R. Hernández - An Innocent Fashion

“I need a label,” she instructed, as she flew through the closet to gather up the pieces from Gucci.

“What’s the address?” I asked.

“In front of your face,” George said, with a motion toward the address list pinned above our computers. He stapled a Return Manifest to a shopping bag of Balenciaga handbags (everything had to be rephotographed the way it had been when it first entered the closet, with three copies of an important paper called the Return Manifest, one of which went to Sabrina, one to the designer’s PR team, and one to the messenger who was transporting the thing between the two), while Sabrina’s muffled voice called to me from between the racks, “Cavalli goes to Five Twenty-Five West Twenty-Fifth Street, attention Melissa.”

At first I couldn’t find the labels, and when I finally did in a drawer Sabrina snatched them out of my hands before I could even take the top of my pen off, and wrote it herself.

“Here’s all the Gucci next,” she said, and again, without so much as consulting her e-mail or a list on the wall, recited, “Send it to Eight Fifteen Madison Ave, attention Charlie.” She did that all afternoon — pulled detailed contact information out of thin air — and it became clear she had memorized the address and contact person of every single designer and PR firm in Manhattan, like a human spreadsheet.

In the late afternoon, Jane swept leisurely into the office, winsome and fresh-faced, pale ponytailed hair bouncing over her lily-white nape.

“Hello, darlings,” she greeted. “What a wonderful job you’re all doing.”

“Thank you,” came Sabrina’s glorious smile, every trace of malice wiped away from her rosy cheeks. “How was your weekend?”

“Oh, it was divine, thank you!” confided Jane, as she poked through her stack of mail on the corner of Sabrina’s desk — invitations to shows and parties, and thank-you notes from designers whose creations she had featured in a recent spread. She wore a variant on her usual ensemble: a white dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, with royal blue cigarette pants and a pair of lemon-colored pumps. “Took my grandchildren to the zoo.” Her ankle rocked with absentminded whimsy over her high heel. “Came this close to getting kissed by a giraffe, or maybe spit on. Oh, isn’t that nice! — a thank-you note from Alexander Wang.”

“He sent flowers too,” said Sabrina. “I left them on your desk, along with some from Chanel and Balenciaga. You can let me know if you’d like them messengered to your apartment later.”

Jane turned to all of us and smiled, and my sense of despair was briefly alleviated as I thought: That could be me one day, breezing through the office to collect my cards and flowers . She left the office an hour later, while I searched on my hands and knees for an opal which had fallen off an embroidered Balmain belt.

MONDAY TRICKLED LIKE MELTING SLUSH INTO TUESDAY.

In the end we returned two dresses, four bags, and one pair of sunglasses to Céline; four dresses, nine pairs of shoes, three pairs of gloves, one scarf, two belts, and one pair of sunglasses to Chanel; three pairs of shoes, four scarves, seven bags, and six belts to Ferragamo; three shirts, three pants, two coats, and two belts to Etro; four dresses, four shirts, two pants, and six pairs of shoes to Alexander Wang; four dresses, two pairs of shoes, and one pair of gloves to Dolce & Gabbana; three dresses, one coat, two pairs of shoes, and one pair of gloves to Altuzarra; five dresses, one shirt, three shoes, and one pair of sunglasses to Marni; four dresses, one scarf, four belts to Cavalli; three shirts and three pants to Pucci; five dresses, three shirts, four pants, five coats, two shoes, and one belt to Jil Sander; three dresses, one shirt, five pairs of shoes, and seven pairs of sunglasses to Versace; two dresses to Derek Lam; ten bags, four pairs of gloves, five scarves, twelve belts, and six pairs of sunglasses to Louis Vuitton; two shirts, three pants, and two coats to Thom Browne; three pairs of shoes, four bags, three belts, and one pair of sunglasses to Rag & Bone; four pairs of shoes, six pairs of gloves, one scarf, three belts, and one pair of sunglasses to Hermès; three pairs of shoes, four scarves, six bags, and two belts to Bally; six shirts, three pants, two coats, and two belts to Saint Laurent; four dresses, one shirt, two pants, and five pairs of shoes to 3.1 Phillip Lim; four dresses, two pairs of shoes, and one pair of gloves to Alexander McQueen; three dresses, one coat, three pairs of shoes, and one pair of gloves to Chloé; seven dresses, three pairs of shoes, and two pairs of sunglasses to Lanvin; four dresses, one scarf, and four belts to Stella McCartney; two shirts and three pants to Rodarte; eight pairs of shoes to Jimmy Choo; three shirts, four pants, two coats, two shoes, and one belt to Theory; three dresses, one shirt, five pairs of shoes, and two pairs of sunglasses to Proenza Schouler; six bags to Marchesa; two bags, one pair of gloves, one scarf, two belts, and one pair of sunglasses to Nina Ricci; fourteen bags, nine dresses, two shirts, three pants, and six coats to Marc Jacobs; seven pairs of shoes to Manolo Blahnik; and so much more I almost just slapped a label onto myself and fell asleep in a bag to be taken away.

Around six-thirty on Tuesday, people finally stopped e-mailing for all their clothes back. As we were leaving for home, George pointed to the volume he had asked me to get from the library the previous week. “Can you take this back? It’s just taking up space here.”

My upper lip curled. “Sure,” I said. But the thing that bothered me was, I hadn’t seen him use it, nor did I think he actually needed it in the first place.

Ididn’t come here to talk about Dorian,” I declared as Madeline and I passed the Prada section on the third floor at Bergdorf Goodman. The store was closing in thirty minutes, and despite my protests that I was exhausted from work, Madeline had pleaded for me to accompany her shopping for a dress. I hadn’t seen or heard from her since the incident at the nightclub, yet a series of missed phone calls late that afternoon attested her sudden remembrance of me (Madeline never left messages, only called and called until she finally got through). I should have known it would involve Dorian.

Now in response to my frustrated eye roll, she said, “Oh, please, don’t be unreasonable,” as though I was her stubborn husband who never yielded to common sense. “Dorian and I talked it all out — and anyway, don’t take my word for it — he wants to see you for his birthday party next week.” A casual hand through her hair meant she had just cleared up everything.

Knowing Dorian and Madeline equally well, it was very hard to imagine him just reappearing in our lives unplanned, looking once into Madeline’s sapphire eyes, and realizing the error of his ways. Easier to imagine, however, was Madeline, her hand locked on his knee, begging as she choked up, “ Please, don’t go away ”—never mind any questions that might upset him, those whys and hows that over the past year had tortured her, and me too. For a fool like Madeline (a blind, lovesick fool — the worst kind) the price of her forgiveness was too affordable: her lover’s noncommittal glance and his halfhearted utterance of any love-like affirmation.

She hadn’t just considered herself Dorian’s girlfriend — she had been his “true love,” like Cleopatra was Antony’s, and Juliet Romeo’s, with asps and daggers and all. In the tradition of all great, foolish love stories, her reaction to Dorian’s unpardonable offense had therefore been to love him inextinguishably more.

The effect of Dorian’s departure on my own feelings for him could not have taken a more contrary composition, as in his absence I had hardened like a salt crystal. His crime weighed less upon me than my own complicity: Without my irrational heart as an accomplice, Madeline would have never involved herself with Dorian. She had once despised him — it was me who fell in love with him, and made her fall in love with him too.