“Clear your Saturday afternoon,” Nola had announced. “We’re going shopping.”

“I already went shopping and spent a fortune,” Brooke whined, shuffling through her receipts like they were toxic gin rummy cards.

“Can we backtrack for a minute, please? Your husband says he wants to see you in sexy black lingerie and you come home with a Juicy nightshirt? Are you serious?”

“What? He wasn’t exactly specific. He said he liked black and not the bright colors. It’s all black and short and tight. The ‘Juicy’ part is even in rhinestones. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing’s wrong with that . . . if you’re a sophomore in college and you’re super-psyched to look cute at your first sleepover at his fraternity. Like it or not, you’re all grown up now. And what Julian is trying to tell you is that he wants you to look like a woman. A hot, sexy woman.”

Brooke sighed. “Okay, okay, I’m in your hands. What time Saturday?”

“Noon at the corner of Spring and Mercer. We’re hitting Kiki De Montparnasse, La Perla, and Agent Provocateur. The whole thing will take under an hour and you will be equipped with exactly what you need. See you then.”

Although she’d looked forward to the shopping expedition all week, it turned out to be a miserable failure. In all her banker-salary-and-massive-bonus glory, Nola had not told Brooke that the less material a piece of lingerie contained, the more expensive it would be. Brooke was dumbfounded to discover that the French maid outfit Nola raved about at Kiki was $650, and a simple black chemise—not all that different from her Bloomie’s version—was $375. Where on earth was she—a graduate student!—going when a single black lace thong cost $115 ($135 if she wanted the crotchless version)? After two of the three stores, she told Nola firmly that while she appreciated her help, there would be no purchasing that afternoon. It wasn’t until the following week, when Brooke found herself in the curtained-off room at Ricky’s to buy paraphernalia for another friend’s bachelorette party, that she stumbled on the solution.

There, in a floor-to-ceiling display between the vibrators and the penis-themed paper plates, was a wall of individually wrapped “fantasy outfits.” They were in flat, envelope-like packets that reminded her of pantyhose packaging, but the pictures on the front depicted beautiful women in all manner of sexy outfits: French maid, schoolgirl, firefighter, jailbird, cheerleader, and cowgirl, plus a whole bunch of non-themed getups, almost all of which were short, tight, and black. Best of all, the most expensive among them was $39.99, and most of the packets were marked less than $25. She began to examine the pictures, trying to imagine what Julian would like most, when a blue-haired and heavily guylinered employee pushed aside the beaded curtains and walked right up to Brooke.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asked.

Brooke quickly averted her attention to a cluster of penis straws and shook her head.

“I’d be happy to make some recommendations,” he lisped. “On the outfits, the sex toys, whatever. Tell you which are bestsellers.”

“Thanks, I’m just picking up some of this stupid stuff for a bachelorette party,” she said quickly, already mad at herself for being embarrassed.

“Uh-huh. Well, just let me know.”

He swished back into the main store area, and Brooke sprang into immediate action. Knowing she’d lose her nerve if he came back—or anyone else walked into the room—she grabbed the first non-themed outfit and tossed it into her shopping basket. She practically sprinted to the cash register, tossing in a bottle of shampoo, a travel-sized packet of Kleenex, and some refill razor blades on the way there, just to throw off the cashier. It wasn’t until she was on the subway home, sitting in the far back car, miraculously isolated from other people, that she allowed herself a peek in the bag.

The picture featured a redheaded woman who didn’t look drastically different from Brooke—save the forty-two-inch legs—wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved, full-length mesh bodysuit. The woman jutted out her hip provocatively and stared at the camera, but despite all the dramatic posturing, she managed to convey “sexy” and “confident” and not just “sleazy” and “slutty.” I can do this one, she thought to herself, and that very night, when she walked out of the bathroom wearing that bodysuit and a pair of heels, Julian had nearly fallen off the bed.

Brooke had donned the now-infamous jumpsuit over the years on some of Julian’s birthdays, their anniversaries, and the occasional warm-weather vacation, but lately, like all the old remnants of their pre-exhaustion sex life, it had gotten pushed to the back of the drawer. As she unrolled the material over her legs and shimmied first her hips and then her arms into the outfit, she knew it would send the message loud and clear: I’m so proud of you for this amazing accomplishment, now get over here so I can show you. No matter that the one-size-fits-all jumpsuit was digging tightly into her thighs and doing a weird thing on her upper arms; she felt sexy anyway. She had just shaken her hair out of her ponytail and reclined on top of the covers when the landline rang. Certain it was Julian calling to say he was on his way home, Brooke answered on the first ring.

“Rook? Honey, can you hear me?” Her mother’s voice rang through the receiver.

Brooke took a deep breath and wondered why the woman had an uncanny knack for calling at exactly the worst possible times. “Hey, Mom. I hear you.”

“Oh, good. I was hoping I’d catch you. Listen, I need you to grab your calendar and check a date for me. I know you hate planning ahead, but I’m trying to make some arrangements for—”

“Mom! Hey, sorry to interrupt, but it’s not a great time right now. Julian’s going to be home any second, and I’m late getting ready,” she lied.

“Are you going out to celebrate? Such amazing news. You both must be so happy.”

Brooke opened her mouth to talk and then remembered she hadn’t yet told her mother Julian’s good news. “How did you know?” she asked.

“Randy, sweetheart. He saw some update on Julian’s fan page—is that what you call it? I wish I could say my daughter had called to tell me on her own, but luckily Randy remembered his dear old mom.”

“Mmm, right. Facebook. I almost forgot. So yeah, we’re both really excited.”