she cocked her head in recognition. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks.” She was good. Now he remembered her waiting on him the last time he was here, in the lower-priced section of the store, on the top floor. That was where they sold the Marco’s Own line. Which still wasn’t cheap, not even close, just not as ridiculously expensive.
“Mr. . . . Hoffman, isn’t it? Sheila.”
Surprised she remembered, he smiled. “Nice to see you again.”
“Shall we take a ride to the fourth floor?”
“Sure. Actually, you know what? The hell with that. Maybe I can find something I like on this floor.”
He sat in an antique leather French club chair in his own private changing-room suite, while Sheila rounded up a couple of blazers and shirts and pants she thought he’d like. Meanwhile, a white-gloved butler served him a flute of excellent Champagne. Rick half expected to get a foot massage (“Care for a bit of reflexology?”) as he compared Massimo Bizzocchi ties. He could have been the sultan of Brunei.
Sure, he could have picked up a jacket and a pair of pants at J.Crew or at Brooks Brothers, down the street. But somehow that felt lame. It felt . . . inadequate to the occasion. He was going on a date with a lovely and intelligent woman at the fanciest, most expensive restaurant in Boston, and he’d rather not look like a suburban dad driving the carpool to soccer practice on Saturday morning.
This would be his first date since Holly had kicked him out. And it wasn’t just with an ex-girlfriend. It was with a woman with whom he’d clearly screwed up. No, that wasn’t even it. He’d been a jerk, plain and simple. He felt a twinge of embarrassment, of shame, remembering what he’d been like as a high school senior, what an asshole he’d been. He was going to Northwestern, to the Medill School of Journalism, and then he was going to become the next Bob Woodward. Whereas Andrea was sweet and pretty, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Or so he’d thought. When he broke things off after graduation, he explained they were moving in different directions. He was going far and fast and wanted to travel light. He didn’t want to check any baggage. Back then, with a young man’s arrogance and obliviousness, he hadn’t wanted the entanglement. He was ambitious, and she didn’t seem to be, didn’t seem to fit the profile. She wasn’t right for him.
Truly: What an asshole.
And almost as bad: He’d completely misread her. He’d got her completely wrong. He’d underestimated her. She wasn’t just some around-the-way girl; she was a Goldman Sachs woman. She was a go-getter. She was one of those high-powered women who appeared in the photos
Back Bay
magazine used to run. And she was smart. And lovely.
He wasn’t going to misread her again, and he wasn’t going to screw up again. He was going to take her out to have an amazing meal at a romantic, high-end restaurant, and he’d be damned if he was going to look like some zhlub. He thought about how gorgeous Andrea was in the supermarket, and that had been without makeup, after running. He was going to look great, stylish, no matter what the cost. He wasn’t just going to look like his old self; he was going to look better. And
he wasn’t even going to look at the price tags.
Sheila returned with another associate, their arms full of hangers. A good number of the items were immediate rule-outs, the ones that were so fashion-forward they were silly. He had no use for rib-paneled denim biker’s pants or polka-dotted trousers or monk-strap A. Testoni shoes made of alligator skin, and some of the jackets looked as if they could have been Soviet-era Red Army surplus. But once Sheila understood that he wanted to look elegant and understated and not like a pimp or a Russian oligarch, she started to bring out the right things. An old Cole Porter song was running through his head like a soundtrack to his life, something he’d heard someone cover—was it Jamie Cullum, or
“Thanks.” She was good. Now he remembered her waiting on him the last time he was here, in the lower-priced section of the store, on the top floor. That was where they sold the Marco’s Own line. Which still wasn’t cheap, not even close, just not as ridiculously expensive.
“Mr. . . . Hoffman, isn’t it? Sheila.”
Surprised she remembered, he smiled. “Nice to see you again.”
“Shall we take a ride to the fourth floor?”
“Sure. Actually, you know what? The hell with that. Maybe I can find something I like on this floor.”
He sat in an antique leather French club chair in his own private changing-room suite, while Sheila rounded up a couple of blazers and shirts and pants she thought he’d like. Meanwhile, a white-gloved butler served him a flute of excellent Champagne. Rick half expected to get a foot massage (“Care for a bit of reflexology?”) as he compared Massimo Bizzocchi ties. He could have been the sultan of Brunei.
Sure, he could have picked up a jacket and a pair of pants at J.Crew or at Brooks Brothers, down the street. But somehow that felt lame. It felt . . . inadequate to the occasion. He was going on a date with a lovely and intelligent woman at the fanciest, most expensive restaurant in Boston, and he’d rather not look like a suburban dad driving the carpool to soccer practice on Saturday morning.
This would be his first date since Holly had kicked him out. And it wasn’t just with an ex-girlfriend. It was with a woman with whom he’d clearly screwed up. No, that wasn’t even it. He’d been a jerk, plain and simple. He felt a twinge of embarrassment, of shame, remembering what he’d been like as a high school senior, what an asshole he’d been. He was going to Northwestern, to the Medill School of Journalism, and then he was going to become the next Bob Woodward. Whereas Andrea was sweet and pretty, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Or so he’d thought. When he broke things off after graduation, he explained they were moving in different directions. He was going far and fast and wanted to travel light. He didn’t want to check any baggage. Back then, with a young man’s arrogance and obliviousness, he hadn’t wanted the entanglement. He was ambitious, and she didn’t seem to be, didn’t seem to fit the profile. She wasn’t right for him.
Truly: What an asshole.
And almost as bad: He’d completely misread her. He’d got her completely wrong. He’d underestimated her. She wasn’t just some around-the-way girl; she was a Goldman Sachs woman. She was a go-getter. She was one of those high-powered women who appeared in the photos
Back Bay
magazine used to run. And she was smart. And lovely.
He wasn’t going to misread her again, and he wasn’t going to screw up again. He was going to take her out to have an amazing meal at a romantic, high-end restaurant, and he’d be damned if he was going to look like some zhlub. He thought about how gorgeous Andrea was in the supermarket, and that had been without makeup, after running. He was going to look great, stylish, no matter what the cost. He wasn’t just going to look like his old self; he was going to look better. And
he wasn’t even going to look at the price tags.
Sheila returned with another associate, their arms full of hangers. A good number of the items were immediate rule-outs, the ones that were so fashion-forward they were silly. He had no use for rib-paneled denim biker’s pants or polka-dotted trousers or monk-strap A. Testoni shoes made of alligator skin, and some of the jackets looked as if they could have been Soviet-era Red Army surplus. But once Sheila understood that he wanted to look elegant and understated and not like a pimp or a Russian oligarch, she started to bring out the right things. An old Cole Porter song was running through his head like a soundtrack to his life, something he’d heard someone cover—was it Jamie Cullum, or
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