Dressing For Neal
I glanced at my size six black Valentino suit hanging on the door and smiled a little as I recalled the debate we’d had before I bought it.
“You’ll wear it over and over so stop worrying about the cost,” Neal said.
I suggested we wait for a sale.
“Anything on sale is a mistake or it would’ve sold at full price.”
Neal said that a lot. Then he’d added that no designer could make a woman feel more beautiful than Valentino Garavani. He should know. Fashion was his life.
Now, a widow at 45, I was dressing without Neal, determined to look presentable for him at his funeral. Presentable was the most I could muster. I had slept on a cot next to my 54-year-old husband during his last 10 days in the hospital. Even sick with esophageal cancer that had spread to his liver, lungs and bone, he still insisted I fill out a comment card concerning the fabric and design of the hospital gowns. “There is no excuse for bad garments — ever,” he said rubbing the cloth between his index finger and thumb.
We met in 2002 at the Hyatt Regency Airport Hotel in Pittsburgh. We were both there on business. He was sitting at the bar, wearing a blue linen Loro Piana dress shirt, jeans and tan-colored Tod’s driving loafers. Movie star handsome, he was the most elegant man I’d ever seen. I was wearing stretched-out beige Gap capri pants, a wrinkled green T-shirt that I’d slept in the night before and flip-flops. We made eye contact and I felt a jolt of recognition although I had never seen him before.
We talked through that night and into the morning. He told me that he had worked in Manhattan for most of his 32-year career in fashion. Although American, he had recently moved to Toronto and was running the Canadian division of a U.S. clothing retailer.
“I run Canada,” he said, as if he were Prime Minister.
I apologized for the way I was dressed; I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone. He said he hadn’t noticed the clothes — rare for him; he was trying to figure out why I looked so familiar as I confidently walked his way. At the time, I lived in Las Vegas and worked as a director of training for a hotel/casino. He said he hated Sin City. “Who designs those casino uniforms — Betsy Johnson?” he quipped. I shared that I was divorced and had two teenaged daughters. I explained how I’d raised them alone and the three of us were a team. He asked if there was room for anyone else. I assured him there was plenty.
By the second drink I had described our drooling English bulldog, elderly black pug and overly vocal male cat. He said he wasn’t a fan of animals. He had grown up watching his parents struggle to feed the family; pets were not a luxury they could afford. He slipped in that there was nothing worse than dog hair and black clothing. He told me he was 49 years old, then described his own teenaged son and daughter. The fashion industry was an escape from his unsuccessful marriage. His children suffered because of it.
I barely made my flight. Neal missed his. Once home I told my friends and family I’d met the one. I was a 40-year-old 5’6” blonde haired not-the-size-2-I-used-to-be single mom from the West Coast who had dated her share of losers, but found her storybook ending in a bar in Pittsburgh.
Neal was a collector who wore his art. He never purchased clothes the first time he saw them. He contemplated every piece and cost was never a consideration. Each garment in his extensive wardrobe was a masterpiece — some were over 20 years old but still worn regularly. In Neal’s collection you would never see the artist’s signature. He abhorred any visible designer logos.
Always proud of the way I dressed, my style had monetary limits. I was on a daughter’s-softball-cleats-come-first clothing budget. I bought a small amount of quality classic pieces at the end of the season, deeply discounted. I would peruse Vogue to see the current trends and add a few inexpensive copies to spice up my boring but sensible wardrobe. I could pay a year of utilities with this, I thought, looking at the price tag of a $2000 Carolina Herrera dress I craved but quickly put back on the rack. Though I did have a weakness I indulged — I loved leopard print. I was born in Las Vegas — it was in my DNA.
“Nothing good has ever come from wearing leopard,” said Neal the first time he saw the Roberto Cavalli silk blouse I adored (75% off, Last Call, Neiman Marcus). What a find that was. Strange how that blouse mysteriously disappeared from my closet shortly after he spied it, never to be seen again.
Shopping with Neal was an experience, like watching a ballet. He quickly flipped through the racks until he found a piece that caught his attention. Removing the hanger from the rack, he would gently shake it to see how the fabric moved and then closely inspect the entire garment for details such as buttons and stitching.
“This is made for you. Try it on,” he said, handing me a simple yet elegant Pink Tartan blouse I would have never chosen.
“I can’t believe my luck,” I said to him during our first shopping expedition. “A guy who knows more about women’s clothing than me.”
“Of course I know more. It’s what I do.”
I was ecstatic to learn my boyfriend had the fashion flair of my gay best friend. When I shared that with him, he thanked me and said, “Gay men are clean, well-dressed, have impeccable taste and smell good. If it weren’t for the sex, I could be gay.”
Once, while shopping at Holt Renfrew, the Saks of Canada, I had my back to Neal looking at a row of clothes. I thought I heard him call my nickname.
“What?” I said as I turned to face him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said Mel.”
“I didn’t say Mel, I thought Mel.”
We married on Christmas Eve of 2005 in a small chapel on Las Vegas Boulevard. Neal wasn’t thrilled with the location — exchanging vows on the Strip wasn’t the most dignified setting — but he softened when I told him the very stylish Cindy Crawford and Richard Gere were married at the same place. The date was chosen to guarantee we would always be together on our anniversary. Surely even Karl Lagerfeld was home early on Christmas Eve?
“Great dress,” he said, reaching for the neckline of the capped-sleeved ivory lace sheath I was wearing. I replied, “Oscar de la Renta. I cut the label out, it was itching.”
He would have fainted had he known it was a knockoff.
Neal studied the clothes people wore as they passed on the street. “Leather pants, on a middle-aged man? What was he thinking?” He looked aghast at such a tragic mistake. “Hello, David, you’re looking sharp. New clothes?” he asked a homeless guy who hung out in his tony Yorkville neighborhood.
“Thanks for noticing, Neal,” David said, with pride, as he shook Neal’s hand and took the bills Neal always gave him.
The worst thing I ever heard him say about anyone was, “She has no style.”
I couldn’t stand to move his clothes so they remained exactly as he’d left them in our closet. One year after his death, I purchased a wooden trunk and finally decided I would keep only the mementos that fit inside and give the rest away. I filled it with the stuff of our relationship.
“I’ve kept only what fits inside the chest,” I told my friends. “I’ve given the rest away.”
Except for: 73 dress shirts (29 white, 15 pink, seven lavender and 19 more in a variety of colors and stripes). Forty-two pair of pants (eight gray, seven brown, six black, four navy and 17 pair of jeans). Eleven suits (four navy, three gray, two black, one brown and a tuxedo). Forty-four sweaters (23 heavy gauge cashmere, 11 wool and 10 cotton). Forty-two coats (21 sport coats, 19 jackets and two cashmere topcoats). Twenty-four pair of shoes (six cordovan dress, two black dress, 12 loafers, four leather, water-resistant, patent leather tuxedo slippers and a pair of cowboy boots).
Neal’s Opus was moved from his closet to 20 large plastic bins stacked in the garage. The soles shined on the Lucchese cowboy boots he’d wanted but never worn — a gift from me. As he unwrapped them I shared that Ralph Lauren had worn boots with a tuxedo. “He did?” He said in mock surprise. I’d forgotten, he had told me that.
While spring-cleaning my house two years after his death I decided it was time.
Borrowing a truck, I took the bins from the garage to his son’s apartment. I tried not to think about what would happen to the clothes that didn’t fit. Before I made the delivery I retrieved his favorite navy-blue cashmere Ermenegildo Zegna topcoat out of a container and put it on a wooden hanger in the coat closet. I remembered that he had said with authority, “A navy topcoat is much more stylish than black.” It was worth the ache to see it hanging there again.
Though it’s still hanging in my closet seven years later, I now smile as my hand skims the soft fabric while reaching for my coat. The ache has transitioned into appreciation for what I once had and how lucky I was to have loved to that depth.
There’s also the realization that where I am today and what I’ve accomplished would never have happened had Neal lived. I didn’t need or want anything beyond my life with him. But, I had to choose between existing in past, lost in grief or moving forward. I chose to reimagine my life.
It was a slow and painful process to figure out what I wanted and then muster up the courage to go for it. I gave away most of my possessions, got in my car and drove across the country to New York City to reinvent myself as a writer. The transition hasn’t been easy, but at 53 years old I’ve come to the realization that I am finally the love of my life.
Oh, and I wear leopard print. Often.
