“Well?”
“Sorry. Oh, sorry. That looks—amazing,” he told her, with a deliberate coolness.
“It’s a bit tight,” she said, making a face and pulling at the side like a ten-year-old. It was a self-conscious attempt to lighten the mood, which had shifted into something decidedly more treacherous. She should have paid more attention before, when they stopped bantering. Humoring him about that dress was maybe not the best idea she had ever had. She didn’t want to think about why, but she knew she had better get out of it.
“Ugh, I’m taking this off,” she told him.
“Oh, come on, you just put it on!” Dennis protested. “You have to at least let me see it with shoes.”
“Dennis—”
“It doesn’t look right! It needs high strappy heels, like they wear on television.”
“I’m not putting on heels for you.”
“Why not?” There was no question anymore. There was a meanness, a demand in his tone. She swallowed.
“I’m just not,” she said.
“Come on, Alison. You just told me, not ten minutes ago, you’ll do pretty much anything you have to.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’ve been saying it nonstop since I got here. You hate being in trashy magazines but you have to do it because that’s what they expect you to do. You don’t really like this Lars character but it’s nice to have a big director in your corner, so you fuck him and take clothes from him.”
“I like Lars a lot.”
“Just put some shoes on! What is the big deal?” He was sitting on the couch, his arms and his legs spread wide, like a drunken despot. Alison let her gaze drop momentarily to his glass, and the vodka bottle. She hadn’t paid enough attention.
“Okay. Okay!” She smiled, her most dazzling smile. “As you may well suspect, I do have a pair of strappy sandals, very high heels, which will look sensational with this dress. I will go get them.”
He stood. Even though he was clearly drunk now, he was steady enough. Which made it worse somehow. The apartment was so small, it only took him two steps to position himself between her and the door to the bedroom. His left hand lifted, letting a pair of black slingbacks dangle from them with an elegant confidence. “How about these?” he asked. “I found them under the coffee table.”
“Oh, God, I’m such a slob,” Alison laughed. She hated this feeling, the knowing that things were getting bad and the only way through it was to keep it light. “Let me put them away and find those sandals.”
He handed her the shoes, that part was easy enough, but then there was no way past him. He considered that pink dress with something resembling hunger, or hostility. This was bad.
“Come on, Dennis,” she said, quiet, placating. “Let me go get the right shoes.”
“You’re just going to go in there and take it off, because you don’t like the way I’m looking at you,” he said. He reached out and touched the fitted waist. She wanted to back up, but she didn’t want to raise the stakes any further, or any faster. Instead, she placed a hand on his chest and feigned the affection she had felt for him years ago.
“Dennis, knock it off,” she said. “You’re drunk.”
“I am drunk,” he admitted. “And you’re beautiful.”
“And we’re going to have Indian food, remember? That’ll sober you up. I should never have let you drink that much on an empty stomach.”
“How much I drink is not up to you, or to anyone, Alison,” he informed her, and there was enough disappointment in his tone to suggest momentarily that perhaps she had mistaken his intent.
“Come on, you got to sit down. Seriously, you need to sit down and tell me what is going on with you. Why you’re here.” His other hand had crept onto her waist as well now, but he was falling into some sort of morose stupor. He actually laid his head on her shoulder.
“You’re a goddess and I’m a mess,” he muttered. And for that moment, it was true, and it was all that it was.
“You’re all right. You’re all right,” Alison promised him. She patted his back, reassuring, and gently began to unwind their tattered embrace. “Sit down, I’ll get you a glass of water.” He didn’t move other than to sway, momentarily unsteady on his feet. She waited and instead of pushing harder, patted him again on the back. “Dennis?”
“What is this material?” he asked, closing his hands around her back. “It’s so nothing, it’s nothing is here.” His hands were slipping down, now, pulling the skirt up.
“Dennis, stop it,” she said. No more back patting. “I mean it, let go.”
“You’re so soft,” he told her.