rich. Goldman Sachs guy. She bought the dress, sent out the invites, booked the Rainbow Room. Deposit and everything…”
“And he left her standing at the altar,” I guessed.
Jonathan paused for dramatic effect, the highlight brush erect. “He killed himself.”
“Oh my God…how?”
“Jumped!”
“From a bridge?”
“From her fourteenth-story apartment!”
“No!” I tried to get a glimpse of the woman’s face, but she was at a sink with her head tilted away from me.
“Right. After. They. Finished. Making. Love.” Jonathan tapped the air with his brush after each word and then shook his head sadly. “I mean, how do you go on?”
“Right after?”
“Right after.”
“Like the minute the…deed was finished? Or after she fell asleep? Or what?”
“Julia, I don’t know! I didn’t ask! But I think she was asleep.”
“Wow,” I said. And then I was silent. Jonathan began painting on my highlights, and covering them with foil, humming away.
Jonathan was one of my first friends in New York. He knew Joe and me long before Joe became famous. In fact, Julian, Jonathan’s boyfriend and business partner, loves to brag that he remembers the days when Joe Ferraro’s checks used to bounce regularly. In return, I remind him that I knew him and Jonathan when their salon was a dingy hole-in-the-wall on Columbus Avenue. Now they have a large salon on Madison, a huge salon in SoHo, and a product line sold in those hair-supply stores in malls all over the country.
I was aching to tell Jonathan about Joe’s phone message. Jonathan has a unique vantage point from which to observe the female condition, and he has consoled me and countless others many times over the years. Difficulties conceiving, unrequited crushes, unfaithful lovers, pregnancies, births—these are the things Jonathan’s clients fret or rejoice about while sitting, facing their own mirrored images, and they find him to be a sympathetic, if somewhat overly opinionated, counselor. As a result, Jonathan has become an expert on love, loss, and the female reproductive system, and I have, more than once, consulted him before calling a doctor. “It’s normal for your periods to be getting heavier now,” Jonathan told me once when I complained. “You’re approaching peri-menopause.” Another time, after I’d felt what I thought was a lump in my breast, Jonathan asked, anxiously, “Is it soft or hard? Painful or not?” When I told him sort of soft and painful, he visibly relaxed. “It’s just a cyst or something. Breast cancer lumps don’t hurt.” Of course, I went in for the mammogram anyway, but he was right, it was nothing. Now I wished I could tap into his mother lode of knowledge about cheating husbands and spying wives, but I realized that while I didn’t mind if Jonathan blabbed about my rather bland gynecological travails, it wouldn’t do to have him whispering about Joe and Julia Ferraro. And asking Jonathan to keep it to himself would have been like asking him not to breathe.
“I’m going to the Golden Globes,” I said suddenly. Here was something I didn’t mind having repeated. “Joe was nominated!”
“Oh my God. I forgot! Julian told me yesterday morning. That’s fantastic! So, who are you wearing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Honey, it’s soon, isn’t it?”
“It’s the twenty-second.”
“You have to call my friend Monica. She works for Vera Wang. And my client Sharon Bronson works for Calvin Klein. She’s the one who outfits celebrities for events. I’ll get Julian to get you their numbers. What about your hair?”
“I don’t know. I guess the network will send somebody over to do hair and makeup. I’ll just get a blow-dry.” I’ve worn my hair in the same style since Ruby was a baby. Shaggy layers. Not long, not short. Easy.
“You have to let me give you hair extensions. It’ll be gorgeous on you. We’ll book it today and I can do them next week.”
“Extensions? I don’t think
“And he left her standing at the altar,” I guessed.
Jonathan paused for dramatic effect, the highlight brush erect. “He killed himself.”
“Oh my God…how?”
“Jumped!”
“From a bridge?”
“From her fourteenth-story apartment!”
“No!” I tried to get a glimpse of the woman’s face, but she was at a sink with her head tilted away from me.
“Right. After. They. Finished. Making. Love.” Jonathan tapped the air with his brush after each word and then shook his head sadly. “I mean, how do you go on?”
“Right after?”
“Right after.”
“Like the minute the…deed was finished? Or after she fell asleep? Or what?”
“Julia, I don’t know! I didn’t ask! But I think she was asleep.”
“Wow,” I said. And then I was silent. Jonathan began painting on my highlights, and covering them with foil, humming away.
Jonathan was one of my first friends in New York. He knew Joe and me long before Joe became famous. In fact, Julian, Jonathan’s boyfriend and business partner, loves to brag that he remembers the days when Joe Ferraro’s checks used to bounce regularly. In return, I remind him that I knew him and Jonathan when their salon was a dingy hole-in-the-wall on Columbus Avenue. Now they have a large salon on Madison, a huge salon in SoHo, and a product line sold in those hair-supply stores in malls all over the country.
I was aching to tell Jonathan about Joe’s phone message. Jonathan has a unique vantage point from which to observe the female condition, and he has consoled me and countless others many times over the years. Difficulties conceiving, unrequited crushes, unfaithful lovers, pregnancies, births—these are the things Jonathan’s clients fret or rejoice about while sitting, facing their own mirrored images, and they find him to be a sympathetic, if somewhat overly opinionated, counselor. As a result, Jonathan has become an expert on love, loss, and the female reproductive system, and I have, more than once, consulted him before calling a doctor. “It’s normal for your periods to be getting heavier now,” Jonathan told me once when I complained. “You’re approaching peri-menopause.” Another time, after I’d felt what I thought was a lump in my breast, Jonathan asked, anxiously, “Is it soft or hard? Painful or not?” When I told him sort of soft and painful, he visibly relaxed. “It’s just a cyst or something. Breast cancer lumps don’t hurt.” Of course, I went in for the mammogram anyway, but he was right, it was nothing. Now I wished I could tap into his mother lode of knowledge about cheating husbands and spying wives, but I realized that while I didn’t mind if Jonathan blabbed about my rather bland gynecological travails, it wouldn’t do to have him whispering about Joe and Julia Ferraro. And asking Jonathan to keep it to himself would have been like asking him not to breathe.
“I’m going to the Golden Globes,” I said suddenly. Here was something I didn’t mind having repeated. “Joe was nominated!”
“Oh my God. I forgot! Julian told me yesterday morning. That’s fantastic! So, who are you wearing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Honey, it’s soon, isn’t it?”
“It’s the twenty-second.”
“You have to call my friend Monica. She works for Vera Wang. And my client Sharon Bronson works for Calvin Klein. She’s the one who outfits celebrities for events. I’ll get Julian to get you their numbers. What about your hair?”
“I don’t know. I guess the network will send somebody over to do hair and makeup. I’ll just get a blow-dry.” I’ve worn my hair in the same style since Ruby was a baby. Shaggy layers. Not long, not short. Easy.
“You have to let me give you hair extensions. It’ll be gorgeous on you. We’ll book it today and I can do them next week.”
“Extensions? I don’t think
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