And what exactly does that mean to me?”
“She can do your hair for free!”
“You gotta do better than that. I haven’t paid for a haircut or a dye job since 1982.”
“She can do your nails.”
“Those Guido Nails are kind of cute, but still, a manicure isn’t getting anyone in that dress.” She flipped a page soundlessly.
Just when it seemed the most hopeless and the girls were exchanging glances of disappointment, Lorraine saw Tabby’s whole face light up, like a Christmas tree plugged in for the first time. She had something. She had something that was going to get Lorraine in that dress. You just knew she did. “She was personally invited by the Princesses. She’s sitting at their table.”
Caroline stood, turned, and started making her way to the door. Without so much as a lilt to her voice she said, “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place? Have it back the next day, with no stains, or it’s your bank account. I’ll call shoes and fine jewelry and tell them to expect you.”
If you’ve never had your foot in a two thousand dollar pair of shoes, you might as well skip this paragraph. Instead of reading, just go right out to the closest Barney’s or Jeffrey’s and do yourself a favor and try one on. Because if you don’t you’ll never really know. You just won’t believe what happens to you. There is a shoe and then there is A SHOE. Marona Mia! The latter is a work of art. It’s what makes women hide credit card statements from their husbands. It’s what makes women hide credit card statements from themselves.
Lorraine of “What, this shirt? I got it at H&M for $8.99” fame didn’t know. So, when she slipped her foot into the Jimmy Choo sandal, with the enormous white crystal topped thong, she was utterly unprepared for the flutter that shot through her.
Shit, she was hot. She knew it. She felt it. And she tried, desperately not to think what Tommy would say if he saw her like this.
The necklace Tabby chose for her was tiny, fragile—a woven choker of diamond-encrusted golden leafy vines.
That night, in front of the wall of mirrors in Romanelli’s dressing room, Lorraine sat with her legs flung over one side of a dainty wood chair with its spindly arms and legs in her beautiful, expensive dress and her beautiful, expensive shoes, and scary expensive necklace, and really looked at herself. And while she continued to force all the Tommy thoughts from her mind, Lorraine asked herself a frightening question. If he ever finally did leave, once and for all, what would she fill all that empty space with?
With all those uncomfortable thoughts swirling in her head, Lorraine took a nap in a very pricey ensemble in a very uncomfortable position.
When she woke, and saw herself thus, she panicked—saw in the mirror a girl she didn’t recognize. A girl who was changing. The shock rumbled through her system, and she leapt up, suddenly desperate to peel all the glamorous items from her body. She needed to get herself on the first train to Brooklyn for a dose of the familiar.
As soon as she’d made the decision, Lorraine felt more like herself. She recognized the thoughts swimming around her head with more conviction. She pulled on an old pair of jeans, the ones that used to be her favorites. And then, realizing they just didn’t look as good, she tossed them aside and jumped her way into the Citizen jeans. You’re allowed to change a little. Aren’t you?
Lorraine grabbed her purse from the side table near the couch, went to the door, and tried to make a run for it before Pooh-Pooh noticed. But no sooner had she locked the door than the barks began—loud, then even louder. It was a desperate cry, and it seemed to Lorraine to say, Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!
She knew that feeling. She hated to be left behind herself. She pressed the elevator button, but when the door opened and showed the porter’s smiling face, Lorraine couldn’t bring herself to ignore Pooh-Pooh’s cries.
“Never mind,” she whispered, fingering that Trump-worthy necklace she realized she’d left on.
As much as she might try to deny it, Lorraine had a life here in Manhattan now. She wasn’t just a Brooklyn girl. Not that there was anything wrong with that—but there was someone new emerging inside of her. Or, she thought as she walked back, perhaps not so much new as rediscovered. This particular Lorraine had always been there somewhere, just hadn’t had a chance to come out and learn about the Art Deco architecture at Rockefeller Center.
Lorraine clipped the leash onto Pooh-Pooh and said, in the spirit of her old summer joke, “Let’s get the hell outta Dodge.” But it wasn’t summer anymore. And Pooh-Pooh didn’t get the joke. But Lorraine and her furry friend had a hell of a run anyhow, and enjoyed the night in the way they’d come to do—together.
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Dear Lorraine,
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you
But I must know HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?
How could you leave me for that LOSER, Tommy?
I know you warned me, but when you kissed me like
that behind the bowling alley, I never would have guessed
in a million years that you actually meant it. And then
I saw you there at the prom, by yourself. And it nearly
broke my heart to see you like that—staring at him with
that college girl, who was nothing compared to you.
You have broken my heart, Lorraine, and all for nothing.
You know we could have been great together.
Love and hate 4-eva,
Ryan Levy
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eBay auction block #14
Description: Love letter from Lorraine’s high school peer, Ryan Levy. In her official biography, B Girl, Lorraine claims it was the experience with Ryan that made her so cautious about starting anything with Matt.
Opening bid: $120
Winning bid: $2500 by tommyl@aol.com
Comments: Yeah, sucka! That’s right! It happened once; it will happen again!!!!!!