for
stretchable
. “Thank you.” Accepting the paper bag holding the bracelets, she headed back out to her car.
After turning on the engine to warm up the car, she reached into her purse, took the bracelets out, and slipped them onto her wrist. Now her arm looked different. In the dim neon light from the pharmacy, who could tell the beads were plastic? They were cool on her skin and made a companionable rattle as she put the car into drive.
Buying plastic bracelets, for God’s sake. Was she losing her mind? They glimmered when she stopped at a red light. If it were summer, they might be appropriate.
But maybe this demented purchase signaled an authentic yearning. It occurred to her, as she drove, that it had been years since she’d bought anything with color in it. Needing to look businesslike and competent, a woman intruding into the old boy network, she’d bought only shades of beige, and gray, and black, and ivory, for years. It simplified her life. It sent the message that although she always looked presentable, even elegant, she didn’t waste much time on shopping. Even the clothes she wore at home were in neutral shades, in case someone dropped in unexpectedly.
At the long brick building, a restored warehouse running along Boston Harbor, she pulled her mail from the box in the hall, pressed the elevator button, got off on the fifth floor, and let herself into her condo.
When she’d moved here twenty-one years ago, she hadn’t wanted to waste time on decorating; there had been so much work to do at the office. Besides, for a woman from the Midwest, the ever-changing display of sailboats, steamers, and massive foreign container ships seemed a luxury she’d never tire of. So she’d had the place done up in cream, beige, and black. Then, she thought it looked sophisticated.
Now she thought it looked dreary. Impersonal. Bland. Even the art she’d chosen for the walls was black-and-white—photographs of different cities at night.
Suddenly, with the same inexplicable craving that had driven her to buy the bright bracelets, Alice wanted to look at flowers. She wanted to cuddle a teddy bear. She wanted to cuddle a real-life, hair-shedding, dander-strewing cat. She wanted to wear a crimson robe while she painted her toenails scarlet.
She looked at the bracelets on her wrist, and smiled.
After changing into the robe she had—caramel, with cream trim—she padded into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of red wine. Then she threw herself onto the sofa and lifted her tired feet, tucking a pillow beneath them. Ah. Bliss.
Her mail lay in the center of the coffee table. Nothing she couldn’t wait to check out—except—something heavy, addressed by hand.
She opened it. Oh, yeah, the going-away party for Eloise Linley. The other executive secretaries had organized it, and Alice was glad. Eloise deserved it. Even if Alice felt Eloise was bailing out just when she needed her most, she had to go. It would be churlish not to, plus it might signal a weakness to the new kids on the block. Sighing, Alice turned on her heating pad and lay back on the sofa, staring out into the night.
9
Saturday night as Faye prepared for the party, she put on a CD of Strauss waltzes and concocted a light drink of vodka with cranberry juice, loving the rosy color, which always put her in a festive mood. She showered, pulled on her turquoise kimono, and sat down on the quilted rosewood bench in front of her dressing table.
She looked in the mirror.
A stranger looked back.
She leaned closer, as fascinated with her face as she’d been as a teenager, scrutinizing each pore. Back then, of course, she’d been trying to maximize her sex appeal. Now she wanted only to remain recognizable. Every day it seemed some bit of her skin slipped another millimeter. Her eyes were no longer the same size or shape, and her lids drooped like a pair of ancient panties with stretched elastic waistbands.
Behind her, on a padded hanger, was her new,
stretchable
. “Thank you.” Accepting the paper bag holding the bracelets, she headed back out to her car.
After turning on the engine to warm up the car, she reached into her purse, took the bracelets out, and slipped them onto her wrist. Now her arm looked different. In the dim neon light from the pharmacy, who could tell the beads were plastic? They were cool on her skin and made a companionable rattle as she put the car into drive.
Buying plastic bracelets, for God’s sake. Was she losing her mind? They glimmered when she stopped at a red light. If it were summer, they might be appropriate.
But maybe this demented purchase signaled an authentic yearning. It occurred to her, as she drove, that it had been years since she’d bought anything with color in it. Needing to look businesslike and competent, a woman intruding into the old boy network, she’d bought only shades of beige, and gray, and black, and ivory, for years. It simplified her life. It sent the message that although she always looked presentable, even elegant, she didn’t waste much time on shopping. Even the clothes she wore at home were in neutral shades, in case someone dropped in unexpectedly.
At the long brick building, a restored warehouse running along Boston Harbor, she pulled her mail from the box in the hall, pressed the elevator button, got off on the fifth floor, and let herself into her condo.
When she’d moved here twenty-one years ago, she hadn’t wanted to waste time on decorating; there had been so much work to do at the office. Besides, for a woman from the Midwest, the ever-changing display of sailboats, steamers, and massive foreign container ships seemed a luxury she’d never tire of. So she’d had the place done up in cream, beige, and black. Then, she thought it looked sophisticated.
Now she thought it looked dreary. Impersonal. Bland. Even the art she’d chosen for the walls was black-and-white—photographs of different cities at night.
Suddenly, with the same inexplicable craving that had driven her to buy the bright bracelets, Alice wanted to look at flowers. She wanted to cuddle a teddy bear. She wanted to cuddle a real-life, hair-shedding, dander-strewing cat. She wanted to wear a crimson robe while she painted her toenails scarlet.
She looked at the bracelets on her wrist, and smiled.
After changing into the robe she had—caramel, with cream trim—she padded into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of red wine. Then she threw herself onto the sofa and lifted her tired feet, tucking a pillow beneath them. Ah. Bliss.
Her mail lay in the center of the coffee table. Nothing she couldn’t wait to check out—except—something heavy, addressed by hand.
She opened it. Oh, yeah, the going-away party for Eloise Linley. The other executive secretaries had organized it, and Alice was glad. Eloise deserved it. Even if Alice felt Eloise was bailing out just when she needed her most, she had to go. It would be churlish not to, plus it might signal a weakness to the new kids on the block. Sighing, Alice turned on her heating pad and lay back on the sofa, staring out into the night.
9
Saturday night as Faye prepared for the party, she put on a CD of Strauss waltzes and concocted a light drink of vodka with cranberry juice, loving the rosy color, which always put her in a festive mood. She showered, pulled on her turquoise kimono, and sat down on the quilted rosewood bench in front of her dressing table.
She looked in the mirror.
A stranger looked back.
She leaned closer, as fascinated with her face as she’d been as a teenager, scrutinizing each pore. Back then, of course, she’d been trying to maximize her sex appeal. Now she wanted only to remain recognizable. Every day it seemed some bit of her skin slipped another millimeter. Her eyes were no longer the same size or shape, and her lids drooped like a pair of ancient panties with stretched elastic waistbands.
Behind her, on a padded hanger, was her new,
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