Shopgirl

“Who’s Ray Porter?”

“You are…,” then she adds, “aren’t you?”

In the morning after the agony of the night, Ray drives Mirabelle to her car, in time for her to get to work by ten. He watches her walking stiffly away from him, overdressed for the morning, bearing her anguish so solitarily. He wonders if it will be the last time he will ever see her.

She puts on her driving glasses and starts up her new-for-her Explorer. She waves a small-fingered good-bye to Ray, and he notices her diligent concentration on driving as she pulls away.

She enters Neiman’s, passes the disgraced Lisa, walks up four flights, and slides into her niche behind the counter. She stands there for the rest of the day, again stu

Ray and Mirabelle’s relationship does not collapse that day; it subtly dwindles over the next six months. There are fits and starts, but they can all be graphed on a downward slope. He takes her to di

She is lying on her bed, day having passed into night without her ever getting up to turn on a lamp. She lights a candle in her darkened bedroom and is held in its tender illumination. Outside, sounds from surrounding apartments transition from di

It is morning, and Ray Porter’s phone rings.

“Hi, it’s me,” says Mirabelle.

“Hang up, I’ll call you back.”

“No, that’s okay,” she says. “Guess what. I’m going to move.” There is a lilt in her voice that Ray is not used to hearing.

“From your apartment?” says Ray.

“To San Francisco.”

There is a short discussion about why she chose San Francisco, which is unrevealing, and there is no discussion about whether it’s a wise move or not, as Mirabelle’s determination is clear and strong. She makes one small request of Ray that he fulfills: she utilizes Ray’s long chain of pull to land an interview with a gallery in San Francisco – not to be an artist with the gallery, but a receptionist. On Del Rey’s ancient computer, she secures an apartment over the Internet and also makes contact with two potential roommates. Within three weeks she leaves Neiman’s, whispers a good-bye to Los Angeles without looking back, and settles into a small flat in the Presidio district near the Golden Gate Bridge. Ray is surprised by her sudden movement, as she had seemed so frozen.

Mirabelle still faces difficulties, but Ray finances her move and eases a situation that even with his aid reduces her bank account to a long string of zeros, put the decimal anywhere. Her new job as receptionist recreates the kind of tedium she endured at the glove counter, but at least she gets to be ambulatory. And the mean age of the customers is lower by twenty years.

Another plus: the San Francisco arts scene is livelier than the intermittent one in L.A. Every third night there’s something going on somewhere, which she can either attend or pass on and curl up in her own bed. The gallery action puts her in the center of a glut of testosterone. Mirabelle is a ripe, relative virgin, and her romantic life starts badly. At an art opening, she meets an artist named Carlo who courts her for a month, fucks her several times, and leaves her cruelly: she calls him on the phone, he says he is on the other line and that he will call her back, but he never does. Ever. She summarizes and explains this event to herself not by saying that she is yet again unwanted, but that she has learned something about her own decisions. She has learned that her body is precious and it mustn’t be offered carelessly ever again, as it holds a direct co

While she adjusts to San Francisco Mirabelle’s spirits rise and fall, but she is determined to stay positive. Ray keeps in touch by phone and sends small checks her way when he reads the need in her voice. Mirabelle has long given up her instinct to refuse the aid, as she has no choice but to accept it, which she does with sincere humility and graciousness. She also pursues her art with a steady diligence, and her drawings are accepted in several group shows. The small drawing, not even eight inches square, of her lying nude floating in space is shown as being from the collection of Mr. Ray Porter.

In Mirabelle’s new job, she meets artists and collectors. She is always careful not to promote herself through gallery contacts – her sense of correctness prevents it – but she now enjoys being a relevant person at the openings. She often calls Ray, who immediately calls her back according to plan. One afternoon she a

Mirabelle’s stay in San Francisco stretches into several seasons. The frequency of her calls to Ray Porter diminish. She has a few flirtations, conversations really, that never amount to much. But one night, she takes the walk up the stairs of her new flat and notices on the doormat a small, oblong, clumsily wrapped box with an overly large Hallmark card taped to it. Once inside the apartment, she sets the box down on the kitchen table. She feeds the cats, then untapes the ends of the wrapping and inside finds a plain white box, and inside that, a rather cute Swatch watch. She opens the note and reads, “I would like to have di

Jeremy has been working around the West Coast for the last six months, during which time he’s made an out-of-proportion six-year psychic leap by fu