‘These might work.’
‘More black,’ came the voice from within.
‘And what’s wrong with that? Give me a shout when you’re ready.’
A minute later out stepped a very different man. Richard had taken off his soon-to-be-replaced glasses. The effect — coupled with the new clothes — was more than striking. The jeans, the black work shirt, and the black boots all fit him perfectly. And the leather jacket worked wonderfully with the rest of this outfit, though the detachable fur collar was a bit too overblown, reeking of some 1940s war movie set on the Russian front. But that little detail aside, what stood out most was how the clothes so absolutely suited him, and took about ten years off him immediately. Freed from the cost accountant outfit, his face no longer dominated by the dull metallic oval of his glasses, he suddenly assumed a different outward identity. He now looked like a somewhat hip English professor who was at ease with his age. Sidling up next to Richard and looking at ourselves in the mirror — dressed up like a rather stylish metropolitan couple — all I could think was: Why had I spent years dressing myself in such a sober, restrained way? And the most disquieting aspect to this question was the realization that the only person making me conform was. myself.
‘Well. ’ Richard said, eyeing us in the mirror.
‘What do you think?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Understatement will get you nowhere.’
‘OK, the truth — I love the look. Even if it also scares me.’
‘Just as I love my look — and would never dream of walking down Main Street, Damariscotta, like this.’
‘Well, if you think I could get away with this in Bath. ’
‘I’m sure you could. Just as I’m sure that your clients and your neighbors would accept the new style.’
‘If that’s the case then why don’t you dress the way you want to when you’re home?’
‘I was just asking myself the same question. Maybe I will do just that. if I can get up the courage.’
‘Same here.’
‘You look like a very different man now.’
‘And you look even more beautiful than yesterday.’
I felt myself blush. Yet I simultaneously found myself reaching for his hand and threading my fingers through his. We didn’t turn to look at each other. Truth be told our shared nervousness was clearly palpable, as his hand was as damp as mine. Yet he did not pull away. Rather his grip tightened. Staring straight into the mirror we saw ourselves holding hands, looking so profoundly different than we were just twenty-four hours ago.
‘Hey, you guys look cool.’
It was one of the shop assistants — her tone somewhat spacey, an amused smile on her face, as if the subtext behind what she was saying was: Hey, you guys look cool. but I’m really humoring you because you’re my parents. Immediately we let go of each other, like a pair of guilty teenagers caught in a compromising position. The girl also saw this and added, rather dryly:
‘Sorry if I interrupted anything.’
‘You interrupted nothing,’ Richard said, his tone corrective. Reaching for my hand again he told her: ‘I want to wear all this out.’
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘When you’re ready I’ll just cut all the tags off. There’s a theft device in the coat that’s got to be removed.’
She left us alone.
‘That shut her up,’ I said with a smile.
‘I have my occasional assertive moments. And just to make an assertive point, I’m going to take all my old clothes and dump them in the first Goodwill charity box I find.’
It was my turn to squeeze his hand back.
‘That’s a good call.’
Now we did turn towards each other.
But then.
Bing.
My cellphone interrupted the moment; that telltale prompt letting me know that a text was awaiting me. Again, the guilt impulse took over. I let go of Richard’s hand, but hesitated about reaching for the phone. Richard read this immediately. Not wanting to put me in an awkward position he said:
‘I’ll get the girl to deal with all the tags. See you up front.’
Richard headed off in search of the shop assistant. I dug out the phone and read:
Garage all cleared. Love — Dan
I shouldn’t have looked at the damn phone, as a stab of remorse caught me. Becoming very friendly with a man I just met yesterday. Shopping for clothes for him. Holding hands with him.
Oh Lord, I sound like a twelve-year-old.
Yes, I could see that Dan’s text was a further attempt to make amends. That made me feel somewhat guilty. But. but. that was the first time he had used the word ‘love’ in a text to me since. well, I couldn’t remember the last time he’d said or written anything of the sort. And even the fact that he didn’t say, ‘Love you’. Just writing ‘Love’ — good friends use that at the end of emails. Whereas had he come out and made a direct declaration of love.
In that very instant, as I read his five-word text again, something within me shifted. It’s curious, isn’t it, how a small detail — the fact that my husband left off a pronoun after a somewhat charged word — can suddenly change everything. And the sad thing was: he was trying to be loving. Yet what he had done was underscore, once again, just how thwarted he was; how he could never really engage with me, let alone be talked into changing his clothes.
Glad the garage is cleared. Thank you. Up to my eyes in mind-numbing conferences. Hope you’ll get some rest tonight. See you tomorrow. L xxx
Initially I wrote ‘Love you’ before my initial and the multiple vacuous xxx’s. But then I deleted it. I no longer felt like articulating something I actually did not feel.
As soon as the text was sent I did something I’d never done before. I turned off the phone. If Ben and Sally were to text me — and this being a Saturday night, the chance of that happening was up there with a meteor shower directly above Boston Common — it could wait until tomorrow. If there was an emergency Dan knew the phone number of the hotel where the conference was being held, and a message would be awaiting me upon my return. But when had I ever received an urgent message from Dan or Sally? Even when Ben had his crisis, his breakdown (to give it its proper word), the information about all that only came a few days after he’d been found.
No. No. Let’s not revisit that. Because what you are doing, in fact, is trying to crowd this wondrous afternoon, the hugely unexpected moment, with all sorts of unnecessary freight. Because you are feeling no longer guilty but still rather tentative about holding that man’s hand.
Correction: about bumping into a man who’s literate and thoughtful and curious, who takes me seriously and seems genuinely interested in my view of the world.
And who, in turn, I actually find rather attractive.
He called me beautiful. When has anybody called me beautiful?
By the time I put my phone away Richard was back at the changing rooms.
‘So she’s de-tagged me,’ he said. ‘And I’ve told her that she can give all my old clothes to charity. She’s promised me to put them in a Goodwill bin on her way home.’
‘I’d be a little dubious about that. I mean, she’s hardly a Girl Scout.’
‘Well, it’s now her conscience she’ll have to talk to if she simply dumps them in a garbage can out the back.’
Leaving the shop without bags — Richard’s old glasses back on (‘I can’t see further than four feet without them’) — we walked the two blocks south to the eyewear emporium. Newbury Street was abuzz. This perfect autumn day on this perfect Victorian New England street had brought out the crowds. What struck me immediately was the sense of pleasure on most people’s faces we passed by. Yes, I did see one couple — early thirties, with a young baby in a stroller — arguing fiercely as they negotiated their child through the crowds. And there was a woman around my age who came hurrying past us, her face awash in tears, making me want to know immediately what it was that was causing her so much grief. Richard noticed her as well, saying: