Free Food Whore by Jessica Tom

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    T HE STORE STOOD on one of those ultra-­rich streets lined with brownstones and private garages. Each house evoked a different style. This one was old money—­look at the heavy velvet draping, the bulky antique furniture, the oil portraits of unsmiling ancestors on every wall. And this one belonged to a showbiz family—­was that a hot tub on the roof? That one was home to serious art collectors who must not have had children because everything visible through the window was white, expensive, and/or precariously perched.
    A chime sounded as we entered the store, a narrow slice of a room ringed with tightly packed clothes. Shoes lined the floors, hats and bags overtook the top shelves. The clothes hung according to color, but that was the only sense of order I could see. Within each color, there were summery dresses, heavyweight coats, sequined confections. Other stores rotated their stock with the seasons, but this place seemed like it stayed the same.
    â€œHeeey, Em . . .” the shop owner trilled. She was a big-­bosomed woman, with fluffed, feathered hair. “Haven’t seen you in forever! Tell me everything that’s happening in your life.”
    â€œHey, Sherri. I’m swamped with this new design project and I hardly come uptown anymore.”
    â€œOh. Boo-­hoo. So what can I do for you ladies? You have a party to go to or something?” She wiggled her fingers at the word party, as if it were magical.
    â€œHa! I wish. Actually, we’re shopping for Tia here. Her clothes are a little lame and she needs a suit for Madison Park Tavern, stat.”
    Had she really said lame ? Right. Thanks, Emerald.
    â€œOh! When are you going?” Sherri asked.
    I laughed. Surely more Upper East Side ­people dined at Madison Park Tavern than worked there. But I didn’t correct her. “Tonight, actually.”
    â€œI think she’s a Jil Sander girl,” Emerald yelled as she walked to the black clothes in the back, trailing her fingers across the silks, cashmeres, and leathers. “Like, sorta boring, but with a twist.”
    â€œYes, yes,” Sherri said, her eyes widening, though she had the good manners not to repeat the “boring but with a twist” direction.
    â€œTry this one,” Emerald said. “And this.” She held out a Jil Sander suit and a Diane von Furstenberg suit, which had a ruffled neckline and a tie around the waist. I had heard of Diane von Furstenberg, but of course had never worn her or Jil Sander. As much as I had hated the fact that Emerald had dragged me here, trying on these clothes excited me. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
    â€œYou’ll hate this DVF one. But you should try it on. It’ll be good for you.”
    I grabbed both hangers from her.
    â€œFine,” I said. “But I don’t understand why I can’t wear my Banana Republic suit.” Damn. I had tried to keep the brand a secret from her. I entered the fitting room, undressed, and started to put on one of the suits. “And if you were going to give me so much grief, I could have come myself. The 6 train isn’t hard to find.”
    â€œWhatever, Tia. You would have walked into Ann Taylor and bought a regular mall outfit. What an upgrade. Seriously, though. You don’t want the guests at Madison Park Tavern to shade their eyes when they turn over their coats.”
    â€œI don’t care,” I replied, zipping up the Jil Sander skirt. “I never asked for your help anyway.” I stepped out with a dramatic thud, to show her that I hated coming here.
    But suddenly I didn’t. I saw my reflection in the three-­way mirror. I had put on the dressing room’s spare set of heels and pulled my hair up in a bun, like the waitresses at work. The suit shined like gunmetal, sleek as sharkskin. It was thin and pliant, shaping me in the right spots and letting the curves hang out in others. It was a