The Opposite of Me (21 page)

I ran down the escalator leading from the street into the mall. I hurried down the corridor, scanning the names of the stores I passed. Then I saw it: Victoria’s Secret.

“We’re having a sale on cotton panties,” a saleswoman with a silver nose ring told me as I burst inside like someone was chasing me. “Two for one.”

“I need something sexy,” I told her.

“Are you going on a honeymoon?” the saleswoman asked. I could see her leopard-skin bra strap peeking out from underneath her white tank top. “Because we just got in a gorgeous nightie and matching robe.”

A robe? Even the Victoria’s Secret saleswoman thought I was prim. She and the other saleswoman, who was lounging against the counter painting her nails dark purple, would probably laugh at me when I was gone.

“At least we unloaded those granny panties on her,” Purple Nails would say. “I thought we’d never get rid of them.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“What I really need is a garter belt,” I said grimly. “My old one’s all torn up.”

She blinked, then walked over to a display and handed me a garter belt. Black lace, no less.

Twenty minutes later, loaded down with pink bags filled with gel push-up bras, delicate lace thongs, and a red silk teddy, I
strode into the next shop over. I walked out a few minutes later wearing tight dark denim jeans, a nude lace camisole, and a dusty pink cropped suede jacket.

This was a start, but I needed more! There was an ache inside of me, a void I felt desperate to fill. I darted into shop after shop like an addict in search of a fix, my eyes ricocheting in all directions. What did I want? A soft leather hobo purse? Bronzing gel? A silky halter top in a shade of eggplant so deep it was almost black?

I twirled around, looking at the tantalizing options displayed on mannequins. The new spring line must’ve just come in: There were little shrug sweaters and tight T-shirts in sherbet colors. Strappy black heels that crisscrossed their way up the leg. Chunky silver hoop earrings and turquoise cuff bracelets. Off-the-shoulder dresses, flirty little skirts that skimmed the midthigh, gauzy bohemian tops with tulip sleeves. Suddenly I wanted it all: all the makeup I’d never worn, all the cute, sexy clothes I’d turned my sensible nose up at, knowing they would be out of style next season but my well-made classics would last me forever.

I collected an armful of clothes and hurried into a dressing room. I came out with two of the fitted little T-shirts in lime and cherry; a black silk turtleneck with a scoop taken out of the back so the curve of my spine was revealed; an incredibly flattering bustier trimmed in black lace; a fire engine red dress with a deep V-neck, and an off-the-shoulder cream-colored one, too. I looked around, breathing hard. Now I needed some funky earrings, and a new perfume, too. I wasn’t done yet; not by a long shot.

The woman behind the MAC counter was staring at me.

“Come here,” she said, motioning me over. “We’re doing free makeovers today. I’m dying to get my hands on you.”

Normally free makeovers scare me. I’ve seen too many women get up from them looking twenty years older, with thick eyeliner and clown circles on their cheeks. But the MAC woman
was young and hip, with a streak of pink in her black hair and a tattoo of a star on her right shoulder. She looked like she understood the concept of blending.

“What the hell,” I said. I laid my clothes on the counter and sat down on a stool.

“You’ve got strong eyes and lips,” she said, smoothing something cool and creamy over my face and wiping it off with a cotton pad. “I’d definitely recommend deep colors for you.”

“Nothing powder blue or green,” I pleaded.

“Relax,” she ordered. “Do I look like I’m going to turn you into a Stepford wife?”

I kept my eyes closed while tiny brushes tickled my eyelids and danced across my cheeks and a gentle pencil traced the outline of my lips.

“Where’s my plum eye shadow?” she murmured, and my eyes shot open in alarm.

“Keep them closed,” she ordered, wielding an evil-looking silver device that I recognized as an eyelash curler—Alex always had them lying around the bathroom.

Alex
.

“Stop frowning,” the MAC woman ordered me, and I made myself stop thinking about anything at all.

I felt her dot something under my eyes, then draw lines against my upper eyelashes.

“A little gold shimmer would be gorgeous with your olive complexion,” she murmured at one point, her fingers moving lightly over my face. “I’m going to dust a touch across your collarbone, too.”

A moment later she said, “Do you mind if I do something about those bangs?”

“Be my guest,” I said grandly, and she squirted something on them and went to work. I felt her unpin my hair and let it fall around my shoulders, then she began twirling sections of it in
her fingers and squirting it with something that smelled deliciously like grapefruit.

Fifteen minutes later I opened my eyes and stared into the mirror. A stranger stared back at me. My eyes seemed bigger, my skin glowed like I’d spent the afternoon on the beach, and my bangs were swept to one side, somehow calling attention to my cheekbones. And my lips . . . oh, my lips!

“You made them bigger,” I said, lifting a hand to touch them.

“The trick is to put a dot of concealer just above the bow in your upper lip,” she said. “Yours are pretty full, but it fools the eye into thinking your lips are even bigger.”

“I’ll take it all,” I told her. I pulled out my credit card.

“Good,” she said. “What I’m going to do is make you a chart explaining exactly how to put everything on so you can do it yourself next time. You need some good brushes, too. Makeup is really all about the brushes. And do us both a favor and let your bangs grow an inch or two longer.”

I grabbed the bags and chart she handed me and headed toward the escalator, pausing at every mirror I passed to gape at myself. Shoes. Now I needed shoes. I headed up one level and immediately spotted a pair of caramel-colored leather boots with tiny silver buckles crisscrossing the fronts. The leather was so supple the boots felt like they were practically melting in my hands. I had to have them; it was a physical craving so strong I was helpless in its grasp.

“Do you know the secret of these boots?” a saleswoman sidled over and whispered. “One of the heels is just the tiniest bit shorter than the other.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Put them on and walk across the room and you’ll see,” she instructed, hurrying into the stockroom to bring me back my size.

It was unbelievable. I didn’t just have new boots. I had a whole new walk. My hips jutted out like a runway model’s, and my rear end swayed ever so slightly from side to side. A guy riding the escalator turned to stare at me and tripped at the end when he forgot to step off.

“They’re worth every penny,” I told the saleswoman.

It wasn’t just the lipstick and the boots that were different.
I
was different, I suddenly realized. My shoulders weren’t anxiously hunched forward anymore. My eyes weren’t downcast. I was oozing something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something completely unfamiliar. Something powerful and wonderful and intoxicating.

“Can you give me a pair of those black heels, too? The ones that crisscross up the calves?” I asked, handing the saleswoman my credit card.

“Sure. Size eight, right? You know, Marilyn Monroe used to shave a bit off one of her heels, too,” the saleswoman confided, ringing me up. “Your boyfriend’s going to love them.”

“Boyfriend?” I said, winking. “Don’t you mean
boyfriends
?”

“You go, girl!” she said, putting my sensible black pumps and my new strappy sandals into a bag and handing them to me.

I slicked on another layer of my new lipstick and swayed all the way out onto the street. Later I’d assess the damage to my credit card and come to terms with what I’d just done. Later I’d panic and wonder if I should return everything or just shove it into the back of my closet and pretend like this never happened. But right now, all I wanted to do was revel in this absolutely exhilarating feeling.

The outside air was crisp and cool in my face. I lifted up my hand to hail a cab, then let it drop to my side, feeling my euphoria fade. I couldn’t sit at home alone while Alex and Bradley
had drinks. I knew I’d go crazy, imagining Bradley staring at Alex’s photos and telling her how gorgeous she looked while their thighs inched closer together. I felt the dangerous embers of my jealousy heating up again.

Alex and Bradley were going out to a bar? Fine, then I’d go to one, too. I’d have a glass of wine and revel in my new look and recapture some of the joy I’d felt when Ms. Givens had asked me back for another interview. I wouldn’t let Alex take that away from me, too.

I started walking downhill, toward the Potomac River. There was a seafood restaurant called Tony & Joe’s on the water, just about three blocks away. I strode down the sidewalk, and a couple of guys walking toward me stood back to let me pass. Funny, I was usually the one who stepped aside to let others pass. I’d never noticed it before. I was walking differently, taking up more space and not feeling apologetic about it. My arms swung my packages back and forth, and my strides were longer. A passing motorist whistled at me, and I turned to smile at him instead of ducking my head.

A drink was definitely what I needed. Maybe I’d treat myself to a nice dinner, too.

I was passing through the outdoor parking lot for the seafood restaurant when I heard the voices. A man’s low, angry voice and a woman’s high, pleading one. Probably just someone squabbling with her boyfriend, I thought, but instinct made me stop walking.

A pickup truck was blocking my view, so I stepped around it and the couple came into view. The man was fortyish, short and skinny, and he wore a suit and tie. I couldn’t see his eyes because mirrored sunglasses covered them, even though it was dusk.

“Will you please move and let me get into my car?” the woman was saying. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

“You’re such a bitch,” the man shouted. “You can’t talk to me? Why the fuck can’t you talk to me?”

The guy’s fury was clear; he was losing control. Should I call 911, or would that be overreacting? I wondered. He was moving closer to her, and she was backing up, and the expression on his face was one of rage. Neither of them had seen me. Should I yell for help? I glanced around wildly: The only person I could see was a man walking his dog along the water, but he was a hundred yards away. He might not hear me.

Before I could do anything, a sound exploded. Had the man thrown the woman against her car? Without thinking, I dropped my bags and ran toward them.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Get away from her!”

The man was rubbing his knuckles, and the woman was leaning back against the car. When he saw me, he didn’t say a word. He just walked away, like he was out for a Sunday afternoon stroll.

“Are you okay?” I asked, running over to the woman.

“I think so,” she said. But then her legs gave way and she slid down against the car to the ground. She looked like she was in shock; her face was so pale I was worried she might faint. Her blue eyes were wide and scared.

“Did he hit you?” I asked. I leaned over and scanned her face but couldn’t see any marks. “Should I call an ambulance?”

“He hit my car,” she said, pointing to a dent in the driver’s side door. She blew out her breath in a big whoosh, and I sighed in relief, too.

“But he might’ve hit me if you hadn’t come along,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I’m just glad I was here,” I said. “Do you want me to call the police?”

She shook her head. “That prince of a guy was my ex-husband,” she said.

“Wow,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Can you guess why I divorced him?” She laughed the kind of laugh that had no humor in it, then shook her head. “I’m such an idiot. I don’t know why I agreed to meet him tonight. We had some papers to sign and I should’ve just left them at his lawyer’s office, but I kept thinking about how we were married for seven years. I guess I wanted to honor it or something. I thought we could shake hands and wish each other well. I mean, he wasn’t anything like that when I first married him—”

She broke off and stood up.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “God, I’m a mess. Here I am telling you my life story. Thank you again.”

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I asked. She was still pretty pale. “Isn’t there someone you want to call?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. She reached out and pressed my hand between hers. Her hands were ice-cold. She brushed off her dress, then opened her car door and got in. But she didn’t put the key in the ignition.

“If you’re sure,” I said. I walked a few steps away and picked up my shopping bags, then I looked back. She was still sitting there, staring into space. She looked so sad. Impulsively, I hurried back to her car.

“I was just going to have a glass of wine,” I told her, motioning to the restaurant. “Do you want to join me? Maybe if you sit down and rest for a bit you’ll feel better.”

I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe it was the fact that her face was so open and friendly, with deep laugh lines radiating out from her eyes, attesting to the fact that this was a woman who usually smiled. Or maybe it was because I saw in her a kindred soul: Her life had unraveled, too, and now she was trying to put the pieces back together.