Valentine looked a bit sulky, because I knew she thought that black lace was just the thing, the only thing, when it came to lingerie.
“We’ll go shopping tomorrow,” said Clover. “We’ll make a day of it. But one thing to keep in mind, girls: just because I’m taking you lingerie shopping doesn’t mean that I expect you to wear it in front of somebody. Not necessarily and not by any means soon. I’m taking you lingerie shopping because lingerie is something for you. Not for a man. If there’s a man, that’s just a perk, but not the point. Understand?”
But I don’t think poor Val did, because later that night, when we were lying in our twin beds, she said, “What was Clover talking about, anyway? I’m so going to show Julian my lingerie.”
I rather wanted to tell her that I saw Clover’s point. But I didn’t, because I thought she’d only say that I was fourteen and didn’t have any boobs yet or anyone to show them to anyway. And you know what? She would have been right.
The next morning, Clover appeared at the foot of the staircase in a white cotton dress and this wonderful pale blond straw hat with a navy grosgrain ribbon. On her hands were a pair of little white gloves. I thought she looked like a most beautiful chaperone.
“No trousers please,” she said.
“But my green skirt’s dirty!” exclaimed Valentine, who was wearing a white T-shirt and black leggings, with her hair up in a messy bun. Perhaps she was thinking that if she ran into Julian, she’d better continue to look like a ballet dancer.
“Oh, all right,” said Clover. “Be glad Theo’s not here yet. When I was younger, she always made me dress up whenever we went shopping. When I was around Franny’s age or maybe a little younger, we used to dress up and go to the Armani store. Theo looks marvelous in Armani. She’d leave her credit card at home, and we’d pretend I was a young heiress from Denmark and that Theo was my British governess. So I’d get to try on all the clothing, see. We never bought anything but we did make them believe we were serious. Then I grew up and I didn’t really fit into Armani anymore.”
Clover sighed, remembering.
“Why not?” asked Valentine. “Shouldn’t you have fit into it better, once you grew up?”
“Oh, no,” said Clover, “not once I got my shape. Armani is for tall, narrow people. But who cares? There’s always lingerie! Come on, you two.”
We went outside, and stopped for “caffeine, God help me,” said Clover. Once she was caffeinated, she said, “Now. I suggest we do a tour. Like you do with museums. The art of undergarments. The demure and the not so demure.”
“The not so demure, please,” said Valentine.
“That settles it then. Demure it is, to begin with.”
So the first store we went was this tiny place in the Village that looked like a country store, with creaky wooden floors and everything smelling like lavender and sage. It mostly sold men’s button-down cotton shirts and women’s cotton dresses in pale, subtle colors, so we saw right away why Clover liked it.
“Is this where you get your dresses?” I asked her.
“A lot of them. Beautiful cotton is my favorite thing. Feel this.” She rubbed the sleeve of a blush-colored peasant dress. “See, you could make the most divine sheets out of that, no?”
I rubbed it, and it was heavenly.
“And see, these are the underpants they make.”
She gestured to a wooden barrel filled with white ruffled underpants in the softest cotton imaginable, and on the white backdrop were scattered various patterns: seersucker, bluebells, sun-washed plaids.
But Valentine said, “But cotton is boring. Where’s the lacy stuff?”
The salesman said, “Sorry, all of our stuff is cotton. It’s a hundred percent organic and it’s made right here in New York.”
Although Valentine left the store still thoroughly unconvinced that cotton could be sexy, she did say as soon as we got outside, “That salesguy was cute.”
I said I thought so too.
Clover said, “Yes, but I am afraid that he is not of the heterosexual persuasion.”
I am afraid that he is not of the heterosexual persuasion. I made a note of this phrase, to take it back to San Francisco. My friends would be so impressed—so much more ladylike than saying, Too bad, I think that guy’s gay.
Following Clover’s lead, we found ourselves in SoHo, “which is where the edgier stuff is,” Clover explained. “Oh, good,” said Valentine.
First stop, a store on Mercer Street.
“Now this is more like it,” said Valentine when we walked inside.