“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” the girl behind her said with annoyance. Jess looked amused, as if she expected the question.
“Hey Lizzy, meet my girlfriend, Sarrah. She’s been helping me with some fittings.”
Sarrah had long, shock-red hair, recently dyed from what I could tell. She was wearing overalls and had lots of freckles on her face and arms, like some kind of trippy farm girl. She was very pretty but seemed unhappy.
“Hi.” She thrust out her hand to me. “I’ve heard all about you,” she said with a hint of displeasure. I noticed a tattoo in goth letters on her wrist that said BITTER SWEET.
“Good to meet you, Sarrah,” I said. I had met Jess’s girlfriends before, and they almost always had rough edges, which seemed to amuse Jess. Without fail, Jess’s girlfriends resented me, but this time I also felt a twinge of resentment, wanting Jess all to myself. I needed to talk to her about Mom, the crazy encounter at the St. Regis, and ZK and ask her if she’d seen Jake, but there wouldn’t be a way with Sarrah there.
“How’s your mom?” Jess asked. I guessed the moms had talked.
“Good, as far as I know. They still haven’t finished testing.” Sarrah was standing right beside Jess, clearly planning to listen to everything we said like some kind of twisted chaperone. Jess shot me a knowing look.
“Hey, I just came by to pick up a dress if it’s okay.” Not really true, but it was the best excuse I could manage at the moment.
Sarrah was flat-out staring at me.
“Sure, let’s take a look,” Jess said. “Hey Sarrah, I would love some more hot water for my tea?” She held up her mug. Sarrah broke out of her daze, nodded, and trundled off obediently to the kitchen.
“She’s cute,” I said. “How long?”
“Three days,” Jess said. “Won’t last three more.” I tried to keep from laughing.
“Hey!” Sarrah yelled from the tiny kitchen across the room, and we both flinched. “Where do we keep the tea?” Jess rolled her eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” Jess whispered.
I took the opportunity to dash to the closet ahead of Jess. I couldn’t help noticing there were four newly modified vintage dresses, each one more wonderful and a bit wilder than the next. They weren’t there two days earlier.
There was another dress, as well. It didn’t seem like one of Nan’s but still had a retro flavor while at the same time being totally fresh and eye-catching. Longer in the back than in the front, it had a patterned black chiffon fabric with white leaves falling like snow clusters mostly at the top. The black overskirt was bouncy and light with only a few white leaves randomly placed, dissolving into pure black. The black underskirt was tight and sexy.
Along the hem, playful light-gray embroidery caught my eye. On closer examination, I realized they were words. Turning the hem in my fingers, I read them.
As we talk the words fall away. They fly like seeds in the wind, clinging to the hem of your dress before they disappear.
The words made the dress a secret message. Was it from Jess’s journal? It was startling and provocative, just what you’d expect from Designer X.
“So you like it,” Jess said confidently. I turned. She must have been watching me.
“Like it? It’s mind-blowing.” I felt the air go out of me. Jess was so talented, I felt like I was bathing in her brilliance.
“I’m getting tired of the asymmetric hem length; I might change that. Try it on,” she offered, lifting the dress out of the closet. “It should fit.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, noticing Sarrah watching us from the kitchen.
“It’s for my show. I made it with your measurements.”
I stripped down to my underwear and slipped on the tight skirt and overskirt and then the blouse.
“It needs to be a tad tighter at the waist,” she said, staring into the full-length mirror propped against the wall.
“Jess, I think it’s perfect.”
“Then wear it tonight.”
“What? Really? It’s one of a kind; it’s your original…” I stammered.
“They all are,” she said. “Do me a favor, Lizzy, wear it. I’m sure you’re going somewhere fantastic tonight. That dress deserves to escape this closet and be worn. What did you used to say? Its destiny is to be worn?”
I smiled while Sarrah, holding a tea bag, watching us from the kitchen, seethed.
43
The doorman greeted me at Tabitha’s building on North Moore Street in Tribeca. He was just a few years older than me and had that unshaven-Euro-model look. His uniform must have been designed by Comme des Garçons. Fanciest doorman I’d ever seen, no joke. He was a perfect fantasy. After all, who wouldn’t want a good-looking guy who is always nice and opens doors, hails cabs, and carries heavy packages for you?
“Please let me help you with your bag,” he said. I only had a garment bag with the latest Designer X creation inside. It seemed a little silly, but I acquiesced, feeling very indulged. He pushed the PENTHOUSE button as I entered the elevator.
I heard Tabitha’s familiar high-pitched squeal as the door opened.
“You’re here!”
She was standing in a comfy pink bathrobe with her hair up in a towel, Galileo yapping at her feet. It was good to see her again, and I appreciated how happy she was to see me. Walking into her penthouse apartment, I was totally awed.
The Princess of Pop truly had pop-star-worthy digs. The cherrywood floors and staircase were so deeply lacquered I could see my reflection as I walked in. There was a high-tech kitchen that was so pristine that it seemed impossible Tabitha had ever boiled water in it. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves complete with a library ladder on rails was utterly impressive. Tabitha’s collection of leather-bound literature was remarkable, though I doubted there was a book on those shelves that had ever been touched. The living room had a view of New York City on three sides.
“Hurry,” she said as she skipped barefoot up the spiral staircase at the back of the living room. “Come up to my bedroom and help me pick out what to wear.”
I followed. The second floor was even more sensational. Calling it a bedroom seemed a poor way of describing the place. There was a large built-in mahogany desk, a plump couch, upholstered chairs, an antique wooden coffee table, and a sleek designer bed that seemed to be floating on air, all of which faced onto an open terrace with views of all of Lower Manhattan. You could even see the Statue of Liberty.
“In here!” Tabitha called. I wondered where she could be.
She poked her head out of a doorway “Hello? Come on, I need help.” I followed her and found myself in an enormous walk-in closet.
I know from closets. Even with tons of hangers, clothes, and shoes, this was significantly more than a closet. Nothing like the smushed-in cozy closet I had at home. All the bedrooms in my house could fit in there. This was a closet you could get lost in for days.
It reminded me of the showroom where we tried on clothes at Barneys. At the center of the room was a gorgeous French walnut armoire with a full-length mirror.
“What do you think of this?” Tabitha said, posing in a black leather halter and black harem pants, looking like an upscale relative of JWoww’s. She could tell from my expression that it wasn’t my favorite. “Okay, okay, give me a second.” She ducked back behind the armoire.
“So, how are you?” I asked, wondering where we stood relative to my meeting with Robert.
“Great!” she said from behind the armoire before popping her head back out. “Thanks to you!”
“Me?”
“What about this?” She was wearing a nude-colored, skin-tight, studded tank dress and some strappy sandals. It was very close to being naked.
“Well, that’s an interesting dress. I like the sandals,” I said.
“I don’t like it either,” she replied, frowning, and ducked back into her vast racks of clothes. I contemplated the rows and rows of shoes. This walk-in was the final resting place of so many of Tabitha’s cocktailing shopping sprees. You could dress an army of pop stars from this one closet.