“Oh, thank you, Mr. O’Rourke. Thank you!”
The smile on his face falls, and I fear I have displeased him, although I do not know how.
“Call me Ronan. My name is Ronan.”
I nod, but stare at my feet.
Just then, a chime sounds, and the man from the cellphone device—Nicholas—sweeps into the room with three large zippered parcels over his shoulder, a tape measure around his neck, and a smile so enormous his white teeth gleam.
“Oh,” he breathes, looking at me. “Oh, darling. Ronan, you neanderthal, why is she in—what is this, sackcloth? Is she being punished by pilgrims? Come here, darling, come into the light.”
I look at Mr.—I mean,Ronan.
Ronan shrugs. “He’s harmless.”
Nicholas sets his bags down and crosses to me with his hands out, palms up, slow as a person approaching a deer. My shoulders rise.
“Only looking, darling. Only looking. May I?” He holds up the tape measure.
I glance at Ronan. Ronan nods.
“Yes,” I say.
Nicholas’s smile seems to reach all the way up into the corners of his eyes.
“Lift your arms a little. Like a bird about to fly. That’s it, darling girl.”
He measures. Around my ribs. Around my hips. The length from my shoulder to my wrist. He works fast, without fuss, and narrates as he goes.
“Waist is unfairly small. Ronan, does she eat? Bust is a dream. Shoulders are like a Degas dancer. Inseam?—”
He looks up. “Darling. Are you more comfortable in denim jeans or lightweight trousers?”
“I…I have never worn such things.Trousers,” I clarify.
Nicholas looks up as though I have said something that alarms him. “Not pants? Not jeans? Not leggings?”
“Shifts,” I say. “But I was allowed three of them. One for weekdays. One for Sabbath. One for when the others are being washed.”
Nicholas straightens, walks to the window, and presses his forehead against the glass. His shoulders rise and fall once.
When he turns back, his face does something complicated. Then the enormous smile returns, softer now.
“Right,” he says. “So. We need…” He begins to count on his fingers. “Underthings. Proper bras. Sleep sets. Lounge sets. Denim, in three washes. Tees. Sweaters—cashmere and cotton. Blouses. Dresses—day, cocktail, two evening gowns for when your husband inevitably drags you to a gala. Boots. Flats. Heels, one modest pair, one less modest. A coat. A proper coat, not a jacket. A scarf. Gloves. A handbag for day, a clutch for night, a tote for when you decide you have hobbies. Loungewear for the weekends.”
I stare at him. My mouth has fallen open.
“Oh,” he adds, “and lingerie.” He winks at me. I have never been winked at. I do not know what to do with my face in response.
“I’m going to send over essentials tonight. Basics to get you through the next day or two. Then I’m spending the rest of this week finding you the most beautiful clothes you’ve ever seen—silks, satins, laces—in colors you didn’t know existed.”
He gathers his things, steps closer, gives me a warm squeeze of both my hands, and says, “You’re going to be pampered, darling.”
Then he is gone and I stand in the middle of the room with my hands still held out where he left them.
“Is he real,” I say, mostly to myself.
Ronan laughs a short, surprised laugh. “I’m afraid so.”
