Lily Brett - Only in New York

It seems to me that all men are particularly adept at removing a bra from a womans body. One deft twist of the wrist and a woman is bra-less. Putting a bra on a woman is a different matter. They cant do it. Most men have never tried.

At the beginning of 2013 I had shoulder surgery. I had torn my rotator cuff, my bicep and two other tendons. This injury is painful. I dont recommend it. It also leaves you unable to do up a bra. For months. No matter how hard my husband tried, and my husband is a dexterous man, he couldnt put my bra on me. Well, he couldnt put it on in a way that meant I could leave the house with any dignity.

Being forced to spend so much time thinking about bras made me realise that I needed a new bra or two. I dont like shopping for anything that requires me to undress in a small, overly lit cubicle with a full-length mirror. There was also another problem. After five months I still could not easily do up a bra myself. I decided to try La Petite Coquette, a lingerie store on University Place in Greenwich Village thats been there for years. I took my husband with me. I needed his help. Not choosing a bra. Just doing them up.

My husband walked into La Petite Coquette, took one look at the flimsy, lacy underwear on the racks, in baskets, spread-eagled on the tables and hanging on the walls, and decided he would prefer to chat to the homeless woman outside the store. I understood why he fled. I swear that one square metre of fabric would have been more than enough to cover the entire stock of underpants.

The store smelled nice. The decor was Paris, 1920. There were voluptuous murals on the walls and handpainted lampshades on the tables. I congratulated myself on finding this store. I looked up at the wall beside me and saw a framed, signed photo of Woody Allen. I dont know about you, but I still look gorgeous, Woody Allen had written to Rebecca, the owner of the store. Also on the walls were signed, framed photos of Uma Thurman, Julianne Moore, Liza Minnelli, Britney Spears, Angelica Huston and Sarah Jessica Parker, among others. I dont know why I thought I had discovered the store.

I went into the dressing-room and tried on seven or eight bras. Tania, the saleswoman, helped me to do them up. I tried not to look at myself in the mirror. Maybe not even Scarlett Johansson likes to look at herself, undressed, in a full-length mirror. I wondered whether unclothed men grimaced at themselves in the mirror.

By the time I finally settled on two bras I was hot and dishevelled. I stepped out of the dressing-room with my new bras and walked straight into my literary agent. My literary agent has an Upper West Side office. We do most of our business on the phone. I never envisage her downtown in a lingerie store.

I like to look as though I am a sensitive, thoughtful writer not a flushed and flustered, red-faced shopper who has just tried on seven or eight bras. We chatted for a while. It turns out she, too, along with Uma and Liza and Britney, has shopped at La Petite Coquette for years.

I left the store clutching my bras. Outside, my husband was still talking to the homeless woman. It transpired that she had an encyclopedic knowledge of American movies. Making a movie is such a peculiar business, she was saying. So many people are involved, and if just one person falls short the director, producer, editor, cinematographer the whole movie can be ruined. Any movie that is good is good against the odds.

She nodded at me. Interesting films are not just a matter of making bad characters interesting, she continued. Youve got to make good characters complex and interesting. I could learn something from this, I thought.

In this fairly frantic city I find myself searching out small spots of peace and calm. One of my favourite places used to be the bench outside the Sullivan Street Bakery. You could sit there for as long as you liked inhaling the aroma of freshly baked bread. The owners of the bakery divorced and now that branch of the bakery has closed.

But Galina, the Russian pedicurist I visit every six weeks, is still here on Seventh Avenue. I am very loyal to Galina and have followed her to several locations. Its not just that Galina attacks my toenails with the brute strength and precision of an orthopaedic surgeon, it is that everything matters to Galina. She is very Russian. Nothing is unimportant. And there is nothing you cannot panic about. On my own, I can seem intense and, to be truthful, prone to panic. Next to Galina, I come across as a close relative of the Dalai Lama.

Vera really likes sex, Galina said to me the last time I saw her. Vera is her fellow pedicurist and the owner of the business. They are both Russian and both sixtyish.

Really? I said. How do you know?

She always talks about it, Galina says.

Talks about sex? I said, in a voice that came out sounding far more high-pitched than I intended.

Of course, said Galina. She talks about sex, and how much she likes it.

I desperately wanted to know what it was that Vera said. Very few women I know talk about sex or, more accurately, talk about how they feel about sex. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to ask Galina exactly what Vera said when she talked about sex, when Galina said, in quite a loud voice, I dont like sex.

This completely derailed me. Oh, I said. There was a small silence, during which I hoped Galina wasnt waiting to hear what I felt about sex. Right at this moment I wasnt sure that I wanted to analyse my thoughts about sex. I also thought that conversation would need more time than my toenails required.

I dont like sex, Galina said, again. She said it in the tone of voice youd use if you were discussing a brand of dishwashing liquid, or furniture or floor polish you didnt like.

Oh, I said again. I didnt want my oh to sound too tinged with sympathy as though I was feeling sorry for Galina for not liking sex, but it came out sounding like a timid squeak as though I, not Galina, had a problem.

What I really wanted to ask Galina was why she didnt like sex, what part of sex was it that she didnt like, was there any aspect of sex that she liked. Instead, I said nothing. I couldnt say anything. My silence bothered me. I felt overly prim. Or worse, a prude.

Galina had moved on and was talking about a client who had just been diagnosed with lung cancer. She was weighing up the womans treatment options. Galina has an opinion on and a remedy for just about any ailment or injury that could strike humankind. She has polished, cut, filed and buffed the nails of so many women. She has waxed their bikini lines and dyed their eyebrows and eyelashes and accumulated enough knowledge for a doctorate in medicine. Healthcare information has real social currency in New York. Many of Galinas clients run their symptoms by her. She also tends to know which medical specialists are good and which ones should be avoided.