by Sandra Cunha
When we near the vintage shop, I collect my breath. I’m a mess. This is not how I imagined this would go. My plan was to come wearing The Betty, my most business-like dress, carrying some sort of a briefcase, and pitching my strategy to the owner in true presentation-style. I never envisioned I’d be wearing a sundress and flip flops and have an army of dogs with me.
Why can’t anything ever go as planned?
The good thing is, I’m not wet anymore, neither are any of the dogs. We’ve dried out along the way. (Although, I smell a bit like wet dog.) I still don’t know what I should do with them. I can’t tie them up to a bike rack—Louie can’t be trusted to not runaway. Normally, I bring Coco inside with me, but that’s only one dog.
There’s no way around it: I have to bring them in with me. So we all climb up the steps to the shop door.
Before opening it, I turn around and say, “Please, be good in there.” I’m met with blank stares. “If you’re good, I’ll give you a treat after.” They open their mouths, panting. I guess, that’s the most I can hope for.
As we enter, Lizzie comes rushing towards us.
“He’s upstairs in his apartment. But he’s packing up to go. Oh, dear!” She’s finally taken in my physical state and my gang of dogs.
“I know. Sorry, it couldn’t be helped.”
“I’ll hide them in one of the fitting rooms, so you can—you can freshen up!”
“Great idea!”
“If he comes down by chance, remember to act like you don’t know the shop is for sale. Act as if you’re just making an inquiry.”
“Right, okay. I got it.”
Lizzie goes into the fitting room area with the dogs. I look around the shop, what could be my shop, and I get butterflies in my stomach. I’m getting really nervous. I definitely don’t look the part of a future shop owner.
My eyes fall on my clothing rack. To think, in a few months, this whole place could be filled with Lady Bettencourt dresses.
Wait.
Those are my dresses.
I race over to the rack and try to find the least formal design in my size. I settle on The Annie. I named the dress after Rachel McAdams, whose middle name is Anne. It was my way of thanking her (without her knowing it) for putting Lady Bettencourt on the world stage. It’s a 1920s-inspired flapper dress, with a dropped-waist. It’s a little fancy for a business meeting, but it’s the best option of the bunch. I could always say I’ve come from an afternoon at the opera. No, bad idea. I don’t know anything about the opera, and he probably does.
There’s no one else in the shop, so I take off my sundress and put on The Annie. It’s a very cool dress, but it makes me want to breakout into the Charleston. I take my own clothes and hide them behind the counter.
Next, I go over to the shoe section. I glance at some of the sticker prices on the shoes and get shocked. But it should be okay if I “borrow” a pair for an hour or so, then put them back on the shelf. It’s not like they haven’t already been worn. And finally, I fix my hair in one of the mirrors and apply some lipstick and perfume I had in my bag.
Lizzie comes out from the fitting room area and stops in her tracks when she sees me.
“Oh, good, you’re ready,” she says with a wink.
I take a deep breath.
I’m ready.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THIS IS DEFINITELY not how I expected things to go.
When Lizzie called the owner, Arthur, to say there was someone downstairs to see him, I thought that’s where we would meet, downstairs. But instead, when he asked who it was and found out it was me, he told her to send me up to his place.
So now I’m sitting in a Yolk-style (or maybe Egg?) chair in the main room of his apartment above the shop. His very minimalist apartment. The walls are painted white and the only furniture, which is all vintage-looking, includes four chairs surrounding a coffee table and a bar cart along the wall.
“Can I get you a drink? A bourbon?” Arthur asks me as he pours himself one.
A bourbon? I’ve never had a bourbon. Maybe I should try . . . “I’m fine, thank you,” I say. I have to keep this professional.
“How’s the dress business?” (Good, so is he.)
Arthur comes over and sits across from me in a Madrid-style (or is it Barcelona?) chair. He’s very dashing for his age, which I’d put at late-sixties. His wavy, white hair has silver highlights running through it. The few times I’ve seen him, he’s always impeccably dressed, and today is no exception. He reminds me of . . . a composite of every old, rich, white guy who’s appeared in the movies and on television. That’s who he reminds me of.
I take a deep breath. “Well, that’s actually why I’m here.”
“I’m intrigued. Go ahead.”
“Arthur, I want to—”
“Call me Art.”
“Okay, um, Art.” What’s my next line again? I wish I had my notes. “Art, would you ever consider selling the vintage shop?”
He chuckles to himself. “Ah, that Lizzie.”
Dammit! I guess I wasn’t smooth enough. How could he have known, though? I feel my face turning bright red. “I, um, no, she didn’t—”
“It’s all right, Erin. I’ve known Lizzie for years. I know how her mind works.”
The way he says this, causes my eyebrows to raise. Now I’m wondering how well he knows her. Maybe Lizzie has some secrets of her own.
“If I was to say I was considering selling,” he continues, “what would you propose?”
This is it. This is my chance.
Somewhat awkwardly, I extract myself from the chair. This isn’t a sitting-down matter.
And then, I begin.
I tell him about my short-sell strategy, just like I explained it to Betty. I emphasize that there’s no way he can lose, and he’ll get additional funds each month from the lease. Then, I share with him something I hadn’t planned on sharing, something that had been subconsciously steeping in my mind, I share my vision of what I see the shop becoming.
I tell him how I want to have a glass window in the shop, looking into the sewing workroom, so people can see the dresses being made by the seamstresses. Sort of like, open kitchens in restaurants. How I want to sell ethically-made dresses at price points all women can afford. And my dream of creating a place where everyone feels welcomed when they walk in, not intimidated. I want to show how things could be different.
He’s watching me as I pace back and forth, saying all of this while making wild hand gestures to demonstrate how I’d setup the shop if it was mine.
Finally, I’m done. I’ve said my piece. I gave it everything I had. (And I resisted the strong urge to end my presentation with the Charleston, even while faced with the temptation of wearing a flapper dress.)
He takes one last sip of his drink, then places the glass on top of the coffee table.
“I’ll have to think about this. Send me some numbers—some real numbers—and I’ll have a look.”
“I will! Thank you so much for meeting with me. I really appreciate it.”
“You remind me of myself when I was young.” (That’s a good thing, right?) “Foolish. Naive.” (Crap!) “But I like your spunk.” (Phew.)
“I know it may sound crazy and idealist, but I believe it can be that way. I just need someone to give me a chance. Did someone ever give you a chance when you were young and foolish?”
A haze falls over his eyes, then he says, “Yes, in fact, someone did.” He returns to his composed self. “Here, let me walk you out.”
When we reach the shop level, we hear them before we see them.
Somehow, all the dogs have gotten loose. I’m pretty sure I can guess which one of them orchestrated their escape. Lizzie is chasing after them, trying to grab their leashes.
This can’t be good.
“What’s going on here?” Art asks alarmed. “Who’s dogs are these?”
Coco comes up to me and licks my leg, then she looks up at me with her big, beautiful eyes.
“Looks like you aren’t doing a very good job in that department,” he says.
It’s over.
But then, he let’s out a boisterous laugh. And as Louie runs past him, he reaches out and grabs his leash to catch him. “Gotcha!”
Lizzie comes over to us with Huey and Dewey, who she’s managed to catch.
I see her and Art exchange meaningful glances, and I definitely know there’s a story there. But I’ll let Lizzie keep it to herself unless she ever chooses to share it with me.
Art is on his knees, petting all the dogs. And he doesn’t look so debonair, anymore. I can picture him being young and foolish at one time.
His eyes fall on Coco, who is tilting her head and flashing her long lashes at him. “My ex-wife had a dog like this. I don’t miss her, but I miss her dog.”
Maybe Coco and the other dogs haven’t wrecked my chances. Maybe they’ve improved them.
What a crazy day. After I dropped off Greta’s dogs, I came home and called Betty. She got really excited and said she’s almost finished working on the numbers and would email them to me in the morning.
I tried to eat some dinner, but I had too much nervous energy from the day’s events. So I’m doing something I’ve been avoiding for a very long time. I’m cleaning the condo.
But as I’m vacuuming the kitchen floor, I hear a strange sucking noise. I switch-off the vacuum and bend down to see what it was. It’s a piece of paper that must have been hiding under the oven.
How did it get under there?
I pull it out of the vacuum to get a better look. It’s not just a piece of paper. It’s another one of my mom’s diary entries. It must have slipped under there when Coco took the package.
Using all my strength, I move the oven to see if there are any others. There aren’t. Then, I move the refrigerator. There’s nothing under there, either. But I had to check. I had to be sure.
I thought I’d read everything there was to read. That I was done with this. I’m almost tempted to get rid of the diary entry, without reading it. Almost.
But I am young and foolish. So I read it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
> Diary Entry <
APRIL 4, 1999
Dearest Elizabeth,
My bag is gone. The last physical connection I had to my mother, sold to a man wearing an excessive amount of gold jewellery and cologne.
I remember the day she gave it to me. It was my twenty-second birthday. I’d graduated from university the spring before. After months of drifting from place to place, I finally agreed to accept a job at an art gallery downtown owned by one of my step-father’s friends. She was so happy I accepted, she gave me her most prized possession: a navy Chanel 2.55 bag. She said it was the sort of thing I needed as I started to make my way in the world.
Maybe she was always planning to give it to me. I don’t know. I never knew with her. All I know is that on that day, she said she was proud of me and the woman I was becoming. But she didn’t stay proud for long. Not after Jacques came into the picture and my life went in a direction she didn’t approve of. A life she hadn’t chosen for me.
I wonder if she ever regretted giving me her most prized possession. She’d be mortified if she found out it now belonged to the gold-chained man’s bleached-blonde, leopard-wearing bimbo. All right, perhaps not a bimbo. I’m being mean. But still, my maman wouldn’t approve. That I do know for sure.
But getting her approval was always so damn hard, much less trying to keep it. So it’s probably for the best the bag is gone. It seems symbolic. As though this is the official end of my relationship with my mother. We haven’t talked in months as it is, not since my operation.
The important thing is, Beatrice will get her braces. And that’s all that really matters now.
Love you always,
Lizzie
P.S. The man paid for the bag in cash. His name was Alto. He owns a dry cleaning business, “Alto’s Dry Cleaning.” It’s located at the corner of College and Ossington. That’s all the information I have on him.
P.P.S. I don’t know why I’ve added that. Okay, I do know. A part of me hopes that I can get the bag back one day; that not everything has been lost.
***
Oh, my God. Oh, my God! I can’t believe it!
I knew that day when I saw my mom’s bag in the vintage shop’s window that she wanted us to have it. I knew it.
I knew it!
This diary entry confirms what I’ve always known. Why else would she have included it with the others? She wants us to get the bag back!
But if the bag was sold to this man and his lady friend, does that mean the Chanel bag I found, wasn’t my mom’s? No, no. That can’t be right. I felt such a connection to it. The man or the woman must have sold it to the vintage shop at some point.
But if they didn’t, that means, they might still have it.
I could still have it!
There’s only one way for me to know for sure: I need to talk to Alto.
That’s my new mission, my new Mission 2.55.
In ten seconds flat I’m Googling: “Alto’s Dry Cleaning.”
My eyes widen at the search results.
It’s still there! It’s still there!
I need a plan. Okay, I’ll go there and casually make some inquiries. I don’t want to scare them off. But as I’m writing down the address, my gaze falls on their business hours.
What time is it now?
According to my phone: 7:01pm. They closed a minute ago.
Dammit!
I’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Except . . . they’re closed on Sundays.
Double dammit!
So I’ll have to wait until Monday.
Mission 2.55 is on hold.
I hate waiting. It’s the hardest part.
On Monday morning, I arrive at Alto’s Dry Cleaning at exactly nine o’clock, just as the door is being unlocked.
The woman who unlocked the door, greets me without a smile. “Morning. Pick up or drop off?”
Why didn’t I think to bring something with me?
I could’ve used it as a segue or to buy some time. I look down at what I’m wearing, a Lady Bettencourt dress, of course. But if I give her that—although it’d be an interesting conversation starter—we’ll be headed in the completely wrong direction.
“Neither, actually. I was wondering if I could speak to Alto?” I ask.
The woman looks at me with suspicion. Her name, Rita, is embroidered on her uniform shirt. For a moment, I wonder if she’s the “bleached-blonde bimbo,” but she doesn’t fit that description. She has short brown hair and a bit of a limp. Although, it’s been years. She may have adapted her look . . . and picked up a limp somewhere along the way.
“Which one?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Which one, what?”
“Which Alto do you want?”
“There’s more than one Alto?” I ask in surprise. “But the sign—”
“There are two. Brothers. Alto is their last name. Which one do you want?”
Two brothers? How am I supposed to know which one?
“Uh, I don’t know . . .”
“Choose,” she says impatiently.
“I guess whichever one knows about a vintage Chanel 2.55 bag. A navy one. Medium in size.”
She doesn’t seem fazed by my answer. She just makes a note on a piece of paper. “What’s your name and number?”
I give it to her.
“One of them will give you a call. Have a nice day,” she says, again without a smile, effectively ending our conversation.
“Okay, um, have a nice day,” I say, and head for the door.
That didn’t go anything like I thought it would. Truth be told, I thought I’d be leaving with my mom’s bag. And now I have to wait for a call that may or may not ever come.
CHAPTER TWENTY
EVERYTHING IS ON HOLD.
First, there’s the status of the vintage shop. Betty sent me the numbers, which I forwarded on to Art. Now I have to wait for him to make his decision. Then, there’s Betty and the imminent birth of the next generation of Bettencourts. Finally, and if I’m being honest, this one is causing me the most distress at the moment, I haven’t gotten a call back from either of the Alto brothers. Two days have already passed.
My mind keeps wandering as I sit in the sewing room, trying to work but not getting anything done, until my phone rings. It could be an answer to any of the aforementioned three. My heart races as I turn over my phone. Betty’s name is on the display.
“Is it time?” I ask, getting up from my chair.
Gloria gets up from her chair, too.
“No, no,” Betty says. I shake my head in Gloria’s direction, and she sits back down. “I just wanted an update on the vintage shop. I thought you were coming over yesterday?”
Oops! “Sorry, Betty. I forgot. But there’s nothing new to report.”
“Can you come by today? I’m so bored.”
“I can’t today. I have to finish some rush orders, but I’ll swing by tomorrow.”
This is mostly true. I do have rush orders to finish. But I’m also worried I’ll get the call from the dry cleaners while I’m at Betty’s. I can’t exactly have that conversation in front of her.
“Okay, I’ll watch Netflix or something,” she says. “Ouch!”
“Betty! Are you okay?” I say in alarm. “Is it starting?”
Gloria gets up again.
“No, this is normal.” I shake my head once more in poor Gloria’s direction. “But my Ob-Gyn said if I don’t go into labour by the weekend, she’ll have to schedule a C-section. Either way, I’ll be out of this bed soon.”
