We hit the third floor next, and I wanted all the clothes I saw—and not because I recognized a single one of the names on the labels, because I didn’t. But they made me feel like I’d somehow penetrated the world whose perimeter I’d been walking. I felt suddenly that I was the young woman these designers designed their clothes for. I felt that in them, I belonged in the boardrooms and marble lobbies. A designer called Proenza Schouler cut skirts that hugged my hips but allowed my thighs to breathe. Isabel Marant’s fabric was so sheer and light I barely felt it on my skin. A.L.C. dresses flattered my curves in a way that made me feel like I could wear them from work to a dark dinner date. I wanted to wear everything immediately. I wanted to show it off, strutting down Madison Avenue . . . I needed shoes.
On the second floor, Carmen found a pair of nude Louboutin pumps that I slipped right into.
“You need them,” she insisted. “They make your legs look amazing, and they’re impossibly chic.”
I looked at her for a moment, my thoughts racing—I should tell her about last night. She would have good advice. She wouldn’t judge me. But can she keep it a secret? Can I trust her?—then down at my feet.
“Oh my god, I forgot to say, Sam is so fun,” she gushed. “I’m mad we didn’t hang out more in law school. He’s awesome.”
I immediately shelved the idea of telling her about Peter and looked back down at my shoes, eager to change the subject.
“They’re amazing, but I literally cannot walk. I look like I threw out my back!” I wobbled across the carpeted floor to the couch and plopped into it, momentarily contemplating whether to buy them just to sit with them on my feet.
The salesman, a tall, thin, handsome guy with highlighted cheekbones, burst out laughing.
“Try these,” he said, and extended a pair of nude snakeskin Jimmy Choo pumps. “They’ll look fierce.”
I slipped my foot into them, and Carmen nodded approvingly. “Obsessed.” She slipped a pair of funky spiked Versace pumps onto her own feet.
“Let’s just see if I can walk.” I stood up uncertainly and floated a few paces to the full-length mirror. I lifted my pant leg a bit higher and marveled at the definition they created in my calves, the way they elongated my legs.
I turned around eagerly. “Totally obsessed! Thank you!” I squinted at the man’s name tag. “James. Thank you, James!”
James grinned as he scanned our mess of shopping bags and placed a hand on his hip.
“Either somebody died and put you in the will, or you two just robbed a bank!” He shook his head as we giggled. “Either way, you have to try the silver open-toed Jimmy Choos from this summer. They’re on sale for five hundred or something stupid like that. I won’t let you walk out of here without them!” He turned on his heel and disappeared.
Carmen and I sat in a mess of shoes and shoeboxes. “I want everything!” she whined.
James plopped down on the couch next to me and let out a sigh of exhaustion as I contemplated my feet in the silver Jimmy Choos.
“Girl, you better be taking everything. You think I was going back and forth so you could take one pair of shoes? No, ma’am!” I leaned back into the sofa and laughed, utterly spent from my hangover and my day of dressing and undressing. “I’m messing with you. This is the most fun I’ve had at work in a while. Most of these Upper East Side ladies who come in will only look at Manolos and don’t ask my opinion about anything!”
“We live downtown,” I said proudly. “Chelsea”—I pointed to my chest, then to Carmen’s—“and Union Square.”
“But seriously. What’s your deal?” James prodded. “Rich daddy? Sugar daddy?”
Carmen beamed. “Putting our Christmas bonuses to good use.”
“No shit! Good for you. How messed up is it that it didn’t even occur to me that you were spending your own money?” James shook his head. “What do you guys do?”
“We’re lawyers,” I told him, sitting up straighter.
“My ex was a lawyer. Looks like I should have held on to him!” James laughed. Carmen was still scanning the shoes. “Okay, I’m taking the nude and navy Louboutins and the black Alexander Wang ankle boots,” she finally said.
James looked to me.
“Just the nude Jimmy Choos for me.” He cocked his head to the side.
“Fiiiiiine. And the Stuart Weitzman boots!”
He nodded and began to clean up the shoes we weren’t taking. “Where do you ladies work?”
“Klasko & Fitch,” I said, placing the two pairs I wanted back in their boxes.
“No shit! Small world. That’s where my ex was! Last I heard, anyway. We don’t speak anymore. Ever heard the name Derrick Stockton?”
* * *
The week after the holiday party, the office was half full, populated by those of us who weren’t lucky enough to have left for the holiday yet. Those of us who remained (all the first-years, who were required to stay, plus the unlucky second-, third-, and fourth-years who had had to cancel their plans entirely and submit their holiday reimbursements to the firm) worked at a ferocious pace, compensating for the absence of their coworkers who were smart enough to have already put their out-of-office replies on and jump on planes. Come the following Friday, I still hadn’t heard a word from Peter, besides a bunch of group emails about Stag River. It was December 23, and the last workday he might possibly be in the office. I tried to brainstorm any and all tasks—deal-related, administrative, housekeeping—to keep my anxious mind occupied.
The maroon skirt I’d bought at Bergdorf’s and cut the tags from that morning, on the off chance I ran into Peter, went from snug to tight after lunch. Each time the seams of the leather dug into my hips, it felt like a harsh reminder that Peter had moved on. I’m probably too fat for him. He’s grossed out by my body because his wife is so thin. By six o’clock I’d kicked off my black pumps and begun disposing of the clutter on my desk. I tied my hair into a bun and reached for the Windex that I kept on my top shelf. I flipped my keyboard upside down and slammed it onto my desk, watching the debris of countless meals eaten there release.
“Easy! What did that poor computer ever do to you?” I jerked my head up to see Peter at my door. I didn’t have time to put on my shoes or take down my hair, but I blew a stray strand out of my eye with the side of my mouth and elongated my spine. “Can I come in?” he asked casually.
I gestured to my spare chair as professionally as I could, mimicking the motion Matt had made to me on several occasions. He entered without shutting the door behind him, and a wave of disappointment swept over me despite myself. My brain flashed again to the back seat of his car, and I became acutely aware of the tiny scab forming on my breast. He looked good, despite the late hour. His tie knot was faultless, his hair flawless.
I sat in my chair as he did in his. I willed my gaze to steady, but it refused to oblige my wishes. I turned to my monitor instead.
“When are you leaving for the holiday?” I asked, looking sideways at the screen and touching my mouse to wake it up, trying to sound nonchalant.
He looked around my office. “How do you find anything in here?”