Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [56]
There was a knock at the door.
I didn’t even bother to ask who it was. I opened to find a Western Union kid bearing the first telegram of my life. It was posted from London:
HAPPY BDAY SIS STOP SORRY COULDN’T BE THERE STOP TURN THE TOWN UPSIDE DOWN FOR THE BOTH OF US STOP SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS STOP
Two weeks? If the postcard from Palm Beach was any indication, I wouldn’t be seeing Tinker and Eve till Thanksgiving.
I lit a cigarette and reread the telegram. Given the context, some might wonder if by FOR THE BOTH OF US Eve meant her and Tinker, or her and me. Instinct told me it was the latter. And maybe she was on to something.
I got up and pulled Uncle Roscoe’s footlocker from under my bed. At the very bottom, buried under my birth certificate and a rabbit’s foot and the only surviving picture of my mother, was the envelope that Mr. Ross had given me. I spilled the remaining ten-dollar bills onto my bedcover. Turn the town upside down, the oracle had said, and the very next day that’s exactly what I intended to do.
On the fifth floor of Bendel’s there were more flowers than at a funeral.
I was standing in front of a rack of little black dresses. Cotton. Linen. Lace. Backless. Sleeveless. Black . . . black . . . black . . .
—Can I help you? someone asked for the fifth time since I’d entered the store.
I turned to find a woman in her midforties in a skirt suit and glasses standing at a respectful distance. She had lovely red hair tied back in a ponytail. It gave her the appearance of a starlet playing the part of a spinster.
—Do you have something a little more . . . colorful? I asked.
Mrs. O’Mara ushered me to a cushiony couch where she could ask me questions about my size, my coloring and my social schedule. Then she disappeared. When she returned she had two girls in tow, each with a selection of dresses flung over an arm. One by one Mrs. O’Mara introduced me to their virtues while I sipped coffee from a fine china cup. As I offered my impressions (too green, too long, too tepid) one of the girls took notes. It made me feel like I was an executive in the Bendel’s boardroom signing off on the spring collection. There wasn’t a hint in the air that money would soon be changing hands. Certainly not mine.
A professional saleswoman who knew her mark, Mrs. O’Mara saved the best for last: a white short-sleeved dress with baby blue polka dots and a matching hat.
—The dress is obviously fun, Mrs. O’Mara observed. But an educated, elegant fun.
—It’s not too country?
—On the contrary. This dress was designed as fresh air for the city. For Rome, Paris, Milan. It’s not for Connecticut. The country doesn’t need a dress like this. We do.
Tilting my head, I betrayed a gleam of interest.
—Let’s try it on, said Mrs. O’Mara.
It fit almost perfectly.
—Striking, she said.
—You think?
—I’m certain of it. And you don’t have shoes on. It’s one of the great tests of a dress. If it can look this elegant in bare feet, well then . . .
We were standing next to each other looking coolly in the mirror. I turned a little to one side lifting the heel of my right foot off the carpet. The hem shifted slightly around my knees. I tried to imagine myself barefoot on the Spanish Steps and almost succeeded.
—It’s terrific, I admitted. But I can’t help thinking how much better it would look on you, given the color of your hair.
—If I may be so bold, Miss Kontent, the color of my hair is available to you on the second floor.
Two hours later, with the red hair of the Irish, I took a taxi to the West Village to La Belle Époque. It was still a few years before French restaurants would be in vogue, but La Belle Époque had become a favorite