CHA PTE R 8
N MONDAY MORNING NAOMI SENDS a screaming all-caps textO that she’ll be late for our shopping trip because Sully forgot he had a meeting and can’t open the store. I suspect she’s more disappointed than I am, because shopping’s her thing, but I can feel in my chest how much I wanted her here.
I am about to step out of my super-grounded reality into a fantasy I’m ill equipped to navigate. Naomi is the steady hand that will help me cross. I don’t know how I’m going to keep my head on straight without her reassuring me that this is all doable. That I’m still doing a great job not eating my hair.
I’m standing outside Wendell’s like I’m waiting for a formal invitation to enter. I’m in my regular jeans (clean) and a slightly nicer shirt than usual. It’s white and has four pretty buttons down the front. It’s something I never put in the dryer. Stewart pulls up in an old forest-green Range Rover and stops long enough for Busy to pop out of the passenger seat. She does not exit or emerge—Busy is a person who pops. She approaches me in a maxi dress, all swirls of orange and pink under her long platinum-blond hair. I think of the ranunculus in the flower shop window and wish I had them to give her.
“Dolly, hi!” she says. She takes both of my hands. “Thank you for letting me do this. And for doing this for poor
Stewart. Let’s get inside and find you every single beautiful thing!” She’s like a walking glass of champagne.
“That’s a different car,” I say, as Stewart drives away. I am overwhelmed by the prospect of a new wardrobe and my mind has just short-circuited on the idea that Stewart might have a different Range Rover for every day of the week. “He was in a black one before. New.”
Busy laughs a bubbly laugh. “He calls the black one The Abomination. Audrey bought it for him.”
“She bought him a Range Rover,” I say. Just to be clear.
“Because she hates his car. That green one. It’s from 1994 or something, and he can talk to you about how it’s a superior model to the ones they make now until you want to jam a fork right into your eye. Audrey wanted him to get with the times. And that is so not Stewart.” She raises a hand as if she’s solemnly swearing. “A bad match. Obviously. So are you ready?”
“Yes, I’m excited,” I say. Without Naomi here to back me up, this lie falls flat.
Busy smiles at me with the full brightness of the sun. “I know this is weird, but I swear it’ll be fun.”
We walk into Wendell’s and it’s bigger than I imagined from the street. Small compared to Old Navy, but still bigger than I thought. The clothing is displayed on small racks around the store, with blue velvet sofas scattered so that you could sit for a while and admire a dress before you tried it on.
A woman named Octavia with a black pixie cut comes out to greet Busy. They kiss hello and she shakes my hand.
“So, Dolly has some big events coming up, and she’s looking for a summer wardrobe refresh,” Busy says. A bit of an understatement.
“Would you ladies like…” Octavia starts.
“Yes, all of it, please,” Busy says. Octavia raises her hand and makes a circular motion that I read asbring it all, and soon we are seated on a blue velvet sofa with glasses of champagne, warm cheese puffs, and shrimp.
“This is delicious,” I say to Octavia. “Where do you get your shrimp?”
“I would have no way of knowing,” Octavia says. “Where should we start?”
I open my mouth to speak and close it again. I’m looking around the room at the clothes—long chiffon dresses in ice cream colors, tailored pants in bright yellow and green, short-sleeved cashmere sweaters so fine you can see the silk of the camisoles under them. I cannot imagine wearing this stuff or standing in a room full of people dressed like this.
“Give us a minute, if you don’t mind,” Busy tells Octavia, then she turns to me. “Can we talk about the vibe you’re going for?”
I scrunch up my face. “Probably no vibe? I think that’s my vibe.”
“I mean, what do you think about when you’re picking out clothes? Like when you show up and love what you’re wearing, what’s that like for you?” she asks.
This is something I’ve never thought of in my life. I like clothes that can be washed in warm water and don’t have to be ironed. Anything that can be bleached in case of a mishap is a plus. I feel good when my jeans are freshly washed and dried so they don’t hang too low. I don’t like having to hike them up when I sit for circle time. I like a cocktail sauce–free T-shirt and a nightgown that’s short enough that it doesn’t get tangled around my legs. I have the feeling this isn’t what she means, but she is sparkling at me so brightly right now that I want to give a good answer.
I say, “I think I feel best when my clothes fit. And are clean. The vibe I’m putting out is that I’m on top of things?”
Octavia shoots Busy a look.
“That’s interesting,” Busy says. “There’s an enneagram for that. I like a pulled-together look. But I think this summer, for these events, we want a bit more than that, just a little bit. Low-key whimsical. Just a whiff of spectacular. Is that okay?”
I don’t think I’m capable of pulling off even a half whiff of spectacular, but I want to do this right. I want to win at being made over and do a great job making Stewart look good.
“Okay,” I say.
Octavia says, “We’re going for a competent fashionista.”
“Send us your most capable clothes!” Busy says, and tops off my champagne.
Octavia smiles for the first time and I realize they’re teasing me. “What do we need?” she asks.
“I have a list,” Busy says.
“He gave you a list?” I ask.
“Damion did. His assistant.”
“Of course,” I say.
Busy reads from her phone. “One black-tie dress for the Providence event on Wednesday. Four dinner dresses—one for Boston, so more structured, and three for here.
Something for the Starlight Gala. Shoes. Accessories for all.
Sun hat. An assortment of things for yacht club lunches.”
“What about casual?” I ask. “Do I need something to wear on a boat or are my shorts and T-shirts okay?”
Busy shakes her head. “Stewart doesn’t take his boat out. Boating might actually be fun, and he can’t have that.”
She says it with a smile, like it’s just a little quirk of his, but it strikes me as kind of sad.
“All right,” Octavia says with a clap of her hands. “Can I get a quick look at you, dear?” I stand and she measures me with her eyes. “Got it.”
The two of us, along with our feast, move into the dressing area to wait. Everything is white in there, down to the leather sofas, and I decide to forgo cocktail sauce for the rest of the day. Octavia returns with the “casual” options first. Pants in heavy cotton and linen, crisp blouses in floral patterns, and those delicate sweaters. I turn the pants inside out and admire the stitching the way Maud used to do. These pants were not sewn in a factory. I try on the first pair, canary yellow, with a sharp seam up the front. Yellow pants.
The blouse picks up the tiniest bits of the yellow and maybe even a bit of my blue eyes. I can see how it’s all pretty in some way, but I feel like a peacock. This is more than a whiff.
I take tiny steps to the sitting area.
“These are very nice pants,” I say, making big eyes at Busy. “But yellow? Do people wear yellow pants?”
“Gerard,” Octavia calls into the hallway.
“Trust me, this blends. People at the club are going to stare at you if you’renot wearing yellow pants,” says Busy.
“Think of these yellow pants as camouflage. Change into beige and they’ll stare.”
It makes sense in an upside-down kind of way. My main job here is to fit in. “Okay,” I say, though I’m not sure I mean it.
Gerard comes in and sits at my feet. Apparently, my pants don’t fit. He takes them up an inch and then in at the crotch.
He hikes them at the waist and pinches a bit. Covered in pins and not knowing how I am ever going to take them off without injuring myself, I realize I have been wearing pants
that don’t fit for thirty-nine years.
“They’re perfect,” Busy says.
Next are the dinner dresses. There’s a black one for Boston that scoops low at the neck and makes me think of Audrey Hepburn. The other three are in flowy cotton (it might be linen, I don’t totally know the difference) in light pastel patterns. Each of them is a work of art.
When Octavia brings three long dresses in featherweight fabrics, I know they’re for the Starlight Gala. I’ve worked the event more than a dozen times, and the women were always in long, flowy dresses that felt like a fever dream of color and wind. My choices are orange strapless, powder- blue sleeveless, and a white halter dress.
Busy wants me to try the white one first, and I do. It feels more like a princess costume than a dress. The top is fitted and flattering, but the skirt is miles of gauzy fabric cascading to the ground like I’m the Good Witch of the North. I suspect I could do the splits in this dress, if I could do the splits. I am not light and airy enough to pull it off.
I walk out into the sitting room and Busy shouts, “Perfect!”
I’m about to push back, but they’ve just brought in multiple options for Providence, and I have to sit down. I really wish Naomi was here. I pop a cheese puff into my mouth and carefully wipe my hands. “Busy, you pick.”
“I want to see you in the green,” she says.
I haven’t worn a strapless dress since my prom, and let me tell you the technology has improved significantly. Once I’m zipped into this long celery-green column of satin with a sweetheart neckline, there is absolutely no fidgeting or boob shoving to be done. I am locked and loaded. Octavia arranges the bottom of the dress and smiles at me in the dressing room mirror. “This is the one, dear. I refuse to sell you a different dress.”
It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen, I’ll admit that. But it’s way too much. It screams for attention.Look at me and my shoulders and my boobs—behold and judge!
Octavia walks out ahead of me. “Green it is,” she
announces.
Busy gasps. “I love it.”
I say, “It’s kind of a lot.”
She steps closer to me. “The other dresses are sequins, I think this is your best bet. Also, you’re absolutely gorgeous in it.”
I look at myself in the mirror behind her. I squint and I see Stewart Whitfield’s girlfriend. That’s the shape and form I’ve agreed to take on. “I don’t feel like myself,” I say.
Busy reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Of course you’re yourself. But it’s kind of fun to try to feel like someone else for a bit, right? You’re you, but sprinkled in pixie dust.”
I have never been sprinkled in anything but regular dust.
“Is there jewelry?” Octavia asks. “We can bring in a few things.”
“Damion had a few things sent over from Kingsmouth.”
Busy reaches into her tote bag and pulls out three velvet boxes. The first is a thick braided gold chain with diamonds inset throughout. I don’t know what my face does as I look at it, but Busy says, “There are more, don’t worry.”
The next is a thinner platinum chain that cannot be expected to support the dime-sized diamond that hangs off it.
The third is a thin gold chain with a flower pendant, a dahlia, fashioned out of yellow and rose gold. The flower is the size of a nickel, elegant enough that you’d wear it with a dress like this, but subtle enough that you might just put it on and never take it off. I want to be as casual as a Whitfield with this precious necklace. I want to wear it with my fish house T-shirt. I want to put it on and never take it off.
“Do you have a preference, Busy? Does it matter to you which one I wear?”
“Of course not, pick what you like. And honestly, in that dress, no one’s going to notice your necklace.”
I pick up the dahlia and let Octavia put it on me. One day in, and I’ve already forgotten how to do things for myself. “I won’t take it off,” I say, lowering my voice. “Like until this is over, I’m just going to wear it all the time so I don’t lose it.
Okay?”
I look up and see Naomi standing in the dressing room doorway, stunned. I greet her by demurely raising my glass of champagne, and we both start to laugh. “I honestly don’t know what’s happening here,” I say. “But I’m wearing this dress to Providence on Wednesday, and I have so much stuff in that dressing room you’re going to freak. Busy, this is my friend Naomi.”
Busy takes Naomi’s hand in both of hers like she’s precious, which she is. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Busy says.
“I think we have everything we need, but I wonder if you have thoughts on her hair?” The diplomacy is impressive.
Naomi laughs. “Do I? It’s almost all I think about.”
They turn to me, and Busy moves my hair behind my shoulders. “I would literally die to see your hair cut. Your jawline is so Olivia Wilde, you know?” I do not know. “Can we?”
Naomi smiles her most radiant smile. “We must,” she says.
LEE, BUSY’S FAVORITE hairstylist at the Willa Bernard Salon, does not crack a smile as she stands behind my chair and surveys
me in the mirror. “You shouldn’t even be allowed to have
hair,” she says.
“Lee!” Busy swats her arm.
“I totally agree,” says Naomi.
“It’s all too much,” Lee says. She starts to brush out the ends of my hair, working from the bottom until it’s all smooth. I relax into the chair and try to enjoy the strangeness of it. I don’t even remember my mother doing this for me. I did it for Patsy, brushing and braiding and curling and straightening, and I washed Christopher’s hair forever. “What I really want to do is give you a bob. A straight line right across your jaw.” She folds my hair up to demonstrate, and I see what she means. It’s like she opened a curtain and now you can see my eyes.
“I need to be able to put it in a ponytail,” I say.
“Because you’re competing on the U.S. volleyball team?”
Naomi asks. “You don’t need a ponytail.”
Lee says, “You actually have the right kind of hair for it. A little product and you can tuck it behind your ears when you need to.”
I do not want a dramatically new haircut. My hair has been the same, cut twice a year and often by me, for decades. Every other change is already drastic. That celery- green dress is a drastic step out of my comfort zone. But maybe a drastic haircut will help shift me into this new role.
Maybe the strange woman with the chic haircut will be perfect in yellow pants.
I look at Lee in the mirror. “Let’s do it,” I say. Busy squeals with delight.
I turn my head to accept Naomi’s hug and kiss, and Lee drags my chin back to the mirror. Giant chunks of hair fall to the floor. My heart rate ticks up a bit because I cannot turn back. There is so much of me exposed—my face, my neck. I
push my shoulders back because now I can see them. It’s as if someone has come into my bedroom and ripped off my covers.
My second phone rings. “Shoot, sorry, I have to get this quick. Work.” I grab it on the second ring. “Good Sports.
You’re on a recorded line. How can I help you?” Busy steps back and folds her arms to watch me. “I’m sorry to hear that. If you want to initiate a return, please go to our website and select returns. Yes, return the weights too. In the original packaging.” This goes on for a while because he doesn’t have the original packaging. They never do.
“So what’s your job?” Busy asks when I’ve been assured there is nothing more I can do to be of assistance.
“I’m a teacher, but I also answer calls for a sporting goods company.”
“How did you know that’s what you wanted to do?”
I laugh, but I shouldn’t. I understand why she’s asking, the world is full of people trying to identify their passion.
When I was a kid, my passion was baking. I was going to grow up and sell cakes and cookies and every pie my grandmother thought up. I was going to be a baking tycoon.
Brick Fish House and Bake Shop. The events of my actual life have left me with more of a passion for providing protein and health insurance for my kid.
“Well,” I say. “I studied to be a teacher because I like kids, and I think what happens to you when you’re little matters. That worked out great because I had a baby at twenty-six and I could be around in the summers for him. The call center is just extra money because everything is more expensive than I thought. I also drive an Uber sometimes.”
“And the fish house,” she adds.
“With my dad, yes.”
“You’ve figured out four things to do, I can’t figure out anything. I keep thinking I should go to med school and then I don’t go, and then I feel lazy about it all.”
“I hear med school is kind of a commitment,” I say with a laugh into the mirror. My wet hair is cut at an exact angle.
It’s even blacker when it’s wet like this, and my eyes look bluer than usual. I look like a flapper, I think, and I like the playfulness of it. I look like I could get into some trouble while looping a long strand of pearls around my fist. Stewart Whitfield’s girlfriend would totally do that.
“If you want to know,” Naomi says. “I opened a T-shirt shop because I live in Whitfield and there aren’t that many choices.”
“That might be your problem,” I say to Busy. “You have
too many choices.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s like when you go to a TGI Fridays.” I narrow my eyes and read her expression. She’s never been to a TGI Fridays. “Like a restaurant with too many things on the menu. You walk in hungry but end up overwhelmed. The only thing to do in that situation is just make a decision and live with it.”
“Like just go to med school, and that’s that.”
“Do you want to be a doctor?”
“Not at all,” she says, no hesitation.
We all laugh, and Lee starts blowing my hair dry.
“Can I make you up?” Lee asks when my bob is dried to shiny perfection. I can’t quite manage the smile on my face, it embarrasses me how changed I feel by this haircut.
“Sure,” I say. I’ve come this far.
I watch as she darkens my lashes and my eyes go a shade bluer.
“Stewart’s going to go nuts,” Busy says.
“I’M NOT GOING to recover from today,” Naomi says on the drive home. “You look like a princess, and I can keep cutting your hair like that when this is over. I watched how she did it.”
I run my fingers along the straight line of my bob. I really do like it. I feel lighter. “It was very fun. And Busy is a dream.”
“I wish this was all real so I could come to your wedding.”
I laugh. “In their chapel. I’d wear this necklace, because I am in love with it.” I finger the dahlia around my neck.
“You should be,” she says.
“We’re sharing the stuff I get to keep. You can borrow it all. The lavender dress would be gorgeous on you.”
“It’d be worth driving to your place in Boston to pick it up,” she says. I smile at the thought of Naomi and me wearing these clothes for the next twenty years until they’re threadbare.
My phone dings with a text from Stewart: Go okay?
“It’s my fake boyfriend,” I say. Me: Yes, thank you Stewart: Good “Super romantic,” I say to Naomi. “The bland boyfriend
check-in.”
“Kind of nice, actually. Checking in.”
“He probably set a reminder on his phone,” I say.
“Is he really that stiff? Such a waste of lips.”
“He’s not. He’s focused. Definitely goal-oriented. I have the feeling he’s good at sex but not intimacy,” I say.
Naomi laughs. “Sounds like you’ve met your match.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shoots me a look.
“Fine,” I say. “But I don’t even remember if I was good at sex.”
