He was so relieved to hear from her, he practically jumped through the phone and hugged her.
“Alison, hi, hi!” he gushed. “Wow, it is so great to hear from you, we were getting worried!”
“Were we?”
“Yes, Lars has been really concerned.”
“I went out of town,” she lied.
“We tried your cell,” he informed her.
“Oh, it’s out of juice.”
“Okay, well—uh, Lars was wondering if you got the package he sent you? It should have arrived on Tuesday.”
“That’s what Lars wants to know?”
“Well—I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you about a lot of things. “
“Great, why don’t you tell him to give me a call.”
“Should he use your home or your cell phone?”
“Either works.” She didn’t care how inane this all sounded. She really didn’t.
“Okay, well, I’ll have him call you,” Josh said.
“You do that, Josh,” she told him, and then hung up the phone. She didn’t want to be mean; she knew that Lars had probably been taking the poor guy’s head off for the entire three days. But what the fuck, why was Lars having his fucking assistant call his girlfriend anyway? Not that that’s what she was. Who knows what she was.
Lars was waiting for her at the table when she arrived in the restaurant, which was good. Disappearing for three days had clearly been effective. For one unguarded moment, there was a flash of something that skittered across Lars’s face—was that relief?—before he stood and kissed her elegantly on the cheek.
“You’ve been elusive,” he observed.
“Not really,” she countered. “I needed a little breathing room.”
“The last work session was intense,” he admitted. Oh yeah, you mean when you wanted to watch me pretend to have sex with two actors I’d never met, while you watched?
“A little intense, yes,” she said. She really didn’t give a shit. The whole fiasco of that so-called work session had been annihilated by subsequent events. Still, he wanted to see her in the dress. In the middle of all these nonapologies, the pink dress was the real apology, and he wanted to see her in it.
“Did you like the dress?” he asked.
“The dress is gorgeous,” she informed him.
“I was hoping you’d wear it.”
“This is what I wore.”
“A black sheath.”
“Yes, a black sheath, makes me look like I’m going to a funeral, I picked it out just for you.”
“That’s a bit edgy.”
“It’s Audrey Hepburn.”
“Audrey Hepburn would never have worn a sweater with it.”
“I was chilly.”
“You can take it off inside.”
“I’m still chilly.” She didn’t want him to see her arms, which Dennis had in fact bruised rather noticeably.
“It’s just a very sober look.”
“I’m feeling sober.”
“I see that.” His jaw was getting tense now. All this backtalk clearly wasn’t fun for long.
“It’s just a sweater, Lars,” she told him. She put her hand on his. “I really have been fighting a cold, and I’m honestly not feeling quite myself. But I wanted to come have dinner with you. I wanted to see you. Can’t we just enjoy ourselves?”
It did the trick, but not for good. Over time, the dress question appeared and reappeared as a running battle of wills.
“I still haven’t seen you in that dress.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Didn’t you like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I’d love to see you in it.”
“Why are you so obsessed with that dress?”
“I just think it’s a beautiful dress.”
“There are lots of beautiful dresses out there.”
“Did you not like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why won’t you wear it?”
“Why do you want me to wear it?”
This could go on for hours, as far as she was concerned. It was like being in an Ionesco play. She had done a scene from The Bald Soprano in an acting class in college. It was easy, light. Mean.
“I just don’t understand why I can’t see it on you.”
“Then you do need to talk about the dress.” And then, finally, she couldn’t help herself. “Because I would prefer not to.”
That “I would prefer not to” line was a stunner. Lars was so surprised by it he actually twitched. He stared at her. She could positively hear him thinking: Is she fucking with me?
Is she indeed, thought Alison. She smiled at him, dazzling, and the questions about the dress went on and on and on. Eventually the subject mutated into a discussion about the color pink, is it pink that you object to or that specific pink (who said I objected to anything?), what color pink would you agree to wear if you were theoretically going to agree to wear pink? The rage behind the triviality of the discussion revealed itself in the sheer insulting relentlessness of it all. But Alison never faltered. How could she? The dress no longer existed. And there was simply no way on earth to explain to him why.
twenty-one