Amazing what could happen when your husband got a big promotion. You could move from Fairfield to Greenwich, and you could buy any little thing your heart desired.
Not that Helene hadn’t always had style. It was just that now she could afford to dress in the manner to which she and Denise had always hoped to become accustomed.
Denise was still waiting to become accustomed. Her Brian didn’t have quite the drive of Helene’s Harry. He still liked to get involved in local causes and in church functions. And that was good in a way. It allowed him more time at home with her and the twins. The downside, though, was that she didn’t have the budget to buy what she needed when she needed it. As a result, Denise had honed her shopping skills to the black-belt level. By keeping her eyes and ears ever open, buying judiciously, and timing her purchases to the minute – like now, for instance, in the post-holiday retail slump – she managed to keep herself looking nearly as in style as someone with a pocketbook as deep as Helene’s.
And on the subject of pocketbooks, Denise could not take her eyes off Helene’s. Fashioned of soft, silky, golden brown leather that seemed to glow in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the grimy windows of the cab, it perfectly offset the colors of her outfit. She wondered if Helene had chosen the bag for the outfit, or the outfit for the bag. She suspected the latter. The bag was exquisite, the stitchwork especially fascinating in its seemingly random joining of odd-sized and odd-shaped pieces. But it was the material itself that drew and captured her attention. She had an urge to reach out and touch it. But she held back.
Later. She’d ask Helene about it during tea.
Sitting here with Helene on a settee along the wall in Peacock Alley at the Waldorf, sipping tea and nibbling on petits fours from the tray on the table before them, Denise felt as if she were part of the international set. The room whispered exotic accents and strange vowels. Almost every nationality was represented – the Far East most strongly – and everyone was dressed to the nines. The men’s suits were either Armani or Vacca, and a number of the women outshone even Helene. Denise felt almost dowdy.
And still . . . that handbag of Helene’s, sitting between them on the sofa. She couldn’t escape the urge to caress it, could not keep her eyes off it.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Helene said.
“Hmmm?” Denise felt a flash of embarrassment at being caught staring, and wondered if the envy showed in her eyes. “The bag? Yes, it is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”
“I’d be surprised if you had.” Helen pushed it closer. “Take a look.”
Soft. That was the first thing Denise noticed as she lifted it. The leather was so soft, a mix of silk and down as her fingers brushed over the stitched surface. She cradled it on her lap. It stole her breath.
“Urn . . . very unusual, isn’t it?” she managed to say after a moment.
“No. Not so unusual. I’ve spotted a few others around the room since we arrived.”
“Really?” Denise had been so entranced by Helene’s bag that the others had gone unnoticed. That wasn’t like her. “Where?”
Helene tilted her head to their left. “Right over there. Two tables down, in the navy blue sweater chemise and matching leggings.”
Denise spotted her. AJapanese woman, holding the bag on the coffee table before her. Hers was black, but the stitching was unmistakable. As Denise scanned the room she noticed another, this one a deep coffee brown. And she noticed something else – they belonged to the most exquisitely dressed women in the room, the ones draped in Helmut Lang and Versace. Among all the beautifully dressed people here in Peacock Alley, the women who stood out, who showed exceptional flair and style in their ensembles, were the ones carrying these bags.
Denise knew in that instant that she had to have one. It didn’t matter how much they cost, this was the accessory she’d been looking for, the touch that would set her apart, lift her to a higher fashion plane.
The Japanese woman rose from her table and walked past. She glanced at Denise on her way by. Her gaze dropped to the bag on Denise’s lap and she smiled and nodded. Denise managed to smile back.
What was that? It almost seem as if the women with these bags had formed some sort of club. If so, no matter what the dues, Denise wanted to be a member.
Helene was smiling knowingly when Denise looked back at her.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Helene sing-songed.
“Do you?”
“Uh-huh. ‘Where do I get one?’ Right?”
Right. But Denise wasn’t going to admit it. She hated being obvious.
“Actually I was wondering what kind of leather it is.”
A cloud crossed Helene’s face.
“You don’t know?” She paused, then: “It’s foet.”
“Feet? Whose feet?” And then Denise realized what Helene had said. “Oh . . . my . . . God!”
“Now, Denise—”
Foet! She’d heard of it but had never thought she’d see it or actually touch it, never dreamed Helene would buy any. Her gorge rose.
“I don’t believe it!”
Denise pushed the bag back onto the sofa between them and glared at Helene.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I committed a crime or anything.”
“How could you, Helene?”
“Look at it.” Helene lifted the bag. “How could I not?”
Denise’s eyes were captured again by the golden glow of the leather. She felt her indignation begin to melt.
“Butit’s human skin!” she said, as much to remind herself of that hideous fact as to drag it out into the open.
“Not human . . . at least according to the Supreme Court.”
“I don’t care what those old farts say, it’s still human skin!”
Helene shook her head, “Fetal skin, Denise. From abortions. And it’s legal. If fetuses were legally human, you couldn’t abort them. So the Supreme Court finally had to rule that their skin could be used.”
“I know all about that, Helene.”
Who didn’t know about Ranieri v. Verlaine? The case had sent shock waves around the country. Around the world! Denise’s church had formed a group to go down to Washington to protest it. As a matter of fact—
“Helene, you were out on Pennsylvania Avenue with me demonstrating against the ruling! How could you—?”
Helene shrugged. “Things change. I’m still anti-abortion, but after we moved away from Fairfield and I lost contact with our old church group, I stopped thinking about it. Our new friends aren’t into that sort of stuff and so I, well, just kind of drifted into other things.”
“That’s fine, Helene, but how does that bring you to buying something like . . .” She pointed to the bag and, God help her, she still wanted to run her hands over it. “This!”
“I saw one. We went to a reception – some fund-raiser for the homeless, I think – and I met a woman who had one. I fell in love with it immediately. I hemmed and hawed, feeling guilty for wanting it, but finally I went out and bought myself one.” She beamed at Denise. “And believe me, I’ve never regretted it.”
“God, Helene.”
“They’re already dead, Denise. I don’t condone abortion anymore than you do, but it’s legal and that’s not likely to change. And as long as it stays legal, these poor little things are going to be killed day after day, weeks after week, hundreds and thousands and millions of them. We have no control over that. And buying foet accessories will not change that one way or another. They’re already dead.”
Denise couldn’t argue with Helene on that point. Yes, they were dead, and there was nothing anyone could do about that. But . . .