“I’m temporarily out of pocketbook, Stevie. I won’t be back in Handbaghdad for a few months. The gossip is that I’m writing a story about my best friend from home, who is going on trial for murder.”
Stevie had the grace to say nothing at all for a full minute. A full minute is a long time, as I have observed. Then he asked, “Was it her husband? Did he beat her up?”
“I don’t think so,” I told him. “She was an escort. They were clients of hers.”
“They?” Stevie said. “More than one person?”
“Two,” I told him. “Well, really more than two.”
He added, then, slower, as if finally hearing what I had said, “Your best friend from back home was an escort?”
“I didn’t know she was. We didn’t see each other after high school,” I told him. “Just holidays. And once in a while in summer.”
On Stevie’s face I saw what I was destined to see on the faces of all my party friends—a look that suggested that somehow I was complicit, as it always seems when a reporter befriends a criminal. It occurred to me then that maybe I deserved that. Wasn’t my disclaimer of Felicity a kind of betrayal, making her sound like barely an acquaintance? Bye-bye, lovely world! All my new friends were going to be strangers.
Stevie and I watched the crowd stroll past, so-called street photographers snapping photos of well-heeled shoppers and sellers and fashion reporters, slim as pleats and always cold, who wore bright oversize blazers and wispy cashmere ponchos and took only one nibble of a tiny brioche before lighting up a cigarette. I’d watched models eat one bite of rare steak and a gigantic bowl of greens and onions with a squeeze of lemon. That was what you did to make a hundred dollars an hour, less, I thought then, than what Felicity earned.
I didn’t want anyone taking a picture of me, in jeans and one of Sam’s white dress shirts I had stolen, my hair scraped up into an actually instead of artfully messy ponytail. The last thing I wanted was for Ivy to see me this way, representingFuchsialooking like a college student late for an eight-o’clock class.
I would have to have the shirt cleaned and give it back to Sam. I told myself that I hadn’t really meant to steal it.
“Let’s take a walk,” I said to Stevie. “I think I’ve had too much champers and sun.”
We walked over the flower carpet to a little bridge that crossed a stream, where there were some trees. My dad said really rich clients who built their mansions on former farm fields had full-grown trees installed, for why should they have to wait for nature?
Just after we sat down in the shade, I leaned over and kissed Stevie on the mouth, not a peck but a hungry kiss to whichhe responded, pulling me against him and lying back so I lay on top. I opened a button on my shirt, then all of them, so he could reach inside, holding the back of his head as his mouth touched my hot skin. Then I screamed when, from somewhere, a hard jet of cold water drenched me. Both of us scrambled to a sitting position.
“What are you doing on my land?” said the beefy blond guy pointing the hose at us.
“We... we’re at the event,” Stevie said.
“This isn’t part of the event. Get out of here,” the guy snarled. He directed a jet of water at me, soaking my shoes.
Stevie gave me his hand and pulled me up and we ran for the parking lot, with him still dragging his bag of purses. We were laughing at first but then the stupidness of the whole thing got to me.
“Stevie, I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Reenie, no reason! That guy was a complete asshole.” He added, “I’ve always wanted to kiss you.”
“I’m so sorry I made a pass at you. Really sorry.”
My stomach lurched then and I ran for the nearest trash barrel, throwing up all those mimosas and minibrioche. Stevie quickly got a bottle of water from his car.
“Not wanting to kiss you as much right now!” he said. We did honestly laugh then, as I used the water and a roll of paper towels to wash my face and hands. Stevie said, “I get the feeling something’s wrong, Reeno.”
“I met a guy and fell in love. It was this whirlwind, not even a week. He broke up with me yesterday. And it’s all my fault.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. I’ll live. Not enthusiastic about that right now but give me time. I have to go and write this story now.”
“Call me, Reeno. Maybe you’ll want to kiss me when you’re sober.”
I said, “Stranger things. Thanks, Stevie. Thanks for being there.”
I wrote:
The vibe at a Kate Spade “swap meet” north of Chicago, where collectors of the late, legendary designer’s pop styles met to sip breakfast champagne, munch on baby brioche, and to buy, sell, and admire vintage pieces, was bright, antic, and a little wacky. It seemed to reflect the public persona of Katherine Noel Brosnahan Spade herself, a Kansas City girl who came to the big city for the bright lights, but who, at last, couldn’t evade the shadows, and who died by suicide in 2018 at just fifty-five years of age. Those close to her said she struggled all her life against depression. After her death, the profile and prices of her whimsical purses, shoes, handbags, and clothing soared. Those who loved Spade’s work can be forgiven for their desire, certainly meant as admiration for most, but for others as investment.
