Free Love Me by Rachel Shukert Page B

dove-gray coupe looked as out of place as her Parisian hatboxes and monogrammed trunks piled on Mrs. O’Malley’s uneven floor. Slipping behind the wheel, Amanda breathed in the rich scent of the burgundy leather seats, which still smelled new after almost two years. She ran her hand over the gold initials embossed on the highly polished door of the glove compartment:

    Amanda Louise Farraday. A name—a
person
—she had invented all by herself, out of nothing.
If Harry and I get married, I’ll have to change the monogram
, Amanda thought with a giggle. Another name, another identity to slip into as if it were one of her black silk gloves. She was sure it would fit her just as well.
    Amanda drove. Slowly, the shabby buildings and crumbling streets gave way to neat little homes with orange trees in their well-kept yards, then gated mansions with sprawling emerald lawns dotted with palm trees, until the glittering paved expanse of Wilshire Boulevard stretched out before her. She pulled into the long circular driveway of Bullocks, enjoying theluxuriant crunch of the gravel beneath her tires. A uniformed valet jumped out to greet her. She dropped her keys into his outstretched hand and smiled graciously at the doormen as they ushered her through the glass-and-travertine doors into the lobby.
    Maybe it was silly, but Amanda thought there was no place on earth that made her feel as safe as the Bullocks Wilshire department store. She loved the slippery floors of pale Italian marble, the immense art deco ceiling mural depicting planes, trains, and automobiles in a colorful paean to the steady thrum of optimistic American progress, the polished nickel columns and shining glass countertops in which one could catch a reassuring glimpse of oneself looking appropriately stylish and busy and important.
    It was as if nothing bad could ever happen to you there, as though the cares and worries of the world were gone with a whisk of the revolving doors, like water past the rudder of a ship. A department store was beautiful and calm, filled with beautiful and calm people harvesting the beautiful fruits of their labor in the hushed reverent tones of visitors to an art museum.
    With one important exception: in this art museum,
everything
was for sale.
    “Miss Farraday!” the salesgirl exclaimed as Amanda stepped out of the polished mahogany elevator and into the designer salons of the fifth floor. “It’s … it’s you.”
    “Hello, Annette,” Amanda said warmly. “How nice to see you. It’s been a long time.”
    “It certainly has.” Nervously, the girl’s fingers flew to theruffled collar of her starched white blouse. “Is there … is there something I can help you with?”
    “There is.” Amanda graced the girl with her best haughty, impersonal smile. Somehow, the expression made her think of Diana Chesterfield, although God—and Amanda—knew that Diana was no more to-the-manor-born than she was. “I’m looking for a new evening dress. Something rather spectacular, if you can swing it.”
    “Any special occasion?”
    Amanda examined her nails with studied nonchalance. “Oh, only if you consider the Oscars something special.”
    “I … I see,” Annette stammered. “In that case … I’d …”
    “You’d what, Annette? Spit it out.”
    “I’d better get my manager,” Annette said finally. “Just wait here.”
    Great
. Amanda pursed her lips with impatience as the girl fluttered anxiously away.
This is going to be trickier than I thought
. Bracing herself, she tightened her grip around the packet of paper she clutched along with the slim patent-leather pocketbook in her left hand.
    “Miss Farraday.” Mr. Pierre, the designer department manager who seemed convinced that his sparse pencil mustache made him a dead ringer for Ronald Colman, strode across the plush velvet carpet, stroking the white carnation tucked in the buttonhole of his morning suit with long, manicured fingers. “A