“Try it on?” she said. “Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
He waved his hand airily. “Just go into a corner. I promise I won’t look.”
She looked around dubiously. “I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” he said. “People try stuff on in here all the time. Most days you can’t walk in here without seeing some model or another stripped down to her undies and sometimes not even that.”
“Models also shoot heroin,” she said.
“Here.” He threw the dress at her and she caught it reflexively. “I’ll leave the room, if that makes you more comfortable. Come get me when you have the dress on.”
He headed back toward the door. Ava said to his retreating back, “I don’t want to do this.”
“I’m not letting you out of here until you do,” he said, without even bothering to look back. “I’m going to drag you into the world of fashion, even if it’s kicking and screaming.” He left, banging the door unnecessarily loudly behind him.
Ava held the dress up and made a face at it. The whole thing was ridiculous—what kind of straight guy made playing dress-up part of an evening out? What kind of grown woman let him?
She couldn’t remember when it was that she decided she wasn’t going to care about clothing. As far back as she could remember, Lauren had been obsessed with her wardrobe and would beg their mother to buy her stylish things, but Ava simply wore whatever Nancy brought home for her from the Gap. When the time came to pick a college, she fell in love with Haverford, where the majority of the girls had long stringy hair and dressed in heavy sweaters and baggy jeans and argued about politics late into the night: it just felt like a place where she would fit in. Her last two years there, she had a fairly intense relationship with a guy who was a nature buff and an environmentalist. He criticized anyone who spent money or time on superficial things and reserved his greatest contempt for the kind of girl who wore nail polish (toxic) and makeup (tested on animals). He told Ava that her lack of vanity was what made her beautiful to him. They went hiking together and ate at vegetarian restaurants where the water was always served at room temperature and alcohol wasn’t served at all.
Had Gabe influenced her more than she had realized?
Quite possibly—she had been madly in love with him. Unfortunately, he graduated a year before her and went off to study marine biology in Florida. He broke up with her by e-mail less than a month later. Ava wasn’t as stricken as she might have been: a cute if slightly pretentious guy in her English class had been flirting with her and she hadn’t gotten around to mentioning that she was in a committed relationship.
On her first date with the new guy, she ordered steak and ice-cold beer, and they both tasted great.
But even out with that guy she hadn’t worn makeup or high heels, and didn’t that mean it wasn’t just Gabe’s influence that had made her the way she was? That he had simply spoken to something that was already a profound part of her personality? When hadn’t Ava believed that all the primping and the fussing and the accessorizing and the decorating were a sign that you weren’t smart enough or confident enough to be truthful about who you were and ultimately appealed only to the wrong sort of guys?
But she was here now, slightly tipsy, in this crazy enormous closet, and the dress was pretty, and Russell had said she’d look great in it. He had also said he wouldn’t let her out of the room until she tried it on, so it seemed to her she might as well get on with it.
With a weird sense of excitement, Ava pulled a couple of racks together to create a little dressing room. Hidden by the clothes, she stepped out of her shoes and unbuttoned her shirt, then slid the dress on before shoving her skirt down and off.
She had to contort herself to reach the zipper in the back. It was a struggle, but she finally got it zipped up and settled the dress into place. The neck was cut so low that it showed the plain white edges of her sensible underwire bra, and the skirt was shorter in the thigh than she was used to. With no mirror, she couldn’t tell how it looked: it wasn’t uncomfortable, but the fit was snugger than anything she was used to and she wondered if she looked bulgy.
She felt oddly nervous as she shoved her feet back into her Aerosole pumps and left the sanctum of the racks to let Russell in.
The second she pushed the door open a crack, Russell was pulling it the rest of the way open. “Let me see.” He came in and studied her eagerly. She backed up a few steps and hugged her elbows, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
“Very nice,” he said. “Put your arms down, stand up straight, and turn around.”
“I feel stupid.”
“Just turn around, will you? I want to see how the back looks.”
Ava had a tendency to buckle when given a direct order. She turned around.
“You look fantastic,” Russell said, a little smugly, when she was facing him again. “I knew there was a great pair of legs under those dowdy skirts. You need a different bra, though.”
Ava stared at him. “Are you sure your father wasn’t right about you?”
“Just because I think about fashion doesn’t mean I’m gay,” Russell said. Then, considering, “Okay, maybe it should. But I’m not—which is a shame, because it would only be an asset for my career. I’m a regular guy who happens to like dressing women.”
“Well, so long as you’re good with that—”
He raised his chin. “I am, thank you. Although I’m not sure how I feel about being called the girliest man you ever met.”
“I take it back,” she said. “Aside from your interest in fashion, you’re practically a Neanderthal.”
“Thank you! That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Ava looked down at herself again. “I couldn’t wear this to work. It’s too revealing.”
“Sure you could. It looks great.” He plucked at a thread on her shoulders.
“It’s tight. No one would take me seriously.”
“They’d take you more seriously,” he said. “They’d think, ‘A girl who’s that savvy about clothing—’”
“See? I put the dress on and you immediately start calling me a ‘girl.’ I want to be seen as a grown woman.”
“‘Woman’ I get,” Russell said. “Why you want to be seen as an old and frumpy woman is beyond me.”
“Oh, come on. My clothes are not that bad.”
He just raised his eyebrows. Then he held out his hand. “Let me show you what a difference this makes. There’s a mirror against the wall.”
She put her hand in his and he led her across the room to a three-way mirror. It seemed to Ava that this time his fingers flirted more with hers, moving gently against them as he pulled her along, but he dropped her hand as soon as they reached the mirror, so it was hard to be sure. “Look,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Really look.”
Looking at herself never gave Ava any pleasure. She used mirrors to make sure that nothing was coming out of her nose or sprouting on her face, that her clothing wasn’t stained or torn, that she didn’t have food in her hair or crud in her eyes. But the surprise of seeing herself in a well-tailored formfitting dress startled her. She stared. “Wow,” she said, then was immediately embarrassed by her own reaction. She quickly added, “The color is great in this light,” so he would think she was admiring the dress and not herself.
From behind her, Russell’s reflection said, “Behold the power of well-designed clothing.”
Her waist was smaller than she had thought, her legs longer, her breasts rounder. “It fits well,” she acknowledged, reluctant to give him more.
“No kidding. Unlike those schmattahs you were wearing before.” She couldn’t see him rubbing his hands together because her body hid his arms from her view in the mirror, but she could hear the shush-shush of his palms moving against each other. “Let’s keep going. We’re going to find you a whole new wardrobe tonight.”
“No, really,” she said, turning away from
the mirror. “You don’t have to. This is pretty, but—”
“I want to,” he said and moved away, back toward the clothes. “It’s a good thing you’re a six,” he called out as he flicked through hangers on a rack. “We only have twos, fours, and sixes.”
“What about this?” Ava unhooked a hanger from a rack and held up a green wool skirt.
Russell glanced at it and rolled his eyes. “Oh, please,” he said. “That’s for the old ladies. When are you going to realize you’re a pretty, young girl? Oh, sorry—I mean woman. A pretty, young woman. A pretty, young American woman.” He returned his attention to the clothes in front of him and selected a pair of pants and a top. “Here,” he said, rejoining Ava and thrusting the hangers at her. “Try on the pants and this top. I’ll keep looking for more stuff.”
“Okay,” she said as she took the clothes. “But go wait outside.”
“Come on,” he said. “I think our relationship has moved beyond the waiting outside phase, don’t you? You can trust me not to look.” His eyes lingered on her body in its revealing dress for a moment. “I’m capable of resisting temptation. For a short period of time, anyway. But don’t take too long. I’m only human.”
Ava swallowed. He was definitely flirting with her now. She flushed, absurdly pleased, but the pleasure gave way almost immediately to doubt. Why was he suddenly flirting with her now when he never had before? Because she had changed into clothes he liked? Didn’t that make him exactly the kind of man she had always despised, the kind who cared about the wrapping more than the contents?
Suspicion crept into her voice. “Oh, fine,” she said. “Whatever.” She grabbed the clothes from him and stomped over to her little V-shaped dressing room, where she struggled to unzip the dress before pulling it over her head. It got stuck for a moment and she felt panicky about how silly she must look with her head caught in the dress and her practical white bra and underpants showing. She finally wrenched herself free, tossed the dress to the side, and looked wildly about. The top of Russell’s head was visible, but he was on the other side of the room and appeared to have his back to her. So much for his stealing a look, she thought, and relief that he hadn’t spied on her was mixed with a slight disappointment that he hadn’t wanted to.
She pulled on the pants. They were made of a fine silk/linen blend, very fitted at the waist and hips with wide, flowing legs—like something Katharine Hepburn might have worn on her day off. The top Russell had chosen to pair with them was a pure silk crimson tank with flat, wide shoulder straps. It felt lovely as it slid into place on her shoulders: soft and feminine and fluid. Probably would need to be dry-cleaned regularly, she reminded herself. She always tried to avoid clothes that were dry-clean-only and therefore liable to waste both her time and money.
“Okay,” she said, raising her voice so Russell could hear her and resisting the urge to cry out, Olly-olly-oxen-free. “I’m dressed again.”
“Let me see.” She came out from behind the racks just as he reached them. “Terrific,” he said with a nod. “You look fantastic.”
“I think the top’s too short. It shows my stomach.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Look.” She raised her arms, which made the shirt rise and expose her midsection.
“Well, if you’re going to do that. But it’s not like you walk around all day with your arms raised, do you?”
“What if I want to wave hello to someone? Or hail a cab?” She feigned the motion, and the moment her hand was raised Russell reached out and stroked his finger across the inch of bared stomach. She instantly collapsed down and pulled away. “Hey!”
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He flashed a mischievous grin.
She bit her lip. The brief touch had startled her, made her skin pulse. He was still standing closer than seemed necessary. She was suddenly very aware they were alone together in this big room, maybe even in the whole building.
He turned her gently around, put his hands on her shoulders from behind, and steered her back to the mirror. He stood behind her, his hands still on her shoulders, his mouth right at her ear. “Look,” he whispered. “Look at the pretty girl in the mirror. Tell me that’s not a welcome sight.”
His breath in her ear made her feel a little shaky, and he was right that the outfit looked good on her, but she still refused to surrender the argument. “It’s the same girl who’s always in there,” she said stubbornly. “There’s a little extra icing, but it’s the same girl.”
“I never said it wasn’t.” His hands caressed her shoulders and slid down her arms.
Ava realized, with a slight sense of panic, that Russell was coming on to her for real now. That his hands were on the move and weren’t likely to stop unless she stopped them.
This was not how she had expected the evening to go. He had been disappointed when Lauren ran out on them, so why was he suddenly making a play for her?
Any port in a storm, she thought. He was that kind of guy. And what about Corinne, anyway?
“What about Corinne, anyway?” she said out loud.
Russell raised his head to look at their reflection. His arms were still around her from behind. “Corinne?”
“Yeah, remember her?” She twisted out of his grasp and turned to face him directly. “Blond, thin girl, a bit younger than me? Very pretty?” If you like that sort of thing, she added contemptuously to herself, but had enough self-control not to say it out loud.
Russell dropped his hands to his sides. “Name rings a distant bell.”
“Seriously,” she said. “I thought you were a couple. What happened?”
“I’m just curious,” Russell said with a sigh. “Have you ever gotten lost in the moment in your whole life?”
“I can be as spontaneous as the next woman when I choose to be.”
“You do realize that’s an insane thing to say, right?”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Corinne and I see each other from time to time, but there’s no commitment there,” he said. “I’m commitment-resistant at the moment. That okay with you?”
“I don’t care one way or the other.”
“Then why bring her up?”
There was a pause. Ava said, “It’s getting late.”
Russell didn’t even look at his watch. “That’s kind of the fun of it, isn’t it?” he said softly. “That it’s getting late? But we’re still here, alone?”
She ran her hands nervously down the sides of the pants, then immediately worried that the sweat on her palms might have stained the beautiful fabric. They weren’t even her pants. She curled her hands into fists. “I just meant I should probably go.”
He moved closer again. “Now that you’re all dressed up? You want to waste a good outfit on going home and going to sleep?”
“I was going to change back into my other clothes.”
“We should go out,” he said. “Go to a club. I could pick out something fun here for you to wear. Do you dance?”
“Not if I can help it.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course you don’t. Puritans never do.”
“I’m not a Puritan,” she said. “I’m just not very good at dancing. I feel self-conscious.”
“You need to get over that.”
“I’ll put it on the list,” she said, almost sadly.
“Okay, no dancing.” He stroked one finger gently down the length of her upper arm. “So here’s a question. Once Pygmalion made Galatea come to life, what do you think they did together?”
“Wow,” she said, twitching a little as his finger reversed itself, tracing a light path up toward her shoulder again. “Galatea. That’s an awfully . . . uh . . . classical reference for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” he repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know. Someone who likes fashion and hip restaurants . . . I wouldn’t have expected you to know your Greek mythology.”
He tugged gently on her arm, movin
g her closer to him. He let his fingers trail up along her shoulder, behind her neck, under her hair. “Don’t forget that in my family, I’m the smart one.”
She tried to sound relaxed, like his touch wasn’t getting to her, which it was. “Only compared to your brother.”
“Maybe. But I was more like you than you remember. That’s why we’re engaged.”
“We’re not engaged,” she said, her voice a little thick. She made a token throat-clearing noise. Russell’s fingers were twined gently in the hair behind her neck, the knuckles brushing against her skin. She closed her eyes, let herself relax back into him.
“Sure we are.” He shifted so his body was against hers, his thigh brushing against her hip. “We’ve been engaged since childhood. Our parents looked at us and said, ‘Those two—they belong together.’ They must have known something, don’t you think?”
Even with her eyes closed, she knew that he was bending over her, that he was about to kiss her on the lips, so it wasn’t a surprise when she felt him there, though she breathed in sharply as if it were.
His mouth was warm and gentle, teasing hers open carefully and slowly, like he knew that if he went too fast, was too demanding, she’d be gone. And I would, too, Ava thought with a dreamy lack of conviction.
She hadn’t even liked the last guy she’d kissed—a blind date her friend Anna had arranged with her chiropractor. His lips had been thick and clammy, his kiss unwelcome. She had extricated herself quickly from the embrace and never returned his calls. That had been over a year ago.
She had forgotten how good a kiss could feel, how the right touch against your tongue and lips could light little flares throughout the rest of your body, affecting distant areas like an acupressure map of the foot she had once seen: touch here and you’ll feel it there.
Russell’s hands slid around her waist and she let her head nestle into the crook of his shoulder.
His kiss moved from her lips to her temple and down to her ear. He murmured into it, “I think this is exactly what Pygmalion and Galatea must have done once she came to life, don’t you?”
“Stone made flesh,” she said, a little dazed, her eyes still closed.