The Lies That Bind

by Emily Giffin

  Remembering that awful visit to the hospital in London, I feel a little better knowing that it’s not just me. “Difficult how?” I ask, hoping for more insight into Byron—but also Grant. Always Grant.

  “He can be moody…dark. A little mean.” She hesitates, taking a sip of her drink, then says, “He and Grant had a complicated relationship. So that sort of transferred to me.”

  This is news to me, and I can’t hide my surprise. “Complicated in what way?”

  “I don’t know. It was just rough at times….I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she says, as I hang on her every word, “they were really close. They loved each other…but…it’s hard to explain.”

  I know I should probably leave it at that, but I can’t. “Were they competitive? Or just really different? Did they argue?”

  She takes a deep breath, exhales, then chews on the tip of her pinkie, a habit I’ve noticed before. “A bit of all those things, I guess…the usual sibling rivalry that is probably intensified with twins….But it was also…I don’t know…it sort of felt like Byron resented Grant.”

  I say, “So…in a jealous way?”

  “Yeah….Things just came easier to Grant when they were younger….He got better grades and was better in sports and got into Stanford….Then we got married, and Byron stayed single…and he never really had a steady job.”

  I nod, forcing myself to take a bite of my breakfast, even though I’ve completely lost my appetite.

  “And then, of course, Byron got sick. So things got even more lopsided, and Grant felt so guilty. I can’t tell you the number of times I had to tell him that it wasn’t his fault Byron got the bad gene and he was the lucky one—” She halts abruptly, looking stricken, as if the wind has just been knocked out of her. I know that she must be thinking what I’m thinking—that there is no shittier luck than being on the wrong floor of the World Trade Center on the morning of 9/11.

  Sure enough, she lets out a brittle laugh as her eyes well up with tears. “So yeah. I guess in the end, it was fair. They both got equally fucked.”

  “I’m so sorry, Amy,” I say. “None of this is fair. It’s all just so tragic.”

  She nods, blotting her eyes with her cloth napkin, then examining the mascara stain before refolding the napkin and returning it to her lap. “How does all of this happen to one family?”

  I take a breath, trying to come up with something—anything—to say. But all I am thinking is that Grant is now reunited with his parents, and his brother will be there soon, too. As strong as my faith is, and as much as I believe this to be true, it’s obviously not an appropriate thing to say.

  “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to do this,” she says, filling our silence. “I’m totally ruining brunch.”

  “No, you’re not. Not at all…I’m sorry for asking you so many questions—”

  “No. No. I’m glad you did. I was due for a cry. And now it’s over.” She clasps her hands together, forces a big smile, and says, “So tell me. What are you going to wear to the party?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, trying to smile back, wondering how she can switch gears so quickly. “What about you?”

  “I think I’m going to wear this skirt and top I just snagged at a sample sale….But who cares what I’m wearing? You’re the bride! What are you thinking? A dress? You have to wear a dress.”

  “Okay. A dress it is,” I say, dreading being the center of attention—and wondering if I’d feel different if I weren’t pregnant. “I’ll find something.”

  “Wait. Can I dress you?” she says. I know she’s using her stylist lingo, but I still picture a mother thrusting a turtleneck over the head of a squirming child. As in—Amy literally dressing me.

  “Seriously?” I say.

  “Yes. You have the cutest figure. You’d be so fun to style.”

  Not for long, I think, but simply thank her for the compliment.

  “So can I? Please? No charge, of course!”

  I hesitate, trying to come up with an excuse to say no. Beyond the weirdness of having Grant’s wife dress me for my engagement party, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of having a professional stylist at all, especially for a party that is supposed to be low-key. At the same time, I don’t want to hurt her feelings by turning down such a sweet offer, so I waffle, saying, “Aren’t you too busy for that? Don’t you have celebrities to be styling?”

  “Oh, please! Those C-listers can wait,” she says with a wave. “Besides, I’m never too busy for a friend.”

  I smile, and say thank you, that’d be really nice.

  Her face lights up as she does a cute little clap. “Wanna go now?” she says. “Do you have a little time? We could hit a few shops around here….”

  “I guess I could shop for a bit,” I say. “But Madison Avenue isn’t really in my price range.”

  “Oh, I get that. But we could at least look? Get some ideas. Barneys is having a sale.”

  “Macy’s is more my speed,” I say with a laugh. “Or Ann Taylor if I’m going to splurge.”

  “Um, yeah. Ann Taylor’s great…but not for your engagement party. No way.” She shakes her head. “What if someone shows up wearing the same thing?”

  “Horrors,” I say, smirking.

  “It would be horrible!” she says with an endearing laugh. “Now, let’s get the check and go shopping!”

  A few minutes later, after I’ve insisted on picking up the check since she comped my yoga class, we are strolling up Madison Avenue, still chatting.

  At one point, she asks me who my favorite designers are. “You know,” she adds, “if money were no object?”

  My mind goes blank. I know the names of designers, of course, from fashion magazines and watching the red carpet at the Oscars. But I certainly don’t own any clothes like that, and can’t really match names with particular looks, other than a few broad strokes—like I know that Calvin Klein’s clothing is often monochromatic and Ralph Lauren has an aspirational preppy feel and Versace loves bright patterns. But I couldn’t tell you the difference between, say, Oscar de la Renta, Prada, and Chanel. I tell Amy as much as she abruptly stops in front of Carolina Herrera and points in the window to a strapless silver dress with an asymmetrical knee-length skirt.

  “What about that one?” she says. “I can see you in that.”

  I start to protest, but she’s already pulling open the heavy door and sailing past the imposing security guard with complete regal confidence. I follow her into the placid oasis filled with subtle floral scents and soft classical music. Looking around, I see startlingly few garments on display, with several inches between hangers. Definitely not the Macy’s approach.

  As a beautiful thirtysomething saleslady approaches us, I have impostor syndrome, the shopping scene from Pretty Woman popping into my head.

  “May I help you?” the lady says in a prim voice.

  “Thank you, but we’re just looking right now,” Amy says.

  As she walks down the aisle, she touches fabric with her fingertips, a look of deep concentration on her face. She doesn’t check the prices, so perfectly at ease in this world of fashion house luxury. I follow her, indiscriminately reaching out to also touch a dress here and there, but not really able to concentrate.

  At some point, just as I’m checking a price tag on a sweater, aghast to see that it’s twelve hundred dollars, Amy turns to me and says, “Her fall collection is a nod to the early eighties. See all the feathers? Like a Madonna video. I went to her runway show. It was incredible.”

  The saleslady, who has been hovering nearby while pretending to tidy an already immaculate display of scarves, looks up at us and says, “I thought you looked familiar! I think we met at Fashion Week—last spring. Weren’t you backstage at Bryant Park?”

  “I was, yes!” Amy says, tilting her head to the side. “I thought you looked familiar a
s well. Tell me your name again?”

  “Phoebe Tyler. And yours?”

  “Amy Silver Smith,” she says, running the last two words together so it sounds like Silversmith.

  “Yes, that’s right. And you work with Sydney Gaither, correct?”

  “I do,” Amy says, then turns to me. “And this is my newest client, Cecily Gardner. Cecily was just recently engaged,” Amy says. “We’re looking for something for her engagement party.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” Phoebe says, then turns to me. “Best wishes to you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling self-conscious—and like a complete poser in my Nine West boots and Banana Republic sweater, both circa 1995.

  “Have you seen anything you might like to try?” she says.

  I start to tell her no, we’re just browsing, but before I can, she shifts her gaze to Amy for our official answer, as I guess that’s how this stylist thing works.

  “Yes. I think so,” Amy says. “She loves the strapless pewter dress in the window.”

  “Wonderful choice,” Phoebe murmurs. She shifts her gaze to me and says, “Let’s see…You’re tiny. I’ll see if we have your size.”

  I never can tell if this is a compliment or a slight criticism or just a factual statement, so I simply smile and shrug. Once she’s gone, I laugh and say to Amy, “Your client can’t afford this dress. Remember?”

  “We’re just trying,” she says. “For fun. And, you never know, I may be able to get you a really good deal.”

  I refrain from saying that unless it’s a ninety-percent-off kind of deal, it’s not going to work for me.

  A few moments later, I’m in an oversize dressing room, taking my clothes off while Amy waits outside. I pause, gazing at myself in the mirror—first at my mismatched bra and underwear, then in between, at my stomach, as it hits me all over again that I’m pregnant—that there are two of us in this chic little chamber. I don’t officially show yet—not in a way that anyone else would be able to tell—but my stomach is slightly swollen the way it would be after a big meal, and I worry that this silk dress is going to reveal as much. I remove the loops of fabric from the hanger, unzip the back, and slip it over my head.

  “Do you need any help?” I hear Amy say.

  “Umm. Yeah. Maybe with the zipper,” I say, opening the door before I even look at myself. Immediately, I see Amy’s face, all lit up with approval.

  “That’s absolutely fabulous on you. Take a look.” She motions for me to turn around. Now facing the mirror, I watch as she zips up the dress—which fits rather perfectly. “Wow. Just fabulous.”

  “It really is,” I say, now up on my toes, turning a little to the left, then the right, admiring the sheen of the heavy silk and the interesting bias cut. I can’t help smiling at myself in a way I can’t remember ever doing in a dressing room.

  “Try it with the pumps,” she says, pointing to a pair of black Manolo Blahniks in the corner of the room, obviously kept here for this purpose—incidentally, an amenity not available at Macy’s or Ann Taylor.

  I follow my stylist’s instructions, slipping into the shoes, which are about two sizes too big and remind me of playing dress up in my mother’s closet. But I still get the effect—and see that the dress, as well as my legs, looks even better with heels.

  “Wow,” Amy says again. “I love it. Do you love it?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I actually do.”

  We both stare at my reflection for a few more seconds before Amy says, “So anyway. This is the kind of thing I picture you in for the party. This shape and silhouette and feel. Soft and ethereal.”

  I nod and say, “It’s a really pretty dress….”

  “You’re pretty,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say. “And you’re really good at this. I would never have picked that dress to try.”

  “Aw, thanks. That’s nice,” she says. “I really do love my job.”

  “Have you always loved clothes?” I say, sitting down on the built-in bench for a second as she does the same beside me. “I mean fashion?”

  “Yes. Always,” she says. “Before this year, September was always my favorite month. Because of the September issues of fashion mags.”

  “Even as a kid?” I say, then tell her that the back-to-school Seventeen issue used to throw me into a mild depression.

  She laughs. “Well, I loved it. That satisfying heft of a five-pound magazine in your mailbox signaling the end of the vapid summertime and the rebirth of culture.”

  “Did you ever think about being a fashion designer?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “I still might go back to school for that. But right now, I’m really enjoying what I’m doing, and I’ve discovered what I sort of always knew. That it’s not about the clothes, but about making women feel their most beautiful. That’s what I love about this dress on you. We see you, not the dress, if that makes sense?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “And that’s really nice of you. But what I love about this dress is most definitely this dress.” I laugh as I stand up and try to reach around for the zipper.

  “Let me get that for you,” she says, coming closer to unzip the dress before slipping back outside the dressing room.

  I quickly change back into my clothes, and a moment later, we are saying goodbye to Phoebe, telling her how much we both love the dress, and that we will definitely keep it in mind. She hands us each her business card.

  As we step out onto the sidewalk, Amy turns, looks at me, and says, “So how excited are you?”

  I look at her, startled by the question, wondering if she could somehow tell that I’m pregnant. “About what?” I blurt out.

  “The party. Your engagement. All of this.”

  “Um…I don’t know,” I say, babbling. “Very excited, I guess….It’s just a lot…all at once.” My voice trails off as I’m bombarded with so many intense feelings—about the wedding and the baby and the party where everyone and everything is about to converge, if not overtly, then at least in my own heart. It’s just so much.

  Amy must sense that something is off because she says, “I know it’s overwhelming. I felt that way when I got engaged, anyway.”

  “How so?” I blurt out, even though I really don’t want to know the answer, and all I can picture is Grant down on one knee. I can see his eyes looking up at her, and his big hands holding the emerald-cut ring that she’s still wearing. I can’t bear to look at it too closely, but catch constant glimpses of it, especially when she gestures while she talks.

  She sighs and says, “Just the Jewish-Catholic thing…and the fact that he didn’t want a big wedding…and his brother was being difficult….And let’s face it, weddings are stressful.”

  “Yeah,” I say, still thinking about Grant.

  As we make our way up Madison, Amy keeps talking, saying something about Prada. I try to listen, but can’t, suddenly feeling light-headed and nauseous. It gets worse with every step until I finally stop in my tracks.

  “Are you okay?” I hear her ask me, but her voice sounds faraway and distorted.

  “Yeah,” I say, my vision turning blurry. “I just…I just don’t feel well….”

  “Oh my God, Cecily,” she says, grabbing my hand and putting her other arm on my waist. “You’re so pale. Sit down, honey. Sit down.”

  I look around, but there’s nowhere to sit, so we take a few steps forward as she helps me down to the curb, next to a fire hydrant. It’s the second time I’ve collapsed to the ground in two months. For a moment, the awful feeling subsides, but when I start to stand up, it kicks in again, my vision getting even fuzzier, the buzzing sound growing in my ears, and my skin turning cold and clammy. I put my head between my legs, just like I did on the sidewalk after I saw Grant’s flyer. I feel Amy stroking my hair and hear her telling me to take deep breaths.

  “Do yo
u have a medical condition of any kind?” she says. “Diabetes? Epilepsy? Anything?”

  “No,” I say. “Maybe it was something I ate.”

  “But we had the same thing,” she says. “Did you go out last night? Are you a little hungover?”

  “No…I don’t know what happened….I’m sorry,” I say, feeling embarrassed, but mostly just ill. “I just…It must be a bug….Something’s going around my office right now. I’m fine.” I try to stand up, but it’s a bad idea, my vision blurring again. And now there’s a commotion, a couple on the sidewalk, along with their dog, stopping to talk to Amy.

  “Is she okay?” I hear the man say.

  “I don’t know,” Amy replies.

  “What happened?” the woman says.

  “She just got faint.”

  “Should we call an ambulance?” someone else says.

  “No. I’m fine,” I protest, picturing a huge scene on Madison Avenue with an ambulance and a paramedic checking my vitals as I’m forced to confess, to all those listening, that I’m pregnant. “I’m feeling better now. Don’t call an ambulance. It’s not necessary. I promise.”

  “Well, then let me at least call Matt,” Amy says.

  I don’t like this option much better, but I can tell by her voice that she means business, so I say okay.

  “What’s his number?” she demands, her cellphone now in hand.

  I give it to her as she dials, and I hear her say, “Hi, Matt. It’s Amy…Silver….Look, I’m with Cecily now. And don’t worry, she’s going to be fine…but she got a little faint while we were shopping….”

  She pauses, and I can hear his voice on the other end of the line, but can’t make out what he’s saying.

  “Uh-huh…yes…exactly…She says she doesn’t want me to call…but I wanted to check with you….Let me ask her.” Amy puts the phone down on her leg, then says, “Sweetie, can we put you in a cab? And take you to his place?”

  “Yeah…that’s fine,” I say, as another passerby hands me a cold can of Coke and says something about my glucose level.

  Amy thanks the stranger and opens the can, handing it to me. I take a sip, then another, the soda hitting my stomach and instantly helping. Meanwhile, I hear Amy tell Matthew that we’ll be right over before she hangs up and asks someone if they’ll please hail us a cab. She sits with me, stroking my hair again, and the next thing I know she’s taking my Coke and gathering my bag off the street and helping me stand up and walk a few feet to the taxi. She thanks all the Good Samaritans as we climb inside. She puts on my seatbelt, then tells the driver that we’re going to the Upper West Side. “What’s Matt’s address, hon?” she asks me.