Market Street

by Anita Hughes

  “What did Penny do?” Cassie felt as though she was being strangled, like a rope was pulling at her neck.

  “She packed her bag and left in the middle of the night. Didn’t even leave a note. He was in for a bit of a surprise when he woke up.” Molly started to hiccup. “I never would have fucked him if I knew he was married. I know what it’s like to be cheated on. I’m so sorry.” Molly dissolved into tears, putting her head on the table and breathing in short gasps like a puppy.

  Cassie sat perfectly still. If she moved she would shatter into a million pieces. She examined her diamond and sapphire wedding ring. She looked at her phone, thinking of the hot texts Aidan had sent her. She pictured Aidan burying his mouth in her hair, whispering that she was his angel.

  “You’re just part of Aidan’s harem. I’m the fool. I’ve been his wife for a decade and I never suspected anything,” Cassie said finally, gripping the edge of the table.

  “What are you going to do?” Molly asked tentatively.

  “Aidan’s at the Mark Hopkins, sleeping off jet lag. I couldn’t go with him to Italy because I didn’t want to miss the grand opening.” Cassie glanced around the floor. “I booked a room to celebrate his return. We ate filet mignon and drank a bottle of champagne.”

  “You’re so beautiful and sophisticated, how could he cheat on you?”

  “I guess I’ll do what Penny did.” Cassie continued as if she hadn’t heard her. “I’ll just leave him there. He’ll figure it out eventually.”

  “If I were you, I’d grab a fork and stab myself in the heart. Then I’d go to the hotel and slice him open like a can of tuna.”

  “That wouldn’t solve anything,” Cassie replied weakly. “He admitted he slept with you once, but he said you seduced him and it would never happen again. I’ve been staying with my friend while I figured out if I could trust him. I finally decided I wanted to stay married, and I was going to move home. We had a really great night. He approved of me working at the emporium; I was even going to bring Isabel to work with me. That’s his daughter.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Molly said feebly.

  “It’s not your fault.” Cassie tried to smile. “It’s probably happened before, and it would keep happening. Like you said, some men need to be king of the jungle. I’m glad I didn’t wait another ten years to find out.”

  “At least you have this.” Molly looked around the room. “It would be so cool to own your own store.”

  “If I have this.” Cassie sighed. “We haven’t been open long but sales are terrible. If it doesn’t improve we may not make it.”

  “But there are a ton of women shopping,” Molly objected. Since they’d been sitting the emporium had filled up. Dozens of women weaved through the aisles, handling peaches, tasting tangerines, nibbling apple slices.

  “Sampling but not buying. I had my first big sale this morning, but it’s been pretty dismal.”

  “Your produce is tastier than what they sell at the co-op.” Molly wiped her eyes. “If I had money I’d shop here all the time.”

  “The grand opening was a huge success. Everyone raves about the design and the merchandise.” Cassie glanced around at the women browsing. “They just don’t make it to the checkout.”

  “I guess if you wear Chanel dresses and Prada shoes you don’t want to be seen strolling Union Square with a grocery bag.”

  “We designed special Fenton’s bags,” Cassie protested.

  “But do they still look like shopping bags? My roommate’s mother only wears Christian Dior: those wool twinsets you see on old Alfred Hitchcock movies. They did look good on Grace Kelly, I guess anything looked good on Grace Kelly,” Molly mused. “And she positively reeks of perfume. I don’t know how my roommate could stand it; she must have walked around as a kid with a clothespin on her nose. Even her car reeks. She’s got a Jaguar with fancy leather seats; it’s like driving around in a living room. I can’t imagine her picking up a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread and carrying them to the car in a grocery bag. No offense, but the women who shop here are pretty uptight. They carry themselves as if they’ve got a ruler stuck up their ass.”

  “You think they’re not buying groceries because of the shopping bag?”

  “Sure,” Molly said confidently. “Think of that fancy box the pendant came in; red satin with ‘Fenton’s’ written in gold cursive. That’s why women shop here. I’ve seen them walk out weighed down with Fenton’s boxes. I’m sure the clothes and shoes are great, but it’s all about packaging. I learned that in freshman marketing. My parents wanted me to be a business major.” Molly sighed. “But I wanted to study ethics. Maybe you’ll give me a job behind the counter when I graduate. I’m really good with people and I love food. I promise I wouldn’t eat all the samples if I worked here.”

  “I don’t think that would be such a good idea.” Cassie shook her head.

  “You hate me, don’t you?” Molly hung her head. “I bet the sight of me makes you sick.”

  “I just think you can do more with your degree,” Cassie replied diplomatically. “You’re very smart. I never thought the bags could affect sales.”

  “Of course.” Molly smiled, relieved. “Now if you had Fenton’s bags like that”—Molly pointed at a woman walking toward them—“people would be lined up at the checkout.”

  “I’m glad you’re still here.” Alexis swooped down on the table, clutching her Birkin. “Victoria Traina found out about Giselle’s dinner party and she wants to hold her own next Friday. She wants you to pick out the menu.” Alexis stopped awkwardly. “Isn’t this the girl who returned the pendant, who…”

  “Molly, this is my friend Alexis. I think you two met. Molly thinks if we provide our customers with Birkins they’d do their food shopping at Fenton’s.”

  “Is that really a Birkin?” Molly turned red. “I’ve only seen them on a reality show. I don’t watch TV but my roommate watches Hulu on her computer. Aren’t those like the price of a small house?”

  “Not a house in San Francisco,” Alexis said dismissively. “What is she doing here?”

  “Molly had something she wanted to tell me. We’ve been chatting, we have a lot in common,” Cassie replied calmly.

  “I need to talk to you, upstairs.” Alexis pulled Cassie up.

  “I have to go,” Cassie said to Molly. “Thanks for the advice, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Do you want my phone number, in case I have other ideas? Maybe you could sell my pumpkin muffins,” Molly said hopefully.

  “Not right now.” Cassie smiled. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

  * * *

  “What were you doing with the girl who fucked your husband?” Alexis demanded when they were on the escalator. “And why aren’t you at the Mark Hopkins servicing Aidan’s morning boner?”

  Cassie suddenly felt dizzy. Black spots danced before her eyes. “I need to sit down,” she said, gripping the side of the escalator. “Let’s go to my mother’s office.”

  “Have I missed something?” Alexis demanded, closing the door to Diana’s office. “You don’t talk to the girl who threw a grenade into your marriage when you’re trying to make it work with Aidan.”

  “I’m divorcing Aidan.” Cassie sat on the cream-colored sofa.

  “I thought you had a night of fireworks and champagne.”

  “Apparently Aidan’s had a lot of nights of fireworks, just not with me. He and Molly have been having an affair since January. He was going to take her to Italy but at the last minute he took his TA instead; a pretty blonde with hair like a Barbie doll.” Cassie felt her temples start to throb. “He cut his trip short because the TA walked out on him when she saw a text from me. She didn’t know he was married. Molly didn’t know either.”

  Cassie and Alexis sat silently. Neither knew what to say next. Cassie remembered when her father died and friends arrived to pay their respects. Her mother’s living room was full of women spooning egg salad onto white china. Cassie sipped pink lemonade, feeli
ng invisible. No one knew what to say to a little girl who lost her daddy.

  “I’m impressed,” Alexis said finally. She sat at Diana’s desk, running her fingers over the pearl letter opener. “I didn’t think Aidan was such a good liar. He’s got one hell of a poker face.”

  “Do you think he’s been screwing around for ten years?”

  “It doesn’t matter, it’s over. When are you going to tell him?”

  “I can’t face him.”

  “You have to tell him,” Alexis insisted. “You’ve been bleeding long enough. You have to get him out of your life.”

  “Later.” Cassie shrugged. “I can’t see him right now.”

  “I have an idea.” Alexis’s eyes sparkled. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

  * * *

  Cassie closed her eyes. The pain was like a balloon; when she tried to embrace it, it formed a different shape and escaped her grasp. She had to think about something else. She picked up Alexis’s Birkin and admired the platinum hardware. She ran her fingers over the crocodile skin and snapped it open and shut. She held it against her thigh, studying her reflection in the mirror. She thought about what Molly said about designing a shopping bag women would fight over.

  “Mission accomplished.” Alexis walked into the office. She wore a navy sleeveless dress with a wide belt and Jimmy Choo platform heels. Her hair was piled into an effortless bun and secured with a chopstick. A Tiffany charm bracelet tinkled at her wrist and she wore a strand of freshwater pearls around her neck.

  “What did you do?”

  “I sent Aidan a Fenton’s box of lingerie: thongs, padded bras, a selection of garter belts, lace panties, and teddies. I included a note from you: ‘These might be useful in your future conquests.’ I signed it ‘Cassie Fenton.’ I think he’ll get the picture.”

  “You didn’t.” Cassie’s mouth hung open.

  “I wanted to add something to the box like a dead chicken, but I resisted the temptation.” Alexis started laughing. “You have to forget him. Do you want to go out and get drunk? We can play hooky and spend the afternoon at PlumpJack’s. Remember when we’d skip out of last period, change into regular clothes, and see if we’d get carded?”

  “I did that once.” Cassie cringed. “And I was so terrified we’d get caught I didn’t touch my drink.”

  “That’s why you have me riding shotgun,” Alexis replied. “We have to do something to get your mind off that prick.”

  “I have an idea to increase sales at the emporium.”

  “We can’t hand out Birkins, or Birkin knockoffs.” Alexis shook her head.

  “What if we had someone design a bag that was so gorgeous women had to have one? It would have to be big like your Birkin so it could hold groceries, and really original, so women lusted after it. We’d give it an exotic name and make it available only with purchase.”

  Alexis tapped the letter opener on the desk. She picked up her iPhone and flipped through her photos. “The Princess,” she said, looking at Cassie.

  “What did you say?”

  “We’ll call it the Princess and make the first one for Princess Giselle. I can take photos of her carrying it everywhere, stuffed with loaves of bread and broccoli flowers and heads of lettuce.”

  “The Princess,” Cassie repeated. “Bright red, with a clasp shaped liked a tiara. We’ll use a cool recyclable fabric and we’ll ask Gregory to hand paint each bag with some fantastic design. The bags will be instantly recognizable all over the city.” Cassie jumped up, pacing around the room.

  “A mini mural on each bag!” Alexis said. “They’ll be utterly unique, walking works of art. We just need to find a local supplier.”

  “Axel! He knows everyone.” Cassie fished through her purse for her phone. “I’ll call him right now.” Cassie stood by the window, waiting for Axel to answer. She watched tourists on Union Square take photos of Gucci and Burberry. She saw squirrels hop across the grass scavenging acorns.

  Axel answered the phone. “Cassie, darling, lovely to hear your voice. I’m creating a spectacular arrangement for Princess Giselle’s dinner party. Roses, orchids, tulips, and clouds of baby’s breath. That woman knows how to spend money.”

  “I need your help. Sales at the emporium have been slow. We think women might be embarrassed to walk onto Union Square carrying a grocery shopping bag.” Cassie tapped her fingers on the glass. “We need someone to make a bag that is so original, so sexy, women can’t live without it. We’re going to call it ‘The Princess’ and it will be available only with purchase.”

  “I love it,” Axel cooed. “Très Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  “Do you know anyone that can make them fast? We have an idea for the design and the fabric.”

  “Let me think,” Axel demurred. “I have a friend, Thom Paik, in the Sunset. He can whip up a batch quickly.”

  Cassie hesitated. “I don’t want them made in a sweatshop.”

  “Do you think I’d send you to someone who employs twelve-year-old girls?” Axel huffed. “I’ll call him and tell him you’re coming. He’ll take care of you.”

  “That would be fantastic.” Cassie’s eyes sparkled. “How can I thank you?”

  “I heard Vanessa and Billy are attending Giselle’s dinner party. If you can convince Vanessa to use me instead of Stanlee Gatti for her florals, I’ll be your slave.”

  “Done.” Cassie grabbed a pen. “What’s his address?”

  17.

  Cassie sat at her desk flipping through the sales figures. She wore a sleeveless cotton dress and white sandals. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail and she had a bright red Princess bag slung over her chair.

  It was unseasonably warm for early June in San Francisco. The fog failed to make its afternoon appearance and tourists sweltered in light wool coats. They filtered into the emporium and left with cartons of organic ice cream and bottles of fizzy lemonade. The women who lived on Nob Hill were grateful they could nip into Fenton’s, pile fresh fruits and vegetables into their Princess bags, and avoid the sweaty crowds at Safeway.

  The popularity of the Princess bags had grown slowly, but now it was at a frenzy. Princess Giselle carried hers everywhere: to lunch at Emerald, to charity teas at the Zoo and at MOMA, even to dinner at Michael Mina’s with a bright red Valentino dress.

  Alexis photographed her wherever she went and made sure the photos ended up on every blog from W to Instyle. Women grew curious about the Princess. There were rumors it was made exclusively for Princess Giselle by Louis Vuitton with original artwork by Julian Schnabel. Women Googled it, asked their Facebook friends, whispered about it during yoga and Pilates. No one knew where to get one.

  “We need to create a sense of mystery,” Alexis had counseled. “We can’t just hand the Princess out at the cash register and expect everyone to want one. Think about the Birkin. It takes four years to get off the waiting list.”

  “In another four weeks we might be out of business,” Cassie had replied miserably. The prototype Princess sat in front of her, bright red spandex-like fabric illustrated with a fabulous scene of a farmers market. She wanted to get them into women’s hands as fast as possible.

  “Trust me,” Alexis replied. “I have a plan.”

  Alexis unveiled her plan at the Asian Art Museum’s annual fashion show. It was the red carpet event of the season. Invitations were so coveted they were traded for insider information about Apple’s latest iPhone release and Facebook’s IPO. Women ordered their couture outfits months ahead, wanting to outshine the models strutting down the runway in Zac Posen, Stella McCartney, and Versace.

  Alexis had insisted Cassie dress up for the event, and pamper herself with a blowout and facial. Her days passed in a blur. She got up and swam fifty laps, then put in eight hours at Fenton’s. In the evenings she picked at Pia’s casseroles, watched Alexis devour ice cream, and climbed into bed with a cup of hot milk and a box of tissues.

  * * *

  Aidan appeared at Alexis’s front door one morn
ing after Cassie finished her morning swim. Alexis was at a sunrise yoga class and Cassie was spooning brown sugar into a bowl of oatmeal. She threw a robe over her bathing suit and ran barefoot to the foyer.

  When she saw Aidan she froze. He was wearing a white V-neck shirt and jogging shorts. She could see the gray hair curling on his chest, the thick muscles on his upper arms, the hands that had held and stroked her. She took a deep breath, trying to shut down her heart as if it had a switch with an off button.

  “What are you doing here?” Cassie opened the door a crack.

  “I brought you fruit from the co-op: green grapes, peaches, pomegranates.” Aidan held up a paper bag. “They’re all in season.”

  “I don’t want organic fruit, or vegetables from the garden, or sexy texts. I want you to leave me alone,” Cassie replied tightly.

  “Let me come in, Cassie.” Aidan wedged his knee in the door. “I need to explain.”

  “Molly explained everything in graphic detail.” Cassie held on to the door handle. “I’ll be late for work. I have to go.”

  “Cassie.” Aidan’s voice was harsh and commanding. “You can give me five minutes.”

  Cassie wavered. She wanted to slam the door and run upstairs but she knew he would just come back. She pulled the robe tightly around her.

  “Five minutes.” She opened the door.

  “I’ve missed you.” Aidan stood in the foyer. He had a day’s stubble on his chin and dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was damp as if he’d come from the gym. He still had the tan he got in Greece and his teeth were bright against his brown skin.