Location: Bergdrof's Department Store Time & Date: Afternoonish; and August, 1999 Availability: Open to all!
Contrary to popular opinion -- actually, was there even an opinion? Quin had a reputation for being a smart-ass -- he wasn’t an idiot, nor was he oblivious. When page six started filtering through stories of their long-lost set, like so many scattered somethings to the humid New York air, Quin kept his composure despite the flicker of unease. He’d even stayed calm when he’d glimpsed (stepping out of a cab, one long Louboutin leg, a pool of inky hair) Susanna Hadani uptown; or that Tuesday when Imogene Buchanon went zipping past (flash of white blonde hair, oversized sunglasses) in a chauffeured car; or George Holland (in a shirt crossed with a poncho, laughing at his pager) tripping on the sidewalk; or -- he exhaled reflexively -- Theo in the foyer of the Hilton, talking with some puffed-up execs, all deer-in-the-headlights and excruciatingly good looking for it. Most of them were always there -- New York had swallowed all of them, in one way or another -- but now they were sifting back into his life piece by piece, as they always did, and it wasn’t lost on him that just as summer was fading, they were emerging like woodlice, to squirm through the dim corridors of his consciousness until, in desperation, one of them did the usual ring around (Hey, long time, Rose, how about a drink or two at mine? Everyone will be there!), and they all flocked together, drawn by guilt and nostalgia, to get soused and make whiskey-soaked promises.
Even now, as he trailed through Bergdorf’s, listlessly picking through silk scarves, he half-imagined that familiar figure in his peripheral vision, all broad grins and too-sharp eyes, Hey, Rosie, where’s the blow at? Would Joel even have said something like that? The mythology was so convoluted, Quin thought Joel was just as apt to discuss Dostoevsky as he was book some strippers to play baccarat. Jesus. Quin picked up a Hermes and scowled at it. Even as he figured, Why the hell am I thinking about Joel?, he knew it had to do with the blinking light on his answering machine back in Brooklyn. A little light that promised a party, as faithfully executed as a fate line, renewed every August like clockwork.
Quin dropped the scarf and looked around, restless. Bergdorf’s heaved with people, most of them tourists, and fragmented conversations in French or Spanish drifted past him. A hopeful sales assistant was hovering nearby (did she think he was going to steal something?) but Quin ignored her. He knew how to shop for a fucking scarf.
Just as he abruptly turned around, he collided into someone. Quin swore, then blinked at the person in front of him.
“Oh!” Surprise gave way to suspicion. “Hi.” Quin narrowed his eyes and smiled slowly. “Whaddaya know. Are you following me?”
