“Is there a particular color . . . ?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Green, she thought. But no, green wasn’t supposed to be a happy color. Yellow? Never. Seymour would consider yellow too eighties Wall Street.
“How about pink?” the salesman asked. “Pink is very big for men right now.”
Seymour in a pink tie? No, that really was going too far. “Not pink,” she said decisively.
“Silver,” the salesman said. “It goes beautifully with everything. It dresses a suit up. It’s very ‘special occasion.’ ” Nico nodded. “Silver then,” she said.
“Come this way . . .”
She followed him toward the back of the store. On either side were fitting stands—blocks surrounded by three-sided mirrored coffins, Nico thought. Sitting in a chair next to one of the coffins was a young woman whom Nico recognized from her office. The woman worked in the advertising department at one of her magazines; she had blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, and was pretty in that unformed way young women in their late twenties often are, as if she were still trying to pinpoint who she was and where she fit into the world.
“Hello,” Nico said, nodding pleasantly. She wasn’t intending to have a big interaction with the young woman, but the girl looked shocked, and then horrified, and then guilty, as if she’d suddenly been caught doing something illegal. In terror, she glanced from Nico to a man standing on one of the fitting platforms. Nico recognized the man’s mahogany skin and knew it was Mike Harness.
He was pretending to be busy with the tailor at his feet, who was pinning the hem of his pants, but he had surely seen her in the mirror. Mike! Nico thought. She did wonder what had happened to him—she’d heard he’d gone to England for a while. Should she pass by, pretending she hadn’t seen him, which was what he was trying to do, thus sparing them any awkwardness? But she hesitated for too long, and he looked up, staring into the mirror and seeing her behind him, probably curious about what she was going to do and planning what he would say, but maybe he already had something planned, knowing that someday they would bump into each other.
“Hello, Mike,” she said. She didn’t offer her hand—she didn’t think he would shake it.
“Well, well, well,” Mike said, looking down at her from his perch. “Nico O’Neilly.”
“Nice to see you, Mike,” she said quickly, with a little nod, turning away. That was the right thing to do, she thought. Acknowledge him without getting into anything. But as she began examining the silver ties, the fact of their presences and everything that had happened between them filled the store like two thunderclouds. She couldn’t concentrate. I will apologize to him, she thought.
She turned around. Mike was sitting down, tying his shoes, as if eager to get out of the store quickly. This was better; at least he wasn’t towering over her like a gargoyle. “Mike,” she said. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
Mike looked up, surprised and still angry. “You should never apologize to your enemies, Nico,” he said dismissively. “I would think that you of all people would know that.”
“Are we enemies, Mike? There’s no need for that.”
“Because I’m not a threat to you anymore? Then in that case, I guess not.”
She smiled a little sadly, with her lips pressed together. Mike would never change, she thought, he’d never get over his ego. She’d done as much as she could do here; it was best to let it go. “I hope you’re well, Mike,” she said. She began to turn away, and he stood up.
“Well, I guess I do have to thank you for one thing,” he said suddenly. “Natalia and I are getting married,” he said, indicating the young woman, who smiled at Nico as if she weren’t sure whose side she was supposed to be on. “You must know Natalia,” Mike said accusingly. “She works for you. Now,” he added.
“Of course,” Nico said. “Congratulations.”
“I’ve told her if she wants to get ahead, she should act just like you,” Mike went on, picking up his overcoat. This was obviously meant as an insult, but Nico decided not to take it as one. “That’s very nice,” she said, as if she were flattered.
“In any case,” Mike went on, sliding his arms into the coat, “you opened my eyes to what’s important in life. It’s like what you women have been saying all along: It’s relationships that are important, not your career. Careers are bullshit. Careers are for assholes. When I think about how I twisted myself around . . . what I gave up to please Victor Matrick . . .” He looked down at Natalia and took her arm proprietarily. “Isn’t that right, babe?”
“I guess,” Natalia whispered, looking from Mike to Nico. “But I think it’s a good idea to try to have both,” she ventured, not wanting to offend either one of her bosses, Nico thought.
“Well, congratulations, again,” Nico said. She watched them for a moment as they strolled out of the store. That poor girl, Nico thought, having to marry Mike Harness. He was such a bully. She was going to take a closer look at that Natalia. She hoped she was good; if she was, she’d make it a point to help her. The kid deserved something good in her life after being married to Mike.
“Should I wrap this tie and have it sent for you?” the salesman asked, holding out a folded silver tie in a shiny brown box.
“Yes,” Nico said, enjoying her day again. “Please do.”
* * *
OH, WHAT A LOT of fuss human beings made, Nico thought.
It was seven p.m., and the car was caught in a juggernaut of vehicles trying to make the turn from Seventh Avenue onto Fifty-fourth Street to the Ziegfeld Theatre where Wendy’s premiere was being held. You could feel the tension emanating from the other cars, the pure stress of winding up the day by attending a movie premiere; dressing up, finding transportation, and then there were the crowds outside the theater (held back on both sides of the street by police barricades) hoping to get a glimpse of a genuine movie star (was it the kind of moment people took to their graves, Nico wondered, the moment when they saw Jenny Cadine in real life?), and then the photographers and the P.R. girls with their clipboards, having to distinguish between the somebodies and the nobodies . . .
The car pulled into a small space in front of the theater, and Nico quickly got out. Putting her head down, she pushed through the crowd and slipped into a side door, avoiding the red carpet altogether. More and more in the last six months, she’d accepted the realization that she didn’t want to be a public figure at all. She didn’t need it. The CEO and president of Verner P
ublications should be a slightly mysterious, shadowy figure who rarely appeared in the papers. It was Wendy’s night, anyway. The photographers didn’t need to get pictures of her.