Food Whore (12 page)

“Oh! Um, well, I don't know.” I suddenly wished Emerald could help me with this. “I need to look older and more professional.”

“Okay, do not worry. I will get you something so beautiful. I gather clothes for you, and I call you into room when I am ready.”

I sat on a taupe suede couch and watched her walk away, two long zippers trailing down the backs of her boots like silver invitations. She was born to be a lingerie personal shopper.

I got to my feet and made a little tour of the floor, focusing on each designer name and committing the different looks to memory. Each boutique was its own little stage, mini lifestyles living side by side, ripe for the choosing. If I was going to play the part of the elegant diner, this was a world I needed to know.

I watched older women inspecting the seams of each garment and younger women holding slinky dresses against their bodies. Husbands sitting on the couches, playing games on their cell phones. Gorgeous six-­foot models listening to the advice of their gay best friends. Two women wore their sunglasses even though we were very much inside and argued where they would spend Thanksgiving, the one's house in Southampton, or the other's house in Bridgehampton.

And then, at the far end of the store, someone caught my eye, a woman sitting in a leather armchair in the Michael Kors boutique. She was hugging her arms around herself and rocking slowly, strangely. It looked like she needed help.

When I stepped closer, the woman's eyes darted around like those of a caged animal. She sank back inside the chair, a tiny plant among a forest of faceless mannequins.

“Excuse me, ma'am?” I said to the woman, crouching down to eye level. The Michael Kors boutique smelled different from the rest of the store, of white flowers like jasmine and gardenia. “Is everything all right? Are you here with someone?” I looked for her companion. I couldn't imagine that she'd have come here on her own; she seemed afraid to move.

The woman said nothing. She actually wasn't an old woman at all, maybe in her forties or early fifties. She had a beautiful face and a dignified look to her, if you could imagine a time in which she didn't look so fearful. Her hair was high and tight like a ballerina's, a style that called attention to her hollowed cheeks but also gave her a look of strength and grace. She wore a pink cashmere sweater decorated with delicate crocheted flowers and two rings with large ruby stones. They must have been a weighty burden on her weak fingers.

Then I heard a worried voice from some faraway Bergdorf chamber. “Mom? Mom, where are you? Mom?”

The woman looked up and shrank even farther into her chair. She pulled the neck of her sweater up to her mouth. I didn't know how to help her, whether it was best to reveal the woman to her daughter, or hide her instead.

Still, I couldn't see the girl, just hear her voice.

“Mom? Mom? Excuse me, miss? Have you seen my mom? She was sitting right here. Her name is Janelle. If you see her, can you tell her that Emerald is looking for her?”

Five boutiques away, I saw her gesturing wildly at a saleswoman. Emerald. I took another look at the woman in the armchair and ran off to the Dolce & Gabbana boutique, where I hid behind a rack of large wrap sweaters.

Emerald couldn't see me in Bergdorf Goodman. She knew this wasn't my kind of place. We'd be put in some awkward situation that wouldn't benefit either of us. She had her secret, and I had mine. Facing her would rattle the divisions we'd created. So I remained hidden, poking out from behind a large sweater threaded with frazzled yarn that leaped out like rainbow eyelashes.

From there I saw Emerald spot her mother, then grab her with a force that surprised me. “Mom! I told you to stay where you were! Why did you move?! I told you to stay, I told you to stay!”

This had to be the “hard life” Sherri at the thrift shop had been talking about.

The woman looked up at Emerald blankly. “Mom, please, please don't do this again,” Emerald said. The woman rose out of her chair and hid her face, as if ashamed.

They passed the Dolce & Gabbana boutique and Emerald had tears in her eyes as she mouthed the word
fuck
over and over again. Her mother looked back at me and I almost knocked down a mannequin dressed in a stretchy black dress covered with silver ziti-­shaped tubing.

I waited until they entered the elevator, then turned around to find Giada behind me as close as my shadow.

“Are you ready now? I think I have everything you need,” she said. “I had lots of fun with the bedroom things, even though you say you don't like.”

Now didn't seem like the time to try on clothes—­much less lingerie.

“Would you be able to send the outfits to my home?” I said. “I can just return them if they don't fit.”

“Of course, miss. I have it couriered to you tomorrow morning, and we can pick them up if you do not like.”

“Great. But the delivery must be discreet,” I said, echoing Michael Saltz.

“Say no more, miss. I understand.”

I wrote down my name, address, and cell phone number on a cream linen card.

“Ah, very nice, Miss Monroe,” Giada said. “We have another delivery to the East Village tomorrow morning. I will tell the courier, Piotr, to call you when he is outside your building.”

I nodded, then took the escalators down. Outside Bergdorf's, tourists had taken over Fifth Avenue. Emerald and her mother were nowhere to be seen.

 

Chapter 10

M
Y CELL PHONE RANG AT NINE THE NEXT MORNING
.

“Hello, Tia Monroe? This is Piotr from Bergdorf Goodman.”

“Okay, I'll be down in a second.” I threw on a hoodie, picked up a laundry bag, and ran downstairs, thinking I'd hurry everything into my room while Emerald and Melinda slept. But when I arrived in the lobby, I saw an entire rack of garment bags and boxes next to a big man. He dressed like a bellhop but looked strong and sharp-­eyed enough to be secret ser­vice. Both he and the doorman looked unfazed. I guessed they had seen weirder things.

My laundry bag wouldn't even fit a quarter of the stuff. The delivery was crazy. I hadn't asked Giada for this much. She, or maybe Michael Saltz, must have taken liberties with my request.

“Okay, well, I suppose the garment rack has to come up. But we have to be quiet so my roommates don't wake up,” I whispered to Piotr.

“Very good, miss,” he said. We took everything into the elevator and I wanted him to break the spell and say the truth, that this was strange. But he didn't. I made him stay in the hallway while I peeked inside our living room.

The coast was clear, but Emerald's door was now a little open. Had it been open when I left? Or had she left and gone down another elevator? I hadn't seen her in the lobby, but maybe I'd missed her. Or maybe she hadn't spent the night at the apartment at all.

After Piotr left, I locked my bedroom door and put everything away, but Emerald stayed in the back of my mind. When would she come back? Could she have seen Piotr and this mountain of clothing?

There was so much in the delivery, I didn't know where to start. So I started everywhere. I opened garment bags stuffed with four or five things, then took something out of a tall bag, then something from a box. Inside one garment bag I found a navy suit with an ever-­so-­faint paisley design woven into it. The tag said
Valentino
. Got it. An Italian name, with luxe flair.

And then I uncovered two sleeveless silk shirts, structured with expert-­looking pleats around the shoulders and bust. These were by a guy named Narciso Rodriguez. Or was that a woman? They were subtle and somehow mathematical, something an architect would wear for herself and not necessarily for others.

Next, a white Carolina Herrera blouse. A female designer, that I could understand. But what I couldn't understand—­its buttery weight, a silkiness that enveloped your hands. This woman is casually wealthy. She may roll up her sleeves, but the blouses are dry-­cleaned and steamed the second she takes them off.

I marveled at a blazer by Missoni. It was black on the outside, but lined with what I would later learn were the house's signature zigzags. This one seemed like a stretch for me, but that made me like it more.

A round, pumpkin-­orange box labeled
Hermès
beckoned. I didn't know whether to expect earmuffs or a necklace or a bathing suit. It was none of those things: a beautiful silk scarf patterned with hot-­air balloons. Now I remembered what Hermès stood for. Scarves, yes, but also bags. Could I get my hands on one of those?

I crouched down and found a navy shoebox etched with a silver triangle and discovered a pair of red patent leather slingbacks.
Prada
. They were clean and sturdy, yet subversive. There was a lone spike on the underside of the sole, in the space where the toes vault up to the heel.

I worked to internalize everything as if it were a dream that might fade away. With each garment, I studied the tag—­who made it, where it came from, what materials. Like the restaurant dishes at Madison Park Tavern, I wanted to learn everything. There was security in that complete knowledge.

I turned my attention to three dresses that were definitely not made for dining. They were going-­out things, dancing looks. One was a swingy black dress made of a wet suit–like material, with a high neck and stiff A-­line skirt.
Alexander McQueen
. Another was a red Gucci with little loops of textured fringe. It should have looked Elmo-­like, but the sophisticated shape overrode the thought. I twisted the dress on the hanger, and the skirt rose and fell like the swelling of the ocean. The last dress was surprisingly heavy even though it was the shortest, narrowest, lowest-­cut garment in that day's shipment. The tag said
Hervé Léger
and the dress was ribbed like a mummy, a very tight, shiny, green-­and-­gold mummy.

I skipped three other boxes and opened the big one on the bottom, a white box sealed with satiny tape labeled
Jimmy Choo
. Inside was a pair of black knee-­high boots in a beautiful glossy crocodile pattern. I wondered if they could really be crocodile, and then realized I had never touched crocodile before. I looked at the side of the box, but couldn't find the price tag. Not that I knew how much crocodile cost, anyway.

I didn't know how much anything cost, and that added to the surreality of it all.

The last thing I opened was a classic trench coat with sharp, precise lapels, whimsical hooks and snaps, and a silk lining that spoke something about me that I was not. In coat check, I never saw coats with so much detail and beauty. I tried it on and it lay on me as a new identity would, heavy and complete and consuming. I wanted to live in this coat and have it do all the talking for me. The label said
Burberry
. At that moment, the name meant little aside from shiny magazine ads and Chinatown knock-­off scarves. I could only pay attention to the quality, the luxuriousness of the thing itself.

I used to think that fashion was a disguise. ­People depended on those bells and whistles to prove something about themselves. I still felt that way, but was it so bad? It was like speaking many languages. Each one gave you a new entryway into the world. That's what clothing could do for me. I could step out as someone different.

There were so many brands I didn't know, so many things—­like brooches and clutches and silk neck scarves—­that totally stumped me. Millions of women would have killed for this, all this
stuff,
all this possibility. I didn't have to pinch myself to prove it was real—­I just had to touch it, press it against my face, spritz it on the inside of my wrist.

I looked at the rest of my bounty and realized that it would take me a good part of the morning to open everything and put it away. And actually, I had miscalculated how much closet space I had. Even though I had received a flood of clothes, more than I had ever bought in my life, I still fit everything in my closet. It had started big and empty. But now it was full, finally full.

I took out one last package and unwrapped it on the bed. Out came black lingerie with laser-­cut lace, beautiful pieces that were romantic yet strong. Modern and sexy. Giada had left a note on another of Bergdorf's signature cream linen cards:
Enjoy your new clothes.

T
HAT AFTERNOON,
I took my Nutrition test wearing my new lingerie. No one saw it, but it made me feel better. I left class thinking I had done really well.

 

Chapter 11

T
HE
F
INANCIAL
D
ISTRICT WAS EMPTY WHEN
I
ARRIVED ON
Wednesday night. There were huge buildings, blocky statues, streetlights that managed nonexistent traffic. Thick pillars of steam rose from the sewers, like the ground sighing after a long day.

After getting lost on streets I didn't know existed—­Beaver and Bank and Gold, nothing like the easy grids of Midtown or the familiar tangle around NYU—­I made it to the restaurant. I wore Michael Saltz's original Prabal Gurung dress and gemstone sandals. When I had first put it on, I couldn't help but think that the dress gilded something—­or someone—­quite ordinary. But instead of shrinking from the grandeur of the clothes, I made myself rise to them.

Michael Saltz sat in the front waiting area on a red satin couch beneath a lurching, voluptuous orchid. “Hello, Tia,” he said. “Welcome to our first meal together. Why are you standing like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you're in a police lineup.” He took me by the shoulders and jolted me back. I teetered on my high heels, let my chest jut out and my butt move back.

“There, that's better,” he said as I acquainted myself with the new S-­shape of my body. I had a lot to learn.

The waiting area veered off in three directions. Each hallway had a fish tank recessed into the floor. I supposed one path led to the bathroom. Another to the coatroom. The last to the dining room. I couldn't see much beyond the koi.

“May I take your bag?” a woman asked. She didn't sneer at my tote, though I immediately regretted carrying it. Had I really brought a canvas tote to this restaurant? What had I been thinking when Giada had delivered so many other beautiful bags?

“Thank you, miss,” she said, taking my bag as if it were a newborn baby, with delicacy and respect. She was a coat check master.

“Now remember,” Michael Saltz whispered. “I order, you eat. You tell me what you think. This is a dry-­run dinner. I want you to enjoy yourself, but not too much. Always assume we are under watch.”

I nodded silently.

“Ready?” A hostess had appeared out of nowhere. I wondered if he had rented the entire restaurant for us. It was so quiet. Too quiet.

Michael Saltz put out his arm for me hold, but I didn't take it. He wore a gray checkered shirt, a navy V-­neck sweater, and khakis, a hedge fund manager's casual look.

“Remember, I'm gay. And I'm helping you—­in more ways than one.”

I wrapped my arm in his and he gave me a fierce, satisfied look. The bones of his arm poked through his sweater and I gulped as we walked into the dining room, my stilettos clicking uneasily on the black marble. The NBT had begun and there was no looking back now.

“That dress looks good on you. Giada told me she gave you more like this. I'm glad. This is a vast improvement.”

I let out a brief chuckle, a vague sound of agreement. A part of me wanted to rebel against his words—­
What was wrong with me in the first place?
—­but this wasn't the place. And, more than that, I had to admit he was right.

We sat and looked over the menu. Michael Saltz ordered a reasonable number of dishes. Perhaps on the high side, but nothing that would arouse suspicion.

A ­couple of minutes later, the hostess laid what looked to be a flower on each of our bread plates.

“Compliments of the chef. This is an olive oil sweet potato tulip croquant. Inside are ‘stamens' made of black sesame and honey.”

I twirled the stem in the light of the candle. Michael chomped on his and let out a small, contented noise.

“Hm. Crunchy,” he said. Then, with his head lowered, “How does it taste?”

It seemed a shame to eat such a gorgeous thing.

“Don't be precious. Eat it.”

“Okay,” I said. I took out my phone. It was so lovely and well constructed, I wanted to preserve the memory.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's happening here?”

“Oh, sorry. It's just so beautiful. I wasn't going to post it or anything.”

“Put your phone down. Now,” he said. His face had reddened, and we hadn't even ordered drinks yet. I did what he asked.

“Let's go through the reasons why you shouldn't do that,” Michael Saltz said, his skeletal fingers waving close to my face. “First, taking a picture draws unnecessary attention to yourself. You must blend in. You must go undetected.”

“I understand. No pictures.”

“We have professional photographers for that,” he continued. “You don't have to use your phone, for goodness' sake. Second, what if someone saw that photo on the phone. Or, even worse, you were stupid enough to send it to someone or post it online. How would you have explained your meal here?”

“Well—­” I stammered.

“Have you even thought that far ahead?”

“It was just a picture for myself, I swear,” I said, though under any other circumstance I'd have definitely sent this photo to Elliott. He would have loved sweet potato that looked like a flower. That was a dish he could get into.

Michael lowered his fork back to his plate. “Tia? Do you know where we are?”

“Um, Panh Ho?”

“Have you heard of this place before?”

“Yes.”

“But did you think you'd come here, ever?”

“No.”

“Have you ever worn anything as exquisite as that Prabal Gurung?”

“No. I've never worn anything this nice.”

“Have you ever seen anything as exceptional as that sweet potato flower?”

“No.” Okay, I got his point. He didn't have to be such a patronizing jackass about it.

“Precisely. You have been here not ten minutes, and already you have become a worldlier person. Why would you deny yourself that by reverting to your past and emailing your college boyfriend?” His face soured at those last words. “Look at me. Look at these surroundings. You are a grown woman. Don't look back. Not when you have me and this right in front of you.”

I went to put the phone back in my purse, but Michael Saltz stopped me. “No. Leave it on the table, face up. I want to see who calls you and how you manage these situations.”

I did as he asked and tried to mask my extreme annoyance. Was this a job or detention? I couldn't believe what a jerk this guy was. He could have been nicer, considering I was his “protégée,” not his punching bag.

Around us, the dining room was filling up, elegant women with frizz-­free chignons and white fur stoles. Dapper men in suits constructed to their long, lean bodies. An extremely attractive waiter walked toward our table with our appetizers, and Michael clamped his mouth shut but glared at me as if to say,
I'm not done with you yet
.

The waiter stood about six foot three and had wavy chin-­length hair. I think he was half black, but I didn't know what the other part could be. Whatever it was, it combined into something staggeringly handsome.

“For the lady,” he said, “a poached quail egg inside a wonton cabbage ‘purse.' And for the gentleman, pork meatball on a bed of braised endives and demi-­glace ‘roe.' ”

I punctured the cabbage and a bright orange yolk spilled onto the greens. I imagined Elliott inspecting each dish. He might've liked a meal like this, playful and smart, with a little touch of botany mixed in.

But then again, he'd hate the pomp. The cost. The ceremony of every little thing. I couldn't be sure that he'd eat anything on the menu.

That's when my phone rang. I extended my hand, ready to silence it.

“Don't touch. Who is it?” he asked.

But I knew he knew. This was a test.

“No one,” I said. “I won't answer it.” But the phone kept ringing.

Michael put his hand out. “Give me your phone. Before it stops ringing.”

“No, I'll just turn it off.”

“Maybe you will, but you don't want to.” He lifted my hand off the phone. “Elliott,” he read. “I remember him from the reception. Well?” He nudged the phone toward me. “Answer it now before he hangs up.”

“But what do I say?”

“Say what you think you need to say.” But he didn't mean that. He wanted me to say what he wanted me to say.

I answered the phone.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” Elliott said. “Um . . . can you talk now?”

“Well, not really. I mean, for a second . . .”

Michael Saltz gave me a stern, but not forbidding look—­like I could do better.

“Let me know if you want to get together later, okay? I want to see you.”

Shit.

“Probably not tonight—­I'm at the library struggling with this paper. But I'll call you tomorrow.” I looked up at Michael Saltz, who was smiling for the first time that night. I smiled back, a tiny bit content that I had pleased him.

“Seriously? Tia, I—­”

“Sorry, Elliott, gotta go.” I remembered I was supposed to be in the library. “I can't talk now,” I whispered, and then hung up. Just like that.

“Excellent work, Tia. See, you're a natural! That wasn't so hard, was it?”

I still held the warm phone. Farther uptown, Elliott was wondering what was up. Did he even believe I was in the library? Maybe he'd stop by to find me. He'd ask me the best studying spots and I wouldn't be able to tell him. It was a good thing I was all the way down in the Financial District. He wouldn't bump into me here.

“No, not hard,” I said as my main arrived, braised veal over hand-­pulled noodles, artichokes, and mint.

I put my phone back on the table. In a way, I was glad Michael Saltz had forced me to avoid Elliott. We hadn't seen each other since our awkward non-­sexcapade last week. Our schedules rarely lined up, though now it was probably better that way. I wouldn't have to lie to his face.

“Good! Now let's toast,” he said, lifting his wineglass.

I lifted mine and we barely, briefly touched glasses. But the
ping
sent shivers through my arm.

“Cheers,” he said. “In October, we'll try Tellicherry. That will be your first review. To leaving the past, and starting the future.”

“To starting the future,” I said, then took a sip of the wine. It was dark and dusty-­tasting and I had a hard time keeping it down. A little beeping noise beckoned from my phone. Michael Saltz didn't hear it and I pretended not to notice. But it pinged away inside me, a tap-­tapping upon my heart.

Michael Saltz was too busy gulping down his wine. He had been insistent on a full-­bodied Bordeaux. I guess that's what was most palatable to him. Plus, it had a high alcohol content.

“Well, Tia Monroe,” he said. “Your time in New York City just got a whole lot more interesting.”

We ate our desserts, refined mochi balls made with a finger lime curd. Then, as we were walking out of Panh Ho, I thought I heard a click, an old-­fashioned shutter sound but with modern clarity. Even though Michael Saltz was rushing me out, I looked around. I just saw the dining room, operating as normal. Except for one person rushing behind a red velvet curtain, gilded with elaborate embroidery.

That must have been when they photographed my face.