Slightly Settled Read Free

look down at my jeans and navy cardigan. “Raphael, I’m not dressed for a club.”
    He turns to examine me. “You’re right. Tracey—” he shakes his head sadly “—that outfit —” clearly, he uses the term loosely “—has to go.”
    Suddenly I feel like a contestant on that TV show Are You Hot?
    Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. You are not hot enough to proceed to the next round. Please exit the stage.
    “Don’t worry, Tracey. After the movie, we’ll shop.”
    “I’m broke, Raphael. I used up my weekly—” more like monthly “—shopping budget at Bloomingdale’s this afternoon.”
    “Oh, my treat, Tracey. I’ll write it off.”
    The beauty of Raphael’s stylist job is that he can actually do that. I can’t tell you how many times he’s treated me to a mini–wardrobe spree on the corporate credit card. Not to mention many an expensive sushi splurge.
    “Isn’t accounts payable starting to get suspicious, Raphael?”
    He shrugs, running a comb through his longish black hair. “Tracey, they love me there.”
    “Raphael…” (I know—but I can’t help it. When I’m with him I tend to mimic his frequent name-user conversational style.) “I don’t want to get you into trouble at work. We’ll go to the movie, and then you’ll go dancing and I’ll go home.”
    “ Home? ” Raphael echoes in horror.
    “Yup, home.”
    Home to my lonely studio apartment in the East Village. It’s still about the size of the elevator in one of those doorman buildings on Central Park South—and the only reason I know that is because I worked quite a few catered parties in them. The apartments, not the elevators.
    My apartment will never be as fancy as a Central Park South elevator, but it’s definitely looking a little better since I started using my catering cash to buy “real” furniture, plus curtains, rugs and even a great stereo system.
    Still, that doesn’t mean I want to spend the better part of a Saturday night there alone.
    Looking as though I’ve just told him I plan to compose a “Farewell, world” note and scale a girder on the Brooklyn Bridge, Raphael declares, “Absolutely not, Tracey! You can’t go home. We see the movie, we shop, we dance. In fact—the hell with the movie. Let’s just shop and dance.”
    “I thought you really wanted to see it.”
    “I can’t believe I’m saying this, Tracey, but…” He looks over his shoulder as though expecting to find someone eavesdropping, then lowers his voice to a near-whisper. “I’m starting to think Madonna should stick with singing.”
    “Raphael. You? I thought you said she should have been nominated for an Oscar for her last film.”
    “Supporting actress only,” he clarifies, pausing to bend over a table and straighten one of his many small glass sculptures. His apartment is filled with outrageously expensive clutter that he and his delusional friends refer to as objets d’art. I call them chotchkes , and you would, too, if you saw them. I can think of a zillion better ways to spend what little cash I have.
    “And anyway,” he goes on, “that was two films ago. Let me tell you, Madonna’s no Cher. Her acting went downhill in that last romantic comedy, which I said in the first place she should never have done. And I hear this new one isn’t very good, either. I might even wait for the DVD. Unless you really wanted to see it, Tracey.”
    “Me? No! I was just going for you.”
    “Then it’s settled.” He gives a single nod and declares with the veneration of a Hells Angel embarking on a nocturnal Harley journey, “Tonight, we shop.”
     
    Shop we do.
    Two hours, three cab rides and a pit stop at my apartment later, I’m sitting across from Raphael in a dimly lit bar. He’s traded the burgundy leather for a pair of equally tight retro acid-washed flare jeans he couldn’t resist. I’m in a fetching vintage Pucci print minidress. Raphael insisted on buying me a lime-green boa to go with it— They’re all the rage in Paris