Addiction Read Online Free Page A

fish. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”
    I flicked away an errant cookie crumb. “Not swank enough?”
    â€œNot Marlborough Street enough. This calls for a good suit. And, Peter, I know for a fact that you don’t own one. In fact, I think you don’t even know what one is.” He checked his watch. “Let’s see. Tuesday. If we get over there this evening, you’ll have it in time.”
    â€œThere where? In time for what?”
    â€œIn time to save you from yourself. And permanent disrepute.”
    I could have said no. I tell myself I don’t care about appearances. And most of the time, I don’t. But at just that moment, as I was pushing him away, my hand touched the sleeve of his jacket. The
fabric was soft, fine, nothing short of amazing. On top of that, I happened to look up and see the two of us reflected in the enormous gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall opposite. That suit made Kwan—a fairly short person who avoids exercise the way some people eschew dirty socks—look tall and broad-shouldered. My trusty Harris tweed made me—a tall person with decent shoulders who feels rotten if I go more than a couple of days without rowing or running—look rumpled and squat.
    If he’d waited a day, I probably would have backed out. But later that afternoon, before I’d had a chance to act on second thoughts, I found myself being helped out of Kwan’s Lexus by the valet parking attendant at Neiman’s.
    Just as at Filene’s Basement, there’s a long escalator ride down into the men’s department. But the similarity ends there. No beehive of activity to descend into. No one trying to push past us on the escalator. Instead, there was orderly calm, subdued chamber music, and the air was subtly infused with musk.
    â€œAh, Dr. Liu! A pleasure to see you again,” said an impeccably dressed fellow who materialized the moment we reached the floor. His face had a mannequin look about it, perfectly arranged, wrinkle-free, the eyebrows just a touch darker than you’d expect them to be. “What can we do for you today?” The royal We.
    â€œActually, nothing for me. I’ve brought in my colleague, Dr. Zak, for his first real suit.” The salesman tilted his head a micron and appraised me. The smile stiffened, and he stroked his chin. I wondered if his skin felt laminated.
    â€œCertainly,” he said, and pulled something from his pocket and squeezed it twice to make a loud but somehow unobtrusive clicking sound.
    I started to head for the exit—I didn’t need this. But Kwan blocked my way. A smaller, younger man appeared. He quickly measured me and wrote a bunch of numbers on a little pad.
    â€œColor?” the salesman asked, now addressing the question to Kwan.
    â€œWe’re starting a wardrobe. I’d say a basic gray, chalk stripe.”

    The salesman glided off and reappeared with two suits. He held one up. “Here we have a Brioni. Classic but contemporary.” The suit was three-button, dark gray with a muted stripe. “They weave their own fabrics in Milan. Hand-tailored, of course.”
    I felt the fabric. The words subtle yet lush, right out of a clothier’s ad, sprang to mind. There was a handwritten tag just visible from the sleeve. “Five thousand dollars?” I croaked. My first car had cost less.
    Poker-faced, the salesman put the suit aside and held up the other one. “And here we have a Canali. Understated elegance. Fine detailing, of course. More, uh, affordable.” The final word came out raspy, as if saying it hurt.
    â€œHow much more affordable?” I asked.
    â€œJust try on the damn suit, Peter,” Kwan growled. “It’s not going to kill you.”
    â€œI wonder if I might suggest,” the salesman offered as he carried the suit toward the dressing room, “a shirt and tie to try with it?”
    When I came out, Kwan