Jim nodded, shifted into drive, and turned the radio to their favorite satellite station without comment as he sped his wards back to their Midtown barn.
Cat pulled up their schedule on her phone. They were indeed heading back to Cooper for an outfit change, scheduled to be seen walking into a brand-new Nolita restaurant in two hours with a pair of actors that IQ—Cooper’s biggest men’s title—would be putting on the covers of the November and December issues, respectively. Cat hadn’t met either of them before, but she wasn’t thrilled about going to dinner with two closeted narcissists wearing tinted moisturizer and lifts in their shoes. She showed their photos to Bess, who shook her head sadly.
“I hate, hate, hate actors,” she said. “And what is this restaurant anyway? They only serve toast? Is that a joke?”
Traffic thickened and they pulled to a stop. Cat used her phone to change the car’s satellite station from XMU to a twenty-four-hour internet channel of Pop-Up Video. LCD screens unfolded from the roof, playing the video for “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” by R.E.M.
The two girls sang along quietly at first, but were screaming by the time they got to “Leonard Bernstein.” Jim joined in on the choruses. Cat couldn’t hear his voice, but she could see his lips moving in the rearview mirror.
For a moment, as the three of them sang in the car, she almost felt happy.
The song ended.
Traffic released.
The SUV pulled into the Cooper garage. They climbed out of the car with significantly less care than they’d used getting in; Cat heard stitches popping on her thigh seams, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t have much farther to go. The spider silk underlay of Bess’s gorgeous cocktail dress, made over a period of years on the island of Madagascar, had come loose from its moorings and hung down haphazardly over her knees. Bess fingered it sadly.
“I bet we can get away with jeans tonight,” Cat whispered.
Though it was 6:00 p.m., RAGE was still abuzz with activity. The cubicles were filled with at least a dozen women Cat had never seen before; she assumed they were permalancers hired to take over the workload that she and Bess had left behind. Through the glass walls of Margot’s office they could see Lou, Margot, Paula, and Constance assessing a naked plus-size model who was currently halfway into a burlap evening gown, her face and arms obscured by the fabric ballooning over her head.
The staff had moved from their high-summer uniform of filmy silks onto that year’s pre-fall theme of midi-length shifts in a mix of suede and sweatshirt material, a half-nod toward colder days. Many of the new hires wore eggplant tones; one of them even had eggplant-colored thigh-high kidskin boots so tight they could be stockings. Cat didn’t recognize them, couldn’t even guess the brand. She hadn’t been to a showroom in weeks.
As they strolled through the cubicles on their way to the southwest corner, only Molly greeted them, giving both women a hug. She wore a navy boiler suit with “BEALE” written on the pocket in silver paint, having taken Cat’s suggestion that she “find a work uniform in order to free up time in the day” rather literally. Still, on her twenty-year-old frame the polyester blend draped with some charm, and she’d rolled the sleeves and cuffed the legs just so above her platinum sneakers, which transformed her from overdressed college intern to chic insider, hair pulled back into a clean ponytail, two inches of blue remaining on the tips.
“Raphael and June are just grabbing some dinner, but they’ll be back soon,” Molly reported, holding open the door to Cat’s office. They walked in.
Cat’s office was a mess. The desk was covered with accessories and sewing notions; her Aeron chair had been removed and replaced with two makeup stools. Her books had been boxed up and stacked in the corner to make room for three dozen pairs of shoes now residing on the shelves.
Bess had tried to make some impact on the space, too, replacing the PMS board items with causes and buzzwords in the hope that it would rub off on anyone who came into the room:
+ —
nickel mines diamond mines
Nile Valley Silicon Valley
urine-powered batteries cold fusion
child diplomats child soldiers
Cat was the only one who paid attention to it, although Molly had eventually texted a photo of the board to Ella, who had rolled her eyes and deleted it. June the stylist had her own list tacked to the back of the door, dividing the city’s designers into “lets us keep merch” and “demands merch back,” undoubtedly more of interest to visitors to the space than the PMS board.
Cat rooted around on the desk until she found a tiny pair of scissors, which she used to snip the already-ripping side seam of her dress until it was loose enough for her to wriggle out of. She snapped the fabric of the industrial-strength rubber bodysuit that Raphael had insisted she wear underneath the structured cocktail dress. Her internal organs, sensing freedom was nigh, started to ache.
“I think we have to cut this suit off,” she said.
“There’s a hook on the desk somewhere,” Bess replied, moving her hand through the debris until she found a coated vinyl shepherd’s crook. “Stand up and turn around.”
“We have to get it off or I’m just going to pee in it!” Cat cried, her stomach cramping.
Bess failed to budge the clasps.
“Hold on,” she said. “I need more leverage.” She took off her shoes, braced one foot up on the desk, and pushed against the wall. “Okay: I’m gonna pull!”
At that moment, Molly opened the door and the whole office got a glimpse of Bess in her orange spider-silk slip trying to yank the bodysuit off Cat: two giant swans bent half-naked over a desk, standing in a puddle of priceless clothes.
The permalancers sharing the nearest cube rolled their eyes. “Is that what they do all day? I have an MFA from Iowa and I’m still not full-time,” one muttered to the other. “This is horseshit.”
“Tell me about it,” said the other one. “I’ve been interning at Cooper every summer since the ninth grade.”
Bess gave up, finally using scissors to cut it off, and the leotard snapped against the wall like a rubber band. Cat was too frustrated to laugh; huge red welts glowed where the seams had dug into her skin.
They both changed into comfortable clothing: plain black jeans and an ivory jacquard-knit top structured with a lace effect from Alexander McQueen for Bess; and leather leggings, a black crocheted zip-up hoodie from Adidas, and a pair of rattlesnake sneakers from Jimmy Choo for Cat.
As they were wiping off their makeup and reapplying moisturizer, Raphael and June walked in the door. Cat braced herself for a wave of criticism but instead felt the quiet joy of approval.
“I love this,” June said immediately, pointing to their clothes. “Casual wear says, we are comfortable with each other. It’s totally convincing.”
“Cocktail dresses are for beards,” Raphael agreed immediately. “Let’s do red lips and clean skin.”