Dead Certain

fact that she threatened violence undoubtedly helped. Shortly after I dumped Stephen, in a moment of weakness I agreed to let my mother make an appointment for Christopher to do my hair. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Christopher—far from it. My mother’s hairdresser was not only charming but extremely talented. But I felt more comfortable in a board room than a beauty shop, and I did my best to avoid them by leaving my hair unshorn and favoring an unfashionable French twist.
    Christopher’s salon was in an elegant converted brown-stone on Oak Street that catered to the designer-handbag set. They even had valet parking. Christopher was waiting for me at the door. He bent at the waist to theatrically kiss my hand (as if he’d really been born in Hungary instead of Des Moines) and announced that he was going to make me AGAP. When I asked the shampoo girl what that meant, she explained that the initials stood for “as gorgeous as possible.” In my case that meant full makeup and an “up do,” a complicated, upswept hairstyle that made me look like Audrey Hepburn on steroids.
    I emerged from the salon wondering why anyone would ever want to do this to themselves on a regular basis, much less pay a small fortune for the privilege. I was also worried sick about Mark Millman and having cold feet about taking Elliott to the Founders Ball. Three months ago, nervous about the prospect of attending my first Founders Ball in years without Stephen Azorini on my arm, it had seemed like a good idea. Now I wasn’t so sure.
    It wasn’t just that strong men had been known to crumble under my mother’s astringent scrutiny, or that by inflicting the Founders Ball on Elliott, I was, in effect, presenting him with everything that I chafed at in my life in one large, unpalatable lump. Part of me was terrified that once he got a good hard look at where I came from and what was expected of me, he would do the only sensible thing and bolt.
    Stephen Azorini had moved easily through my parents’ world, effortlessly making up for whatever deficiencies he’d had in background with his intelligence and spectacular good looks. It also helped that Stephen actually liked it. With Elliott it wasn’t just that I was worried that he would be cut less slack. I was also afraid that he would trip up socially, and that after all my years of declaring that those things didn’t matter to me, I would think less of him—and myself—for it. After all, hair shirts have a way of becoming terribly uncomfortable when the time comes to actually put them on.
    As I got dressed I felt all the nervousness and expectation of prom night compounded by more adult concerns. Even without Elliott this was destined to be an emotionally complex evening. After all, those of us who knew about the pending sale of the hospital were in the awkward position of raising funds for an institution whose charitable status had exactly seven more days to run.
    Not only that, but Gavin McDermott was sure to be there. I did not relish the prospect of making small talk with the man who’d not only done his best to publicly humiliate one of the people I cared about most in the world, but had unfairly accused her of incompetence and threatened to end her career, as well. As I stepped into my high heels I considered pouring myself a Scotch but decided against it. This was probably going to be one of those nights that was best faced dead sober.
    They were tearing up the street in front of our apartment. It was part of the city’s perpetual losing campaign against potholes, and it made parking on Hyde Park Boulevard—normally difficult—now next to impossible. Choosing to ignore everything my mother had ever taught me about dating etiquette, I told Elliott I would wait for him out front.
    It was not yet quite dark, and I instantly regretted my decision. I felt terribly conspicuous as I stood clutching my Judith Leiber evening bag on the busy city street. My mother had picked my dress, an off-the-shoulder gown of russet-colored satin with a fitted bodice that contrasted with a skirt so dramatically voluminous it could have easily accommodated a bustle. Over it I wore a gauzy, satin-edged shawl that was the fashion equivalent of a fig leaf, useless against the evening chill but meant to keep me from feeling naked.
    I must confess I was completely unprepared for the effect my outfit had on people. Young men honked their horns, and old women who got off the bus stopped to tell me