I guess some people mail things using boxes they’ve received themselves. It doesn’t mean that whatever is inside this box actually came from Saks.
Then I open it and know, unequivocally, every item in here did indeed come direct from the Manhattan designer department store.
There are approximately twenty or so items neatly folded and wrapped in pristine white tissue paper. I unwrap the top one and my heart manages to simultaneously dance on the ceiling and drop to my knees—where it might one day join my tits if I don’t buy myself a better bra.
Made of the softest, most delicate silk georgette by none other than Michael Kors, is the prettiest blouse I’ve ever seen. And it’s exactly my size.
I place it gently to one side and lift out the next. Another luxe silk shirt, this time by Ungaro, in pale oyster with a long tie.
“These are beautiful, Mom,” Paige whispers breathlessly. “I recognize those designer names. Wait a second?—”
She leaves me to marvel open-mouthed at the gorgeousness in my hands while she flips open a magazine and starts scouring the pages.
While she’s doing that, and under the watchful eye of my mother, I lift out a couple more. A neatly pleated shirt in bright white by Proenza Schouler and a plain and simple cotton button-up by Ralph Lauren.
“Look!” Paige lands beside me on the floor and lays out the magazine. The double page spread is of a high concept fashion shoot featuring impossibly beautiful models and entirely unwearable clothes.
“See here?” She points at a list of garment prices in a box to the left of the page. “That Ungaro top, right there, is selling for two thousand dollars.”
She flips forward a few pages to another fashion image and prods at the words. “And that Michael Kors jacket is worthfive thousand.”
She flicks through the box, counting the layers, then sits back on her heels.
“There are twenty shirts in this box, Mom. Even if they only cost a thousand each, we’re looking at twenty thousand bucks here.”
Only a thousand buckseach?
“Are you sure?”
Paige leans forward and searches again through the box.
“Another Ungaro, Chloe, Burberry… Prada! Fuck!”
“Paige!”
“Sorry Mom, but this is insane. These shirts are worth a fortune. Who would send them to you?”
My heart dives into the bowels of my stomach, filling my mouth with nausea. It must have been the stranger from the coffee shop. I gave him our address so he could return my dry-cleaned blouse.Notreplace it with twenty high end designer alternatives.
“Mom, you okay?”
I blink into space. “Yeah, um…”
“You’ve gone pale. Is it the shirts? What’s happened? Where did they come from?”
I take hold of the outer box and inspect it for a delivery slip. There must be details of the sender on the package somewhere.
When no slip falls out, I scan the surface, returning to the label with my name on it.
There is no other name anywhere. It’s been sent anonymously. But it has to be him.
Until five minutes ago when I told Mom and Paige, he was the only person who knew my blouse had been ruined, and had my street address.
Maybe I should feel grateful, or elated even, but I don’t. I feel like one big fat hairy failure. A charity case of epic proportions. And of all the people I’d like to have take pity on me,heis the last.
“I’m not accepting these,” I say, firmly.
Mom straightens then speaks around a mouthful of chips. “I will.”
