"The gentleman asked us to make sure you got it personally," she says into the phone. "The gentleman insisted that you sign for delivery."
"What gentleman?" Little Suzie asks in her little Minnie Mouse voice. "May I have his name, please?"
"Arthur Schumacher," she says.
"Oh well then all right," Suzie says in the same rushed, breathless voice, "can you send it by at the end of the day?"
"What time would be most convenient for you, Miss?"
"I just said the end of the day, didn't I? The end of the day is five o'clockl"
Q: How'd you feel about that? The way she answered you?
A: I thought what a little bitch she was.
Q: Yes, but did her response have anything to do with what happened later? The impatience of her response?
A: No, I just thought what a bitch she was, but I was still planning to go up there only to talk to her.
Q: All right, what happened next?
A: There was a doorman to contend with, but I knew there'd be a doorman. I was wearing . . .
She is wearing a beige silk scarf to hide her blonde hair, dark glasses to hide the color of her eyes, dressed entirely in the same indeterminate beige, a color - or lack of color - she hates and rarely wears. She is wearing it today only because it matches the color of the store's shopping bag. She wants to pass for someone delivering from the store. Beige polyester slacks and a beige cotton blouse, gold leather belt, the temperature hovering in the high eighties, approaching the doorman in his gray uniform with its red trim, carrying in her right hand the big beige shopping bag with its gold lettering. She has spoken to this doorman before, he is the short, fat one with the accent. She tells him now . . .
Q: When was that?
A: I'm sorry?
Q: That you'd spoken to him?
A: Oh. When I was still trying to find out her name. But he can barely speak English, so I finally gave up on him. He was the one on duty that day. I stated my business . . .
"Miss Brauer, please."
"You are who, please?"
Looking her up and down, she hates when they do that.
"Just tell her Victoria's Secret is here," she says.
"Moment," he says, and buzzes the apartment upstairs.
"Yes?"
Her voice on the intercom.
"Lady?" he says.
"Yes, Ahmad?"
"Vittoria Seegah here," he says.
"Yes, send it right up, please."
Bingo.
Still wanting only to talk to her.
But, of course, there is no talking to some people.
Little Suzie is annoyed that she's been tricked. Two black leather sofas in the living room, one on the long wall opposite the door that led into it, the other on the shorter window wall at the far end of the room. Glass-topped coffee table in front of the closest sofa, martini glass sitting on it, lemon twist floating, the little lady has been drinking. She stands before the sofa, all annoyed and utterly beautiful, all blonde and blue-eyed in a black silk kimono that has itself probably come from Victoria's Secret, patterned with red poppies, naked beneath it judging from the angry pucker of her nipples.
"You had no right coming here," she says.
"I only want to talk to you."
"I'm going to call him right this minute, tell him you're here."
"Go ahead, call him."
"I will," she says.
"It'll take him at least half an hour to get here. By then, we'll be finished."
"By then you'll be finished."
"I really would like to talk to you. Can't we please talk?"
"No."
"Please. Please, Susan."
Perhaps it is the note of entreaty in her voice. Whatever it is, it stops Little Suzie cold on her way to the phone and brings her back to the coffee table, where she picks up her martini glass and drains it. She goes back to the bar then, bare feet padding on the thick pile rug, and - charming hostess that she is - pours herself and only herself another drink. There is a whole lemon sitting on the bartop, so yellow. There is a walnut-handled bottle opener. There is a paring knife with a matching walnut handle. Late-afternoon sunlight streams through the sheer white drapes behind the black leather sofa on the far wall. Little Suzie Doll walks back to the coffee table, stands posed and pretty beside it, barefoot and petulant, the kimono loosely belted at her waist. There is a hint of blonde pubic hair.
"What is it you want?" she asks.
"I want you to stop seeing him."
"No."
"Hear me out."
"No."
"Listen to me, Suzie …"
"Don't call me Suzie. No one calls me Suzie."
"Do you want me to tell him?"
"Tell him what?"
"I think you know what."
"No, I don't. And, anyway, I don't care. I'd bke you to go now."
"You want me to tell him, right?"
"I want you to get out of here," Suzie says, and turns to put the martini glass on the table behind her, as if in dismissal -end of the party, sister, no more cocktails, even though I haven't yet offered you a drink.
"Okay, fine, I'll tell him what's been going on between you and. . ."
"So tell him," Suzie says, and turns again to face her, grinning now, hands on her hips, legs widespread, pubic patch blatantly defiant. "He won't believe you," she says, and the grin widens, mocking her.
