by Tucker Shaw
There’s a tap on my shoulder. The woman on my left hands me a note and points two seats down. There is Telly, waving.
“Do I have five?” the auctioneer asks.
“Five!” Bryan shouts. He waves his paddle just above his head.
I unfold the note:
Meet me in the ladies’. I have news.
I look over at Telly. Her eyes are bugging out. She means it. But I can’t get up now. I shake my head. Not now.
“Five five,” says the woman in the front row. Most of the people shift in their seats.
“Six!” Bryan shouts. His arm goes up.
The woman in the front row turns and looks back at us. She’s wearing reading glasses, which she lowers on her nose. She narrows her eyes at Bryan, then spins back to face the auctioneer.
“Are you crazy?” I whisper.
“It’s OK,” he mouths. “Don’t worry. I won’t get stuck with it.”
“Six five!”
“Six thousand five hundred dollars,” the auctioneer says.
There’s a murmur in the crowd. A gray-haired woman in front of us turns around and smiles. “This is getting interesting,” she says. I’m trying to smile back, but really I’m just gritting my teeth, panicked.
“Do we have seven?”
“Seven,” Bryan shouts. I see his face getting red.
I look over at Telly, who’s beckoning wildly. I look at the auctioneer, then back at Telly. I shake my head. Not now! I have to see what happens.
The pixie cut thrusts her paddle into the air. “Seven five!”
“Eight!” Bryan nearly stands up when he says it.
The crowd stirs again. “Now you’re just being annoying,” Trina says to Bryan. “You’re making me nervous.”
“This is fun,” he whispers. “I’m OK.”
“Eight five!” says the woman in front.
“We have a bid for eight thousand five hundred dollars,” the auctioneer says.
“She must really want this thing,” Trina says.
The crowd turns toward Bryan, who looks at me, then Trina, then Telly. “Eighty-five hundred dollars!” he mouths.
“Eight thousand five. Do I hear nine?”
“I’m out,” Bryan says. He hands Trina his paddle. “I’m sorry, Gemma. I love you and all, but . . . maybe next time.”
“I appreciate the thought,” I say.
“Let’s go find some more of those little sandwiches. That gave me an appetite.”
“Great idea.”
“Where’s Telly?” Trina asks. “Did we lose her?” She smiles and claps her hands, or just her fingers, really, a tiny round of applause.
“Eight five once . . . !” the auctioneer says.
“Be nice,” I say. “She’s trying.” I raise my eyebrows at Trina. “I believe her when she says she’s sorry.”
Trina sighs. “Oh, you’re right, dahling,” she says. “You always are.”
“She’s right over there,” Bryan whispers. He points to Telly, who is now standing in the aisle, practically jumping up and down. She holds one hand up, palm facing the front of the room, and points into her palm, gesturing at the row right behind us.
“Eight five twice . . . !”
Before I can turn to see what Telly’s pointing at, a voice behind us, a voice that stops me for a second, because I recognize it perfectly, shouts, “Ten!”
I spin around.
Telly was right. She had news.
It’s Dusty.
Dusty with the dusty blond hair and the slate-gray eyes. He just bid ten thousand dollars on that dress. He’s twice as cute as his profile picture. Maybe three times. And he’s smiling straight at me.
12:50 P.M.
Well,” Dusty is saying a few minutes later, after the bidding’s over and the auctioneer has called for an intermission, “that was exciting.”
I’m standing in the aisle talking to him, or, more to the point, listening to him, because I can’t believe it’s really him. Dusty. Until now, he wasn’t real. And I’m still not sure if he is.
Exciting? I think. He just spent ten thousand dollars on a dress. That’s more than exciting. That’s . . . crazy.
I try not to stare at him, so instead I look down to study his desert boots intensely, taking in the soft suede, so much cleaner than desert boots should be, as if today’s the first day he’s worn them. People sweep past us, chattering quietly to one another. I feel them pointing at Dusty.
“Is that the guy who bought the dress?” they’re saying. “The one with the fringe? He seems so young. He can’t even be twenty years old.”
Bryan and Trina are still sitting in their fold-up chairs, bent over like they’re in deep conversation. Trina looks over at me and gives me a quick thumbs-up, so quick that I can’t tell if she really means it, then she turns back to Bryan. They both look over at me, then go back to talking.
“I like your shoes,” I say to Dusty, kicking myself for saying something so stupid.
“Thanks,” he says. “And I like yours.”
I turn my loafers inward. “What are you doing here?” I ask, looking up at his face. His eyes are soft, gray, like wet stones.
“Same thing you are,” he says. He’s still smiling.
“Looking at clothes? I thought you hated that stuff.”
“I did until I met you,” he says.
“You haven’t met me yet. I mean, you hadn’t met me yet. I mean, we’ve only just met . . . Oh, you know what I mean.” God, I sound like a loser.
“I feel like I’ve known you for a long time,” he says.
I laugh, or it’s more like a giggle, and I hope I don’t sound too ridiculously nervous. “Did you really just spend ten thousand dollars on a dress?”
“Is that what it was?”
“Um, yes,” I say. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. But he’s smiling, so I smile back. Ten thousand dollars.
“Oh,” he says, almost shrugging.
“I guess it’s not that much,” I say, trying to sound . . . what’s the word? Nonchalant. But I’m sure I just sound snotty. So I say something different. “Between you and me, I have no business being here at all. I mean, I could never afford any of this stuff, not in a million years.”
Dusty shrugs his shoulders and looks around the room. He puts his hands in his pockets. “I can’t think of anyone who belongs here more,” he says. “No one else in the world would appreciate this stuff as much as you do.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I say. “There are people who flew in from Japan to be here! And Singapore!”
“Whatever,” he says. “Those people are loaded. A transoceanic ride on a private jet means nothing to them. You may have only come from Philly, but you really had to try to get here. You actually earned it.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I say. “I mean, we crashed it.”
“You actually know something about the clothes. About Audrey Hepburn. I should know. I wouldn’t have passed my film class if I hadn’t met you.”
“Maybe so,” I say. “But I still don’t belong here.”
Dusty laughs, and my heart melts hearing the sound of the laughter I’ve heard so many times over the phone. I know that laugh.
Then again, maybe I don’t really know him at all.
“Didn’t your boyfriend buy you anything?” Dusty nods his head toward Bryan.
“That’s not my boyfriend.” I surprise myself at how quickly I say it. “That’s—”
I don’t need to finish, because suddenly Bryan’s standing next to me. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, extending his hand to Dusty. “I’m Bryan.”
“Dusty,” Dusty says, and I look up to see him smile at Bryan. His left front tooth twists almost imperceptibly to the left, but I notice it.
“Of course you are,” Bryan says, smiling. “And this is Trina.” He points to Trina, standing just behind him.
“Hi,” she says. She points her iPhone at Dusty. Snap.
There’s a nudge
at my shoulder. It’s Telly, who’s just been jostled by a waiter. She leans into my ear. “I told you I had news,” she whispers, and pushes past me. “I’m Telly. You must be Dusty. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I kick Telly.
“Hi,” says Dusty. He shakes her hand. “Glad to meet you. I think I’ve seen your comments on the Tumblr page before.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Telly says. “But you can ignore those.”
Dusty nods. “Fair enough,” he says, then he turns to me. “How would you like another glass of champagne, Gemma?”
“Champagne?” I say. I feel like I’ve had enough already, but I don’t want to say so.
“Oh, come on,” he says.
“Um, why don’t we all get one?” I say. “Why don’t we all go? Together.” I look at Trina, then Bryan. Please.
Bryan shakes his head. “No, you two go ahead,” he says. “Trina and I were just saying we both need to visit the restroom, weren’t we, Trina?”
“Oh, yes,” Trina says.
“Telly, don’t you need to use the ladies’ room, too?” Bryan’s voice is insistent.
“No, I—” Telly says.
“Good, then come along,” Bryan says, taking her by the elbow. He turns to me, catches my eye, and winks so quickly I almost don’t see it. “We’ll come find you in a few minutes.” He leans back and whispers in my ear, “Score!” I smack his shoulder.
And, like that, they’re gone, disappearing into the milling crowd, all congratulating one another and comparing notes and looking closely at the remaining lots.
“So it’s just you and me, then,” Dusty says. He takes my hand and leans into the crowd, pulling me behind him. His dark denims and pinstripe blazer make him seem older than what I know him to be—seventeen. “Pardon us, Mr. Koons,” he says as he pushes past a handsome man, and “Hello, Ms. Burch,” to a blond woman in a pink suit.
“How do you know all these people?” I say.
“From around,” he says.
“Just around?” I say.
Dusty flags down a waiter who’s walking past with a nearly empty tray. “Is this your last glass?” Dusty asks.
“I’m afraid so, sir,” the waiter says.
Dusty offers me the glass.
“No, thanks,” I say. “I’ve had enough. It’s all yours.”
He takes a sip.
“Just around?” I repeat.
“OK, fine. My mother’s last name is Sotheby. I mean, it used to be. Before she married my dad.”
My eyes widen. What? “Does that mean your family owns Sotheby’s?”
“No, we don’t own Sotheby’s,” Dusty says. “Well, not anymore. But I guess we used to. At least, on my mother’s side. Long before I was born. Anyway, it does mean that I know a few of these people here. My parents are friends with them. I go to school with their kids.”
“I see,” I say. “Is it like Gossip Girl?”
“Pretty much,” he says with a flirty smile. “It also means I can give the dress back. They’ll just sell it to Mrs. LaSalle.”
“Who?”
“The woman your boyfriend Bryan was bidding against. She represents a really important collector in Paris. She doesn’t want to return empty-handed. She might try to knock a couple Gs off the price, though. You know, since it will have been used.” He laughs.
“Bryan’s not my boyfriend,” I tell him again, and again it comes out almost too quickly. “Bryan doesn’t date girls.”
“Oh,” Dusty says. “Well, whatever.”
“What do you mean, ‘used’?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, not exactly. Instead he says, “Listen, how long are you in town?”
“Until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Dusty’s face sinks, and he pouts out his bottom lip, like a little boy who might throw a tantrum.
“Yeah. Bryan and Trina and I are going to a screening of Breakfast at Tiffany’s at the Ziegfeld tonight at midnight. Telly, too. We’ve been planning it for months. And then I catch a train back home in the morning.” Which is the last thing I want to do, I think. I want to stay here forever.
“Oh,” Dusty says.
I don’t know what he means by that, and so I don’t know what to say, exactly, so I change the subject. “Hey, how did you know I was going to be here, anyway?”
“I didn’t, until I saw you. I was just here working.”
“Working?”
“Well, if you can call a high school internship at the family ex-business working. I just show up a couple of times each week and they let me stick around in case anything happens. So far this summer I’ve helped one person out to his car. That’s it. All they really care about here is that I don’t wear sneakers. Best job in the world. I don’t get paid, but I get school credit for it.”
“Sounds great,” I say.
“Like I said, I know some people.”
“I see,” I say.
“OK, I confess. I wasn’t just here working. Didn’t you notice? Telly posted a comment on the blog that you’d be here.”
I haven’t noticed anything on the blog. I haven’t even looked at the blog today. I’ve been a little busy. Did Dusty really see something on the blog, and then decide to come here to find me? I swallow hard and hope I’m not blushing.
“Anyway, I overheard you gushing over that dress earlier in the exhibit room and, well, who else would lose their mind over a dress the way you did in there?”
“I was a little loud, wasn’t I?” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK,” Dusty says. “It was cute. Anyway, here.” He leans over and hands me a slip of paper, folded in half.
“What’s this?” I say.
“It’s a chit for Lot 14. It’s for you.”
“Thanks!” I take the paper and turn it over in my hands. “I’ll put this in my scrapbook.”
“Scrapbook?”
“Yeah, then I’ll scan it and put it up on Oh Yeah, Audrey! So what are you going to do with the dress, anyway? Are you going to give it back? Or donate it to a museum?”
“It’s not just the chit I’m giving you,” Dusty says.
I look up at him, searching his slate-gray eyes for an explanation. Surely he’s not saying he’s giving me the dress. The dress he’s just bid ten thousand dollars for. He is giving it back. Isn’t he?
“What?”
“Wear it tonight,” he says.
“Tonight?” I’m staring at the chit, mesmerized.
“Yes, tonight. You and me. I’m taking you out.” He smiles. “There’s an art opening in SoHo. We’ll have dinner at Josephine. Drinks at a speakeasy in Chelsea, where I know the password. And then Boîte, of course. Have you ever been to Boîte?”
“Dusty, I can’t.” I look around for Bryan and Trina and Telly. “It, um, it’ll never fit.”
“Try it on,” he says.
“Where?” I say. “Here?”
“Yes,” he says. “I can take you to the private suite upstairs.”
“Really?” I say. I would like to try it on, at least. That’s all. That’ll be enough.
“But what about the others?” I say.
“You’ll see them tomorrow!”
“I can’t just leave them. We have an itinerary. And I can’t accept this dress. I can’t go with you. It’s just not right.” It’s just not me.
“Say yes.”
I look at my feet and try to stop my mind from racing. I’m not the kind of girl to ditch my friends and go out with someone I just met. I’m not the kind of girl to be given a gift like this, to be asked out for an evening like this, to wear a dress like this.
But will I ever get another chance like this? I think back on my phone conversations with Dusty and how he made me feel—how I opened up to him, how I told him things I hadn’t been able to say to anyone else.
I don’t say anything for a minute, or maybe an hour or a second, I’m not sure. So many thoughts clamor for space in my head. I look up at the dress, still on its platform, women ga
thered around it, sighing.
I think about this day, this incredible day that’s only a few hours old. It sweeps before my eyes. Doing my hair in the shared bathroom at the Malcolm. The endless waiting out on the street in front of Tiffany’s. Gladiator the bichon frise. Bryan’s cognac wingtips. Trina’s red updo. Pancakes. The baby grand piano at the Four Seasons. Telly. The dress. The perfect dress with the feathered fringe. The auction. The champagne. Dusty.
“It’ll never fit,” I say.
“Just try it on,” he says.
I look at Dusty. I look at the dress.
Who would I be in that dress?
Maybe I am the kind of girl who wears that dress. Maybe all it takes is putting it on to be her. To belong.
I turn around to look for Trina and Bryan and Telly. I’m surprised to see them standing right behind me. Telly is tapping on her smartphone. Trina is smiling, but her mouth is tight and I think there’s something more to her expression, maybe a look of disappointment. But Bryan’s smile is honest, full, and bright.
Dusty leans into my ear as I look over at Bryan and Trina. “Have you ever said yes before?” he whispers.
I don’t answer. Bryan looks over at me and nods.
“Say yes,” Dusty whispers.
I breathe, turn back to him, and do something that a few minutes ago seemed impossible.
I say yes.
Yes.
6:45 P.M.
I’m alone again, staring at myself in the mirror, the massive, ten-foot-high mirror in the marbled bathroom at the Four Seasons, looking at this miraculous dress and wondering how it could possibly fit me so well.
I insisted to Dusty that Bryan had to come with me when I tried on the dress, so Dusty took us upstairs to a room above Sotheby’s that was like a little study with a bathroom attached. “Don’t worry, I won’t look,” Bryan said when I stepped out of my picnic dress, even though he was looking. “OK, I’m looking, but I’m not seeing. This is all business. Put your hands up.”
He held the dress up over my head, guided my hands through the armholes, and let it drop over my shoulders. The dress, the dress made for Audrey Hepburn by Hubert de Givenchy in 1960, the dress that was older than my mother ever was, slid right over my shoulders and down past my hips. It fit.
