“They still seem relatively important,” Alison pointed out.
“Oh yes. One would have to say that history has been kind to pretty dresses. Less kind to the women who wear them, overall, but kind enough to the dresses themselves. Anne Boleyn. Mata Hari. Jackie Kennedy.” This Kate woman smiled at that, as if she had just said something wise. And then she reached for her wineglass, punctuating the finality of this observation.
“You’re not suggesting that I stop wearing them.”
“Not at all, they will serve you well, until they don’t.” A cryptic smile. Alison wanted to hit her.
“What are you two conspiring about?” Lars asked. The question floated across the table with a faux playfulness. The other guests rustled and turned.
“Your young actress is regretting her choice of attire for this truly exquisite evening, Lars,” Kate told him.
“I don’t,” he replied.
This again made the men chuckle. The weirdness of this whole dinner party never quite congealed into something she could explain. A cozy private dinner that Lars was throwing for twelve of his closest friends? There wasn’t anything cozy about the way the men leered anytime they got a chance, and the chick to her left, the one who had been so aggressive five minutes ago, was back in the action.
“You know you guys are animals,” she told them. “I’m offended on behalf of this darling girl in her teeny tiny dress—what’s your name again?”
“Alison.” Alison smiled, keeping the demure crust of good humor firmly in place.
“I’m offended on Alison’s behalf. You’re all looking at her like she’s part of the dinner! Okay, not the dinner. The dessert. Or the after-dinner drink. Or the after-dinner snack.” And now Miss Aggressive was putting her arm around Alison’s shoulder and leaning in, performing the role of the offended feminist friend. “What’s that fairy tale where they eat all the women? Red Riding Hood! The big bad wolf eats Red Riding Hood and her grandmother, which is really perverse if you think about it.” She started to make animal sounds, growling and miming that she was going to take a bite out of Alison’s bare shoulder. “Arroooooo,” she howled. She actually howled.
“Jesus Christ, Suzy.” One of the suited men, across the table, was smiling with an air of cheerful chagrin. “How much wine have you had?”
“Don’t change the subject. I saw you looking at this nubile young thing’s cleavage. I’m going to tweet about this. ‘Leering lemur eyes babe’s boobs, hashtag Per Say What?’”
“Where’s the ladies’ room?” Alison asked, trying for graciousness now and landing somewhere closer to embarrassment.
“Oh no no,” the bombing comedienne countered. “These guys are not getting treated to a sweet view of your tush running off in shame to the ‘ladies’ room.’ We’re going to have this out. They’re ogling you like you’re hot lunch.”
“Now we’ve moved on to lunch?” Lars asked, cool and perplexed.
“She’s your date, Lars, so presumably the dress is for you. Lunch and munch.” She grinned and leaned over the back of her chair, as if to physically stop Alison from escaping. “Presumably that’s the plan.”
“Knock it off, Suzy,” someone murmured. Both outraged and excited to have another target for her meager satire, Alison’s tormenter turned to see who had spoken. Alison took the opportunity to squeeze by her and stagger on those painful heels into the main dining room.
The place was calm, gorgeous, serene. A cool blue glow suffused the room; dusk was settling onto the city beyond the wall of windows, and the other diners—civilized, they look so civilized—were deep in quiet conversation. As she neared the waiters’ station, the master waiter looked up and immediately assumed a helpful air of propriety.
“Are you looking for the ladies’ room?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “The elevators.”
He nodded without comment and gestured simply for her to follow him. Nothing made sense; she just wanted to get out of there. Which now seemed much easier than it had any reason to be. She had had the foresight to pick up her utterly useless clutch, a teeny handbag so small it could barely hold a credit card and fifty bucks.
“Do you need anything?” the master waiter asked. There was no judgment, no cunning, no desire. Just the question.
“No,” she said. “Thank you.”
She stepped into the elevator. And after all that—after all that—it wasn’t until fifteen minutes later that anyone wondered where she had gone.
thirteen