A Dangerous Dress (22 page)

But while Stavros and Christian were haggling about who asked first, I spotted Shawn. He was at the front of the boat, which I guess is fore. Then I spotted Omar at the rear of the boat, which is aft. They were both heading toward Celestine, who was in the middle, which presumably is amidships. I didn’t see Benn, but life being what it is, I had no doubt whatsoever that he would arrive at exactly the same time as the other two.

I squeezed between Stavros and Christian. And, I am not kidding, I whispered in Celestine’s ear, “Abandon ship.”

I grabbed her hand and pulled. Moving was not easy. We were fighting the crowd, the swaying boat, the high heels, and the effects of a considerable amount of alcohol. But we were both highly motivated. So in seconds we were up on deck.

Unfortunately, we were still in the middle of the Seine. And you cannot just step off a moving boat in the middle of a river. “I am so dead,” Celestine lamented.

Omar poked his head out of the hatch. He hadn’t spotted Celestine yet, but the deck wasn’t crowded, so I had to agree with Celestine: She was so dead.

Then we sailed past a big green buoy. I do not know a lot about boats or rivers. But my general sense is that buoys exist to tell people in boats that something is coming which they need to steer around. Sure enough, just ahead and to our left was the little park we departed from. I thought the boat was docking, and we could escape—only then I realized we were on the wrong side of the park. We were not stopping, just sailing by. Close by. Close enough to see the glowing tips of the cigarettes in the mouths of the couples who sat at the edge of the park and dangled their feet down the steep stone walls.

I pushed a woman wearing a jeweled Egyptian bra and skirt and headdress out of my way.

“Colette as Cleopatra,” Celestine said to me.

“We’re jumping,” I said to Celestine.

“What??”

Left to her own devices, Celestine would have done no such thing. But I did not leave it up to her. When we were as close as we were going to get, I jumped.

I reached my left hand toward the top of the stone wall that sloped from the park down into the river. I would have reached with both hands, only my right hand was holding on to Celestine. So like it or not, when I jumped, she jumped.

Fortunately, my left hand caught the edge of the walkway.

Unfortunately, when Celestine landed on top of me, I lost my grip.

Fortunately, Celestine managed to clamber up over me and grab onto the walkway.

Unfortunately, I discovered that Helmut Lang stilettos are extremely pointy, at least when somebody wearing them is clambering over your head.

Fortunately, I nonetheless managed to grab hold of Celestine’s Helmut Langs, which, also fortunately, stayed on her feet.

Unfortunately, my bottom half, including my Balenciaga heels and that lovely Lang silk skirt, got quite a soaking in the Seine. Which is not the very cleanest waterway in the world.

Finally, and most fortunately of all, Celestine, together with several considerably inebriated denizens of the little park, pulled me up out of the river and to safety.

“You are a crazy person,” Celestine observed when we had finally stopped laughing.

“I think so.”

“You are the only person in the world who would do such a thing for me.”

“I hope so.”

Later, in the taxi we finally convinced to take us home, notwithstanding my soaking-wet bottom half, she told me, “You are the best friend I ever had.” And I knew she meant it.

“You too.” And I meant it, too.

“I would do the same thing for you,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

The thought of Celestine sloshing around the Seine in her Balenciaga and Kors and vintage and Langs made me giggle. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, good.”

“But there is something you can do for me.”

“What?”

“If you see Josh Thomas in our neighborhood, kill him for me.”

To which Celestine said, “I will.”

She said it so solemnly, I worried that maybe she would. I suspect the French authorities are fairly understanding when it comes to crimes of the heart, but I’m not sure killing the man who kissed your best friend and then threw away her Grandma’s dress falls in that category. So I said, “Well, maybe don’t actually kill him. But slap him.”

She smiled at that. “I will.”

I smiled too. Because I knew she would.

T
hen again, maybe slapping Josh was not the very best idea. He was possibly the only person in Paris who might know where Grandma’s dress was. I decided that if I saw him again, even if he was stalking me, I would be brave and demand that he tell me how to find it.

Only I never saw Josh in our neighborhood again, and neither did Celestine.

To try to take my mind off the dress, I focused as much attention as I could on my fabulous job. Which, it turned out, was remarkably educational. In only my first four days at Armani Collezioni, I learned quite a lot. For example:

 
I loved my new job. I loved being good at it. Even though I was still in mourning over Grandma’s dress, I was having fun. I couldn’t help it.

Until late on my fourth day at Armani, when this American man came in, followed by his American girlfriend. Maybe it had nothing to do with his being American. Maybe if I spoke French and was helping French customers, the same thing would have happened. But I doubt it.

The man was not what you’d call a fashion type by a long shot. He was wearing tan Dockers and an ivory cotton crewneck sweater. Maybe J. Crew. And loafers.

Then his girlfriend teetered in. She must’ve been walking twenty or thirty feet behind him. Which was completely understandable, considering the pair of Fuck Me boots she was wearing.

I hope I am not shocking anyone. But if you do not know this about women’s shoes, you have led a very sheltered life, and it is about time you learn. There is a whole species of women’s shoes called Fuck Me shoes. They all have two things in common: First, they all have very high heels. Second, they all send a certain very clear message.

Not all high-heeled shoes are Fuck Me shoes, but all Fuck Me shoes have high heels. There are no such things as Fuck Me flats.

Incidentally, I should make this clear: As I mentioned, Celestine and I both wore extreme high heels to that very exclusive fashion show. Balenciagas and Helmut Langs. The heels on those shoes were radically high and dangerously sharp. They made our legs look . . . well, it would be immodest for me to say, but suffice it to say there is a reason women wear such painful shoes, and in our case it was an awfully good reason. But they most certainly were not Fuck Me shoes.

Fuck Me shoes come in many different breeds. One of the rarest breeds is Fuck Me boots. Most boots don’t have high heels. Most high-heeled boots don’t send that certain message. But every so often a pair of boots just cries out for . . . well, you know.

The girlfriend’s boots cried out.

I feel bad for just calling her “the girlfriend.” She deserves to be called by name, but I can’t do it. Because it doesn’t matter that they were in the Armani Collezioni store for two hours. It doesn’t matter that the man made her try on sixteen different dresses. All that time, he never once called her by name. So I can’t, either.

The man’s name is George.

The girlfriend’s boots looked brand-new. In fact, I felt sure George bought them for her just the day before, and now he insisted she wear them.

To be fair, they were flattering. Sexy. In a Mistress Eva dominatrix tie-me-up web site kind of way.

Not that I have ever looked at any such web site.

Here’s how I know the boots were the man’s idea: The girlfriend told me she had been wearing them for four hours already, and it was only two in the afternoon. Now you must understand: Sometimes women will choose to wear Fuck Me shoes, without being asked. But wearing extreme heels is a very strategic exercise. You have to balance
How great will I look?
against
How long can I stand the pain?
Nobody, and I do mean nobody, would voluntarily put on these boots at ten A.M. and plan to wear them walking around Paris all day.

Because they hurt. High heels hurt, in general. And these boots hurt this woman’s feet, specifically. They hurt her a lot. I was in and out of her dressing room at least sixteen times. She had to take the boots off for almost every outfit. Every time she took them off, she sat down, rubbed her feet, and said, “Oooooooohhh.”

Typing “oooooooohhh” only conveys so much. I do not mean oh yeah baby that feels so good oh more yeah oh yeah oooooooohhh. No. I mean, oh God help me these boots hurt, let me get them off before they kill me . . . oooooooohhh.

Every man—especially George—should be required to put on a pair of four-inch Jimmy Choos. And then walk, say, from the Eiffel Tower to Notre Dame cathedral. Which is only about three miles. Hee hee.

There is no reason George should have put his girlfriend through bondage boot hell, because she didn’t need the boots to look sexy. She was probably five-eight in bare feet, slender without being skinny. In fact, she was a thirty-six, which you will remember is the same as an American size four. Even though she was so slender, she had nice round tits, not at all saggy. They were so nice, I assumed that George had bought them for her, just like he bought those boots.

In case you are wondering, I am not telling you about her tits to be prurient. I am telling you because it is highly relevant.

The girlfriend wore her hair long and straight, the way men like. Bleached blonde, which was the only thing about her appearance I would have changed. I assumed he made her bleach it for him.

You can tell, I did not like George very much. Here is why.

His girlfriend tried on sixteen different outfits over the course of two hours, for no other reason than because he wanted her to. He did not care one whit what she liked, or didn’t like. He was buying her a dress to make
him
look good.

Number six was the most flattering. It was a fitted jacket and matching short skirt in an extremely dramatic black-and-white diagonal print. Very powerful. Even though I would not have picked those boots for her to wear, or that color blonde for her hair, the combination of her hair, that outfit, her body in that outfit, and those boots . . . well, she could have walked out of the store and had her pick of the richest, handsomest, most fashionable men in Paris.

Come to think of it, maybe that was why her boyfriend did not like outfit number six.

He did not like much of anything, which pretty much made him an idiot. We are not talking about the Salvation Army thrift shop here. We are talking about Armani Collezioni. Plus, he was having her try on the top stuff. The cheapest thing she put on was 1,600 euros, and the most expensive was about 3,800. Two thousand to almost 4,800 dollars. Boyfriend George didn’t like any of it. Until we got to number sixteen.

What happened next was partly my fault. But you really can’t blame me. Because I had been working with these people for two whole hours. Nonstop.

At some point, a human being just has to . . . well, you know.

Pee.

So I showed the girlfriend outfit sixteen. It was a gorgeous iridescent blue silk dress, with a high neck in front and an asymmetrical cutout back, the cutout dropping diagonally from left to right, so the woman’s left shoulder would be covered but her right shoulder blade would be totally bare.

Then I went to pee.

Oh, one more extremely relevant detail about the dress: The zipper was
on the side.
Not just the zipper, in fact. The label, too.

I came out of the bathroom feeling much better. Until I saw the girlfriend, walking out of the dressing room.

She had the dress on backward.

This actually happens every so often. Particularly with dresses where the zipper is on the side. Usually it does not have serious consequences. But remember how I told you about the asymmetrical cutout in the back? Because she was wearing the dress backward, that asymmetrical cutout was
in the front.
Which meant that the woman’s left tit was where her right shoulder blade should have been in the dress.

Which left this perfect, round, not-at-all-saggy tit just hanging out there in all its glory, for the world to see.

I changed my opinion. The girlfriend’s tits were real. At least she didn’t do that for him.

She was not entirely comfortable with her tit hanging out. I mean how would you feel? She kept tugging at the dress, trying to hike it up to cover herself. But the dress wouldn’t cooperate. It wasn’t cut that way. For which you can’t blame the dress. When the girlfriend looked around for help, I broke into a run. I reached her and started to say, “Eet eez—”

Only George cut me off. “Perfect.”

“But,” she said, “I’m all—”

“Perfect.”

“You do not understand,” I said. “Zee dress eez—”

“Perfect,”
he repeated, making it perfectly clear he did not want my opinion.

He was already lecturing her about how the Riviera and Cannes—he pronounced it
cans
—are filled with topless Frenchwomen who don’t think twice about modesty, so for once she should stop being small-minded.

He had made up his mind: This was the dress he was going to buy. The dress he expected her to wear that way. Asshole.

Even if George wouldn’t let me tell him the dress was backward, I could still tell the girlfriend. I hurried her off the sales floor and back to the dressing room, so she would not have to spend one more second exposed.