Every Little Thing. Pamela Klaffke
with better photography. The only giveaway that it’s not some fashion magazine insert is the subtle names and numbers tastefully printed at the bottom of the page: Annette blouse, #7395, Marion trouser, #2849, and so on. Naming every piece in a collection seems like a weird thing to do, but what do I know about the fashion business? I say: get a look and stick with it. It makes life easier and it worked for Andy Warhol.
There are no assigned seats. One of Janet’s smiley staff told me that. She was cheery and wearing a beige linen suit—all the staff members are wearing sharply cut beige suits with black dress shirts, open halfway. I bet the suits aren’t beige, but ecru or sand. Fashion is so pretentious and everyone is so skinny. I feel like a lump. Maybe I should have asked Aaron to come with me—he called earlier to invite me on a trip to Edgar’s ranch in Montana for the weekend, leaving tomorrow. My first instinct was to say no—after the other night, and the kiss, and Edgar’s weirdness—but I fought the instinct. Is kissing your ex-stepbrother really that wrong? It’s not illegal. I looked it up online just to be sure. But it’s—I don’t know—it’s sort of wrong, but not in a bad way. Maybe I am naughty, like Edgar said. A smile creeps onto my face. I kind of like that idea, the idea of me as the mischievous coquette. What does the modern mischievous coquette wear on a ranch in Montana?
I take a seat in the back so I can continue picturing myself as a saucy vixen-on-the-range in peace. I don’t want to have to move later because some beige-loving lady can’t see over my hair. I watch the crowd and wish this wasn’t Janet’s show, that instead we were there together in the audience, snickering at the uptight crowd.
“Mason?” I look up and see a blonde woman smiling at me. I can’t place the face. “Oh my God,” she says and opens her arms. I think I’m supposed to stand up and hug her or something, but I don’t. “I can’t believe it’s you,” she continues, taking the seat beside me. “Janet said you were coming, but I couldn’t believe it.” She takes my hand. “I was so, so sorry to hear about your mother. I wanted to be at the funeral, but we didn’t get in from Tokyo until last night. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly. Am I supposed to know her?
“Diedre!” Seth comes bouncing up and the blonde woman leaps to embrace him.
Diedre? D.D.? No, it can’t be. Shit. Where’s the black hair and the heavy eyeliner? What happened to her bad skin and huge tits? It can’t possibly be her. She’s not stoned, and she would never wear that outfit: a simple pink linen dress and tiny matching cardigan. And she’s smiling, which is impossible—D.D. was the grumpiest of all the grumpy goth girls in high school.
“Love the look,” Seth says to the woman that can’t be D.D.
She twirls around. “Miss Janet’s, of course.”
“Naturally,” says Seth. “You should see some of the winter-white coats she’s showing today—gor-geous. Cashmere and silk, like you’ve stepped out of some forties movie.”
Janet could never completely commit to an all-black lifestyle. She dabbled, sure, but there was always some other color in there, like white or red. And she never dyed her hair. The closest she came is that one time in high school we put purple streaks in her bangs, and even then, the color was only a rinse and was gone in a week. I think she hung out with us because she was so tall and everyone called her a freak. We were all freaks; D.D. was a huge freak.
“This is so cool,” Seth says. “All of us back together again.”
“Sure,” I say.
“Is Rob coming? Please tell me Rob is coming,” Diedre says. Is Rob coming? Is Rob coming? This woman is definitely D.D. She was always in love with Rob Wilson, supergoth, king of the freaks.
“He’ll be here. I talked to him last night,” Seth says. I had no idea they were still in contact. “Where’s Trevor?”
“Where else? At the office,” Diedre says, rolling her eyes. I notice a wedding band on her left ring finger.
“Too bad,” Seth says.
“There’s Rob!” Diedre lights up and starts waving across the room to a man dressed in a blue T-shirt and jeans. He’s wearing glasses with chunky black frames and has bangs that flop in his face. Jesus, that’s Rob?
“Hey, Mason,” he says. “Great to see you. Sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“You look great,” Rob says, smiling. “Exactly the same.”
“I know!” says Diedre. “Doesn’t she?”
“So what have you been up to?” Rob asks. What’s with all the smiling?
“I don’t know,” I say. “Just work, hanging out, the usual.”
“Janet said you’re living in Canada,” Diedre says.
I nod. “Yup.”
“Great investment opportunities up there,” she says.
“Tell me about it,” Rob says.
The tasteful background music cuts out abruptly and people rush to find seats. Everyone is quiet—it’s weird. A track of classical music starts up and the show begins. The models walk slowly past us, winding their way through and around the seats; everyone gets an up-close look. The clothes are classic and beautifully made. Only three pieces in the entire collection are black.
I recognize Victor Durrell when he hands Janet a giant bouquet of exotic flowers as she comes out to take her bow at the end of the show. He is old. He is gross. I can’t imagine sleeping with him. I can’t imagine Janet sleeping with him. She could do so much better.
Amid the applause and congratulations, Seth takes me aside and fills me in on D.D.—Diedre—and Rob. Diedre never really got over Rob, but actually married his brother, Trevor, and they’re both market analysts. I don’t know what market they’re analyzing and don’t ask. She had breast reduction surgery and has two kids. It’s too depressing, but not as bad as Rob’s story: he sells internet virus-detection software to big companies and plays keyboards in an all-eighties-hits cover band. It’s so sad when people try to cling to their youth like that.
“I’m afraid I have to run,” Diedre says, looking at her watch. “But we should have drinks while you’re in town.”
“Definitely,” I say. She hands me her business card. Diedre has an M.B.A. She’s married to Trevor Wilson. He was such a geek loser.
“I gotta bail, too,” Rob says. “Client dinner.” Diedre nods and so does Seth.
“Sure,” I say. “It was nice to see you again.”
“You, too. Drop me a line when you guys get together for those drinks,” Rob says. He scribbles something on the back of his business card and hands it to me. “My band is playing at a pub in Redwood City this weekend—you should come.” I nod and smile. I’d rather die than trek all the way to suburban Redwood City for anything.
“Would you care for another glass?” Victor Durrell asks me. He’s holding a bottle of champagne. Why not?
“Sure,” I say. We’re making a meal of tasty hors d’oeuvres left over from the show. All the guests except me and Seth—and of course, Victor—have gone. Janet should be celebrating but she’s distracted, going over the orders some of her clients placed immediately following the show. Victor goes to top up her glass of champagne but she preempts him by placing her hand over the top. I guess it’s just me and Seth and Victor doing the real drinking tonight. Actually, it’s just me and Seth—Victor doesn’t drink at all. It’s some kind of A.A. thing. I don’t know how he can sit there and fill up our drinks and not have one himself.
“I didn’t know you kept in touch with Rob and D.D.,” I say to Janet.
“What’s that?” She wasn’t even listening.