A Dangerous Dress (23 page)

When I got back there, I was trying to figure out how to tell her. Remember, I was still playing French salesgirl. If I was going to break the bad news that she had just been flashing her tit at the whole store for absolutely no reason, I didn’t want to choose that moment to come out of the closet, as it were, about not actually being French.

I was going to say “Eet eez wrong.” Only I was pretty sure that wasn’t specific enough. So then I thought about “Eet eez backward.” But
backward
seemed like a very English word, and I didn’t know if a French person speaking English, which was what I was supposed to be, would say that. I was trying out “Zees eez zee front” in my head, when she said:

“He is just the best.”

“Excuse me?” I know, I should have said
“Excusez-moi?,”
but she didn’t notice. Unfortunately, she kept going.

“George. Isn’t he just the best? He is just the
best,
” she said. She unzipped the dress and stepped out of it. Now she was standing there almost naked, with
both
of her tits just staring at me—hi, how are you—and wearing nothing but a G-string that would make a stripper blush.

And those tie-me-up, tie-me-down boots.

I was embarrassed. She sure wasn’t, though. She just kept talking the way you would chat with people in a crowded elevator. “He buys me these amazing things,” she said. She smiled. “He bought me these boots, you know.” Like those boots were the one thing in the world that every girl wished for. Then she sighed.
Sighed.
“He is the best,” she said.

Let me be clear: There is absolutely, positively no excuse for the way George treated that woman. None. Period.

But in my personal opinion, there is also no excuse for her loving him for treating her that way. I had helped her try on sixteen different outfits, but suddenly I could not even stand being in the dressing room with her. I left, and never told her about the dress.

I asked Madeline to help good old George pay, because I knew I might say something that could get me fired. So I let him pay, and let them leave. I was so disgusted with the whole episode, I could only think of one positive result of the encounter.

I would never see either of them again.

N
ow kindly tell me this.

How was I supposed to know that stupid obnoxious George worked for the State Department?

Of the United States.

Or that the fancy party he bought his girlfriend that backward dress for was a formal dinner with the President of France?

Simply put, there was absolutely no way I could have known.

First, stupid George never said so. Second, stupid George’s girlfriend never said so. Third, nothing about stupid George’s Dockers looked like State Department issue. Fourth, what on earth was somebody on a government salary doing buying his girlfriend a 3,800-euro Armani dress—which, with the crappy exchange rate, equals almost 4,800 American dollars? Or those Fuck Me boots, for that matter. I mean, is that what we are paying our tax dollars for? I think not. I think somebody at the old IRS ought to be taking a very close look at stupid George’s Form 1040. And finally, a very big fifth, what kind of bonehead representative of our very own United States government thinks it’s socially proper, much less a good idea, to take his extremely attractive doormat of a girlfriend to a formal state dinner with her left tit hanging out of her dress? Would you have known? I rest my case.

I should also mention that, according to French news reports which Celestine told me about later, President Chirac was actually very happy with stupid George’s girlfriend’s dress. Which, if you consider the abysmal state of relations between the United States and France these days, was something of a diplomatic coup, which should count in my favor.

But not according to George. The asshole.

By now you have probably figured out that I did in fact see control freak George and his pushover girlfriend again. In fact, they came in the very next morning, after the state dinner.

George was mad. Actually, he was way beyond mad. Crazed. Insane. Ranting and spitting and flailing his arms. I will not lower myself to his level and tell you the things he said about me. People should not talk like that, and do not deserve to have such vile insults preserved in print if they do.

At one point I thought I was going to hit him. I didn’t, though. I was sure Mister Giorgio Armani would not approve. So I just stood there while jerkoff George sputtered all over me.

The entire time, his girlfriend never said a word. Not one word.

In the thick of George’s tirade, I glanced over at her and actually caught her eye. We looked at each other for a good ten seconds—long enough for me to be sure she knew the whole mess was George’s fault. He had insisted she buy that dress. He had made her humiliate herself. Now he just needed to shift the blame to somebody else.

When she couldn’t look me in the eye anymore, she stared at the floor instead.

Even though I hadn’t done a thing, I felt mortified. It wasn’t enough that George had made a fool of his girlfriend in public; now he had to humiliate me, too. In front of all my coworkers. In front of my best friend. In front of all the customers in the store. Including a very tall, good-looking man who was browsing through the ties.

Well excuse me for noticing him from the depths of my despair, but he was
extremely
good-looking.

Then I forgot about him. Because I heard George saying that if I wasn’t fired, he was going to get the store closed down. I doubt he would have tried that. And if he had tried, I doubt he could have done it, State Department or no. But it was perfectly clear that he would keep on making a huge stink until he got his way. Huge stinks are bad for business. So they fired me.

Just like that. On the spot. Old George wasn’t satisfied until the rest of the sales staff literally marched me out the door. Every single one of them. Including Celestine. For a minute, I was afraid
she
was going to hit George. There was no reason for both of us to get fired, so I caught her eye and shook my head no
.

Ten seconds later, I was standing on the sidewalk on Avenue George V. Unemployed. Stunned. I felt like I had run full speed into a wall. The curse of Grandma’s dress had struck again. I was so distracted, I didn’t even hear it when a man’s voice behind me asked, “What just happened?” I just kept staring at the store.

Then all of a sudden I couldn’t see the store anymore. Because a man had stepped in front of me. A very tall man. A very good-looking very tall man. I was stunned, but I wasn’t blind. He was the man I had seen in the store, buying a tie while George spewed invective.

“I’m sorry,” he said, with a distinctly American accent. He was at least six-foot-four, and he had to bend down a little to talk to me. He had curly black hair and dark brown eyes, and he spoke softly, like he wanted to be sure his words didn’t hurt me the way George’s had. It was awfully considerate of him. “I saw you in the store.”

“I know. You were buying a tie.” In fact, he was holding the small package.

He looked down at it, and I swear, he got this guilty expression on his face.

“No I wasn’t.” He quickly put his hands—and the package—behind his back. Which I thought was odd. Although frankly I had more important things on my mind—like for example, that I had just gotten fired. For the second time in five days.

“I only came in near the end,” he said. “What happened?”

To the very best of my recollection, here is exactly how I answered him.

“This stupid American man bought a very expensive dress for his girlfriend. I tried to tell him he was making a terrible mistake. But he didn’t want to listen. So he paid a small fortune, she wore it, and they both got totally humiliated in front of Jacques Chirac. He needed to blame somebody else, so I got fired.”

“You’re kidding,” said the good-looking tall man. He wasn’t just good-looking: He was also pretty young. Maybe twenty-nine. Maybe thirty.

“I would not kid about something like that.” I looked back at the store. “Fashion morons,” I muttered, thinking about George and, I’m sorry to say, his doormat girlfriend.

“What did you say?”

“I said, fashion morons. Who would believe you’d find them at Armani?”

He glanced at the storefront. Then he turned back to me. “Fashion morons?” he asked, and I nodded, yes. “At Giorgio Armani?”

“Armani Collezioni, actually.” I may have just gotten fired, but if there is one thing my Uncle John has taught me, it is to be precise about your work.

“Stick with Giorgio Armani,” he advised. “We don’t want to confuse people.”

Huh? The only person he was confusing was me. Which he then continued to do. He pulled a little pad and a pen out of his pocket. He furiously scribbled something on the pad. When he was finished scribbling, he looked at the store, looked at me, and said, “This is great!”

“I don’t see how this is so great.”

“But it is. Don’t you see? You’re
perfect.
”

“Well, thank you,” I said. I still didn’t know what he was talking about. But never turn down a compliment. Especially not one from such a nice-looking man.

“You told that American he was making a mistake buying that dress.”

“I
tried
to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“And he was sorry later.”

“Of course. They made a ridiculous mistake.”

“This is too good to be true.” He beamed.

“What are you talking about?” I can only take being confused for just so long.

“You don’t know.” At first he sounded puzzled. Then he shook himself, like a big dog shaking off water. “Of course you don’t. Sorry. Silly me.” He was charming and good-looking and a little goofy at the same time. He reminded me of a Labrador. Incidentally, I like dogs. Particularly Labradors. “I’m Reed,” he said. “Reed James. I’m a TV producer.”

Without even thinking, I said, “You’re kidding.” I guess maybe I had kind of a suspicious look on my face. It had nothing to do with Reed. Just a few days before, I had been thoroughly abused by those awful Movie People. And the movies and TV are pretty much the same thing, right? So my first impulse was to assume the worst about Reed.

He misunderstood why I looked suspicious. “No, really,” he said. “I know that sounds like a pickup line. But I really am. I’m a television news producer.”

“News?” That didn’t sound much like the movies at all. I thought maybe I should give the television news producer a chance. So I smiled at him.

“Fox News,” he announced proudly.

At the time, I did not know a great deal about Fox News. I don’t watch a lot of news, but I did have some slight idea what Fox News was about. For example, I knew that it was quite popular in Kirland, because people talked about such things. When you saw them in the market, or at a funeral, or at lunch in the Panel Room after church on Sunday. In fact, I specifically remembered something old Annie Dobash said. Annie is the oldest living person in Kirland, Indiana. She is only going to appear in the story just this once, because she is really not relevant. Except for the fact that I remember her saying she watches Fox News, and she loves seeing Bill O’Reilly give those Hollywood fancy boys hell.

I continued smiling at Reed. “Really,” I said, sounding very interested. “Fox News?” The fact is, I was at least a little interested. Plus, it’s God’s honest truth that men like it when you sound interested in what they do. And Reed was quite adorable.

Reed smiled down at me. “So you know Fox News?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“And you still want to talk to me?”

I laughed. Charmingly, I hope.

By the way, Reed had very long eyelashes.

“All I know,” I said, “is that I love seeing Bill O’Reilly give those Hollywood fancy boys hell.”

“I
can’t believe it,” said Reed.

“Believe what?”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “This is just too great. I mean, it’s too perfect. I’m here in France
specifically
looking for a fresh new American voice. A real American in Europe who has a real American point of view.”

I have a point of view. In fact I have lots of them. I figured that whatever point of view Reed was looking for in somebody, I must have one in there someplace. I said, “I have a point of view.”

“So I see,” he said. “Plus you’re a girl.” When an attractive, age-appropriate man is talking to me, I ordinarily insist on being called a woman. Nowadays you really cannot let men diminish you by calling you a girl. At least, as a general rule you cannot. But Reed was being so enthusiastic about me that I didn’t want to interrupt him. “We have a little trouble with the female eighteen-to-thirty-five demographic,” he explained. “So your being a girl is a huge plus. And you’re a really cute girl.”
Oooh. He thinks I’m really cute.
“Which is obviously even better. I mean, with radio, who cares what Rush Limbaugh looks like? But we’re on TV.” He crossed his fingers, as if hoping his next question would have a particular answer. “Where are you from?”

“Indiana.”

“Yes!” He began jumping up and down. Then he stopped, bent toward me, and crossed his fingers again. “Big city or small town?”

“
Very
small town.”

“Yes!” He got so excited, I swear I thought he was going to hurt himself. He was literally dancing in the street. He wasn’t a wonderful dancer, but hey, nobody’s perfect.

Then he stopped and looked at me again. Finally he asked, “You aren’t a lesbian, are you?”

Let me just say, if he was asking me that question because it had something to do with Fox News and fresh new American voices, it would be bad. Maybe even against the law. But if he was asking me because he was trying to figure out . . . oh, for instance, whether to ask me to dinner, then I thought it was a perfectly fair question.