Subject: Re: Still a stud
Don’t tell meyou had a crush on Scully, right?
@
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, I 1:09 a.m.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: Re: Still a stud
Ah, Scully.Yes, I did have a crush on her You actually sort of look like her: All you need is a navy suit and one of those FBI badges pinned on you and you’d be set to go. Can you spout off medical jargon on cue? If so, I might fall in love with you.
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, I 1:22 a.m.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: This do the trick?
White male, 38. Stress lesions along the superior vena cava, anterior left lung and bronchi Code Blue! He’s bradying down! We need a pericardiocentesis stat!
Are you in love with me yet?
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, I 1:23 a.m.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: Sure did
Totally am. Want to have dinner Saturday night?
On Saturday Daphne comes into the city to go shopping with Jess and me. Our mission: date wear to impress Richard. Jess guarantees that a new outfit will give me all the confidence I need to make the evening a success. I hope she’s right, because ever since I agreed to the date, I’ve been feeling more nervous than excited. I’m nervous about dating again generally, and I’m nervous about dating someone from work. Compounding my anxiety is the fact that Richard and I have not talked face-to-face since our lunch at Bolo. We haven’t even spoken on the phone. I recognize that e-mail allows you to be much bolder than you truly feel inside. Part of me worries that it’s the cyberspace equivalent of having sex too quickly and then having to face your guy the next morning, sober and without makeup. Richard and I have said an awful lot of flirtatious things over the computer, but sitting across the table from him is a different matter altogether, and anticipating the first moment in the restaurant makes me nothing short of queasy.
So Jess, Daphne, and I start out bright and early on our shopping spree. We hit Intermix on lower Fifth first as it is only a few blocks from Jess’s apartment. The dance music blaring through the store is a pretty good indication that the clothes are too trendy for me. I don’t do clubs anymore, and I’m over having to yell to be heard at a bar, so certainly the same applies when I’m shopping.
I shout this sentiment to Jess, but she holds up her hand to signal that she’s not ready to leave. I watch her whip expertly through a rack of clothing, finding a funky pair of white pants, a paisley silk halter, and a fuchsia shrug. They are items that I would never pick up on my own, as an ensemble or even individually, but Jess has an amazing sense of style. She also has a knack for pairing garments you would never imagine going together to create a completely original look. Of course, having gobs of money helps in that department. She can afford a lot, but she can also afford the inevitable mistakes all women make when shopping. Who doesn’t know the phenomenon of loving something in a dressing room and hating it at home? If I buy something I don’t end up wearing, I berate myself for months, but at any given moment, Jess has a dozen designer rejects still hanging in her closet, worn once, if at all. The great tragedy of our friendship, at least from my perspective, is the fact that we don’t wear the same size. I would especially kill to make my feet grow one inch and fit into Jess’s rainbow of Jimmy Choos.
Still, despite trusting Jess in matters of fashion, I am skeptical of her selections now. “That’s so not me,” I say, pointing to the halter she is holding up against my torso. I glance at the white pants in her other hand. “And there’s no time to get those hemmed.” Pants off the rack never work when you’re only five four.
“Daphne can do a makeshift job. Right, Daph?” Jess asks.
Daphne nods eagerly. She is a whiz on the domestic front. She knows how to do little things, like fold egg whites, get red wine stains out of garments, or arrange flowers. I don’t know where she picked most of the stuff up. It certainly wasn’t from our mother, who has trouble lining up the seams of pants on a hanger. Not that I can talk. Hanging pants was one of the things Ben always did for me. Before I lived with him, most of my wardrobe could be found draped over the backs of various chairs. Which is exactly where they’ve returned.
“Just try them.” Jess points to the dressing room again, with authority. I obey her instruction, thinking to myself that when she does have kids, she’ll be the rare mother who gives teeth to the concept of time-out.