Food Whore by Jessica Tom

opened.
    â€œHey, restaurant girl!” Elliott greeted me, just me, with a smile. I held on to that until he looked at Emerald and his attention—­along with my resolve—­vanished. “And hey to you, too, Emerald. Why does it seem like you have connections with everyone in the city? I just met, like, three ­people who know you.”
    â€œHey, you’re in Manhattan now. It’s all about who you know,” she said, puffing up her chest, which looked even more robust under a huge silk chiffon scarf.
    â€œAnyway!” I said. The last thing I wanted was to let Emerald go on about her “connections.” “Em was just saying how I need to get a new suit for work,” I said to Elliott, sure he’d veto any unnecessary suits. “Because she thinks my current one is too ‘blah.’ ”
    â€œOh, yeah, that’s a good idea.”
    I glared at him, dumbstruck. “Really?”
    â€œI think you’d look nice in a new suit,” he said. But did he mean “new”? Or did he mean designer? Something picked out by Emerald?
    â€œSee?” Emerald said, basking in her triumph. “Come on, I can even start our consultation tonight. Learn how to take some piston and let me give you an outfit for your dinner.”
    â€œNo. That’s unnecessary. We have to—­”
    â€œOh, what’s the harm?” Elliott asked. “Just for fun.” He followed Emerald into her room and they turned around, waiting for me to follow.
    â€œCome on,” Emerald said. “Your boyfriend wants a fresh piece of tail.”
    I didn’t laugh, but I saw Elliott stifle a little bit of a smile. I dragged myself toward Emerald’s room, but stood in the doorway, my arms crossed.
    â€œThis would be so flattering on you,” she said, pulling a dress out of her closet. “It’s sort of Halston-­like and would show off your cute boobs and accentuate your flat stomach. And then this . . .” She held up a cropped bomber jacket. “It’s also from the seventies and, you know, toughens up the look. So you don’t look so pretty.”
    She peered at me, waiting for a response. Elliott sat in Emerald’s chartreuse velvet armchair, amused.
    â€œOkay, I’ll try it on.” I didn’t have the energy for Emerald to fawn over me.
    I grabbed the hanger and ducked back into my room to slip on the dress, and it was, indeed, flattering. The red fabric gathered at the bust, swept down my sides, and came out in a wispy trumpet shape at my knees. I put on the leather jacket, and though I never would have picked this out myself, again, Emerald was right. I didn’t feel so green and scared, but rather strong and protected. No wonder so many women in New York wore leather.
    â€œYou look incredible !” Emerald jumped up and down when I stepped out into the living room. Then she calmed herself by admiring her work. “Oh, the red looks so good on your skin. And the leather. It’s too perfect. Keep those. They don’t fit me anymore.”
    â€œWow!” Elliott said. “You look great.”
    â€œOne last thing,” Emerald added. “Take this purse and seal the deal. It’s the latest Proenza Schouler bag. The PS1 is done and now they’re onto this. It won’t be in stores for another year.”
    I looked down at the purse, a blue, green, and gold rectangle with inlaid triangles and textures. Some pony hair, some leather, maybe snake or skate?
    â€œThe purse is a loaner. But don’t even think about returning that other stuff.”
    â€œOkay,” I griped. I hated being put in this situation, but the clothes and especially the purse were so beautiful. I looked better and, in some ways, felt better. Somehow, Emerald, who barely knew me, had cracked the code of fabric and proportions. I had tried so hard to get this right, but she could have done it blindfolded. It was a