by Gabi Moore
Today it was diamonds, simple, tiny drops for each ear that picked up the glitter from the thousand crystals sewn into the dress. Tasteful and spare. Perfect. A pair of soft green-satin pumps and the outfit was complete.
Aurora put her own things away, neatly folded, into her locker and walked back out onto the floor. The housekeepers were gone, leaving the floor empty and silent. Aurora turned the show lights on and walked to the counter. She barely had time to open the appointment book to review their schedule when the elevator opened and Mme. Moreau and two of the other girls entered.
“Good morning, Madame Moreau,” Aurora greeted automatically.
Madame Moreau looked a little like a Halloween decoration dressed in designer fashion. Although she sold only the newest and finest styles (and her own brand) in the boutique, Moreau seemed to have picked out a decade and stuck with it, always in black. Over her snappy black dress suit and heels, she blustered into the store today spewing French, doffing her black-fur coat as she went.
“Je suis… parce que… ne peut pas espere… cette ville… tout le monde... gens ne sais pas…” Aurora didn’t speak French, but she’d developed an ear for certain words, and it seemed that Moreau was in no better or worse mood than usual.
The Madame was at least eighty and frightfully thin, like a great pale, skeletal bat done up in thousand-dollar make-up. Her perfectly white hair was flawless, as if even the winter wind outside couldn’t touch it.
“Terrible, just terrible, everything’s terrible,” she rattled on as she shambled across the floor. “Aurora, get the book. We have to inventory before open.”
Aurora snatched up the order log from under the counter and jogged to catch up with Moreau. While the other girls changed, it was time to inventory the arrivals in the back. It would take most people an hour or two. At Madame Moreau’s pace, it would be done before the store opened.
Careful not to get ink on her borrowed dress, Aurora jotted down Moreau’s endless stream of commentary. Numbers, notes, complaints—there were always complaints, with Madame Moreau—all went in the boxes and margins. Aurora was having a much easier time keeping than usual. She eyed Moreau suspiciously.
The Madame had paused, rubbing the black sleeve of a garment between her fingers. Her heavily made-up face seemed to be concentrating fiercely. On her four-inch heels, Mme. Moreau seemed to totter a little.
“Madame!” Aurora almost dropped the book, ready to catch her if she fell. Moreau steadied herself and shook her head.
“Where was I? Ah, oui, we received three of this style, but I specifically asked for five, one in each of our main sizes…”
And on she went, as if nothing had happened. Aurora continued to scribble notes, looking up every now and then. Moreau still seemed to be moving slower than usual, and making occasional mistakes in her English.
They had finally wrapped up inventory (with minutes to spare), and Aurora was jotting down the last few lines when Moreau stopped suddenly.
Aurora had been waiting. She set the book down instantly and took Moreau’s arm. Maybe it had been the shock of finding her own mother in a panic attack all those years ago, but there was something wrong with the Madame. The old woman had a hand gripped around the edge of a rack, knuckles white, and Aurora had to gently pry them loose to lead her to a chair.
“Kylie! Madison! Help! It’s the Madame!”
The chatter from the changing area snapped off and the two other girls came rushing through the racks. Between the three of them, they guided Moreau to the chair in front of the vanity.
“Call an ambulance,” Aurora told Kylie firmly. The little redhead nodded, her big eyes watery and fearful. She had to dig her phone out of her locker (Moreau did not tolerate cell phones on the show floor), but within a minute she had gotten dispatch on the line and was explaining in a tearful voice what had happened. Aurora had to feed her the address and the details, but at least an ambulance was on the way.
“Aurora.”
Moreau’s hand gripped her arm, and Aurora leaned closer. The other sales girls had arrived, and Madison was fretfully explaining what had happened. Kylie was still on the phone to 911. They were alone, for the moment.
All of her fierceness seemed to have slipped away as Moreau looked up at Aurora, dark eyes full of the fear of the unknown. Aurora didn’t have any idea what was going on, but Moreau was very old, and rarely admitted how frail her age made her. Doubtless it was some heart problem, something the Madame had kept hidden from them all. Either way, as she looked up now, Aurora wished she had some comfort to give.
“The ambulance is going to be here soon, Madame,” Aurora promised. “They’ll know how to help you. Just take it easy.”
“I’m so sorry, Aurora,” Moreau whispered. Her voice was strained and small. “I… I thought I had more time.”
Panic lurched up Aurora’s throat. “Of course you have more time, Madame, you’re going to be all right. The ambulance is going to take you to the hospital, you’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
But Moreau didn’t respond. She lapsed into silence, staring through the racks of clothes.
The paramedics came soon after, making impressive time. They bustled through the boutique with their uniforms and their stretcher, and soon bustled right back out again with Mme. Moreau bundled up between them. Aurora was forced to admit that she didn’t know who to notify, since as far as she knew, Moreau had no family. She ended up accepting the hospital name and contact information, and then they were gone.
After that, Aurora wasn’t given the luxury of time to reflect over what had happened, or what might happen next. She had a store to run, now, since management fell to her in Moreau’s absence. It was too terrifying to think what might happen tomorrow, or next week. What if Madame Moreau was seriously ill? Would she be all right? Would the store close? Too busy to think about that now, because minutes after the paramedics left, the first customer arrived.
The day’s first two customers were regulars that visited often, at least monthly. Aurora knew them both well, and so did the other girls in the shop. Although they asked after Madame Moreau (she’d never missed a day of work in her life, as far as Aurora knew) things ran smooth as usual without her. Bringing in outfits from the back, helping the customer try them on, making adjustments, trying accessories, so on, so forth.
Aurora had never had to take over for Mme. Moreau before, so was thrown into the role of management rather abruptly. Still, she was able to roll with it, getting the hang of Moreau’s position without any major slip-ups. The first two customers, married women with their noses on the ceiling, left happy with the purchases, and by the time the third guest arrived, Aurora had begun to feel pretty sure of herself.
This was good, because she needed all the confidence she could get.
The moment he walked in the door, he demanded attention. The appointment book had him listed as a Mr. Fredericks, but the name didn’t fit. For someone so tall and exotic, he needed a more fascinating name—James Bond came to mind as Aurora watched him approach the counter. Six-foot-something and dark as polished oak, he was dressed in a sharp suit and held himself like a businessman. Aurora wasn’t the only one to take notice; her fellow sales associates were watching him closely.
“Bonjour, Mr. Fredericks, and welcome to Moreau’s,” Aurora greeted. She’d said it a hundred thousand times; she never meant it so much as today. His ink-drop eyes were intense, although his face was friendly. “How can we help you today?”
“Yes…” His voice sent shivers down her spine. Gravelly, but not too deep. “I’m here shopping for a… lady friend.”
Aurora hid her disappointment like a champ, her smile never even flickering. “Of course.” She stepped out from behind the counter and led him towards the first of the waiting displays. “These are some of this week’s pieces. What, in particular, are you shopping for?”
This display was an assortment of eveningwear; Aurora’s own dress would be shown here next week, if she had time to
come do the display for Madame Moreau. Mr. Fredericks twisted his mouth in a light frown as he looked them over.
“Not quite what I had in mind.”
“Well, we do have a selection of lingerie, if that’s more your taste,” Aurora replied. She forced herself to smile teasingly, although inside her head she couldn’t believe she’d actually said those words to a customer!
Luckily, he seemed open to the suggestion, so Aurora led him back to the intimates, beneath envious stares from Kylie, Madison, and the others. The number one reason why employees left Moreau’s was with a new husband or boyfriend. Some girls even sought out a job here in the attempt to snag a rich man to support them. For herself, Aurora couldn’t see how so many men shopping for their wives could end up available to take on a new girlfriend, but discretion was part of her job, as well.
In the intimates section, cordoned off by a lacy pink curtain, Victoria’s Secret looked like a Costco cashier. Some of these items were thousands of dollars; out of the corner of her eye, she caught Mr. Fredericks wince a little when she mentioned the price.
“I have to admit, it’s a lot to pay when I haven’t even seen it worn,” he pointed out.
Aurora felt heat creep up her neck; those black eyes of his were fixed on her face. Not for a moment did they drop to scan the curves of her body, or to the low neckline of her dress, but in his voice was an unmistakable blush of flirtation. Her head felt light. Back here, in the privacy of the lingerie section, Aurora almost let herself believe in the desire he exuded.
“It is a premium price, but Moreau’s only sells the best,” she replied. “Maybe you could have your… lady friend… come in and try something on herself? We’d be happy to accommodate her.”
“Maybe that would be best,” Mr. Fredericks agreed. He took a last look over the display, and reached up towards his coat. Aurora really must have been feeling silly; for a wild moment she thought he was going to take his coat off, and his shirt, too. He looked to be all muscle under the suit. But no—he reached up to his pocket and pulled out a business card.
He drew a pen from his pocket, and without breaking his eyes from hers, scribbled something on the back of it that looked a lot like a phone number. Not that Aurora could look; she was having a hard time breaking their stare.
He took her hand; Aurora had never been so electrified by a customer. It was a fight to keep her face straight. Mr. Fredericks put his card between her fingers and smiled.
“If you could contact me with open appointments next week, I’d be most grateful.”
Aurora swallowed hard and nodded her head quickly.
He smiled, perfectly white teeth against his dark skin. “Excellent. Now, I think I’d better get a move on. I’d hate to use up any more of your time with my poking around.”
And he let himself out of the lingerie section, back out onto the floor. Kylie showed him out with a purring farewell, and then the elevator door closed, and she turned to Aurora.
“How mean!” she complained, joking. “You kept him all to yourself.”
“What was happening back there?”
“Did he try to put on the moves, Aurora?”
“No, that’s ridiculous. Besides, you were listening in, anyway, I don’t know why you’re bothering to ask.” Aurora hustled back behind the counter to busy herself with the appointment book. And to slip the card out of sight.
Chapter 3
The next three hours blurred past. If Moreau had been well and present, Aurora surely would have been at least reprimanded, if not fired for dazing off. But the stranger, supposedly Mr. Fredericks, stayed in her mind consistently. In the end, Aurora backed off and let the other girls handle the afternoon’s customers. She was sure to bungle it up, with her thoughts drifting out the window every few seconds.
This wasn’t lost on her co-workers, who teased her lightly. It was rare that Aurora lost focus, Aurora who usually kept her head level, Aurora who never flirted with even the most eligible shopper. Madison in particular seemed to find it hilarious; she’d worked here with Aurora the longest, and knew how long her history of detachment stretched back.
And then, when the other girls weren’t looking, there was Aurora’s constant flipping through the orders book, where she had stashed Mr. Fredericks’ card. It was still there, still real.
And what are you going to do with that? she wondered to herself. Was she going to call up the rich married man and set a date? A date to squeeze in between this job and the next? Was she going to show up in a twenty-five dollar dress and well-worn heels? Or maybe bring him home to meet her recluse mother at their cubby-hole apartment?
She couldn’t call him back, Aurora knew that for certain by the time four o’clock arrived. It was a disappointment. It really was. She’d forgotten for a minute how limited her options, her very life, was, and it had felt wonderful and free. But the reality was that she wasn’t going anywhere with a rich guy like that.
Aurora kept the card, anyway. Not to use. Just to look at, and remember a moment where she’d forgotten all her responsibilities and been a normal twenty-three-year-old. One that had time for dates, and for whom the future was a blank page.
The girls closed up shop and changed back into their street clothes, back into normal working women with too little sleep and not enough money. They filed out, Aurora last, carrying the order book with her; she had to stop by one more place before she was done for the day.
Bundled back into her many layers, Aurora set off into the growing dusk, darkness that fell early between the city streets. She stopped at a Chinese place that sat between Moreau’s and the train station. Their eggrolls were divine, and on days when she worked both jobs, it was comforting to at least have this little bit of reprieve on her way from here to there.
Then it was on to the subway, to take the five o’clock train to Mr. Cheng’s.
Their story had never been made completely clear to Aurora. How rich French actress-turned-designer had ever met a humble, friendly old Chinese shopkeeper was difficult to explain in full. It sounded like an excellent story, but Aurora had never asked. All she knew was that when Moreau’s customers needed an alteration or a repair, the garment was taken to Cheng’s, and he fixed it. Simple as that.
Somehow, Moreau had helped him immigrate from China, that much was sure. His warehouse was set up in the next burrow, less high-end than Moreau’s and the other boutiques like it. Aurora had to admit she felt more at home here than among the well-to-do, but she still clutched her purse tightly on the way from the train to Mr. Cheng’s front door.
She let herself in; this was a part of the work day that she was familiar with. Madame Moreau had often had her take the orders to Cheng, and the routine never changed. She’d find him on the floor with his employees, probably helping someone with a seam or a button or a hem. He was short and old and extremely kind, and when he looked up and saw Aurora descending the small flight of steps into the warehouse, he smiled hugely.
“Oh! Aurora!” he called, handing the trousers he’d been picking at back to the woman next to him, sitting with several others under a set of bright lights. “You have today’s repairs?”
“Yes, right here, Mr. Cheng,” Aurora smiled as she answered, unable to help herself. He had such a good nature, and such an infectious smile. She pulled the orders out of her purse, careful to take the business card out and stash it in her pocket before handing the book over.
“Is so cold, today, no? You should wear hat, too cold for your ears,” he chattered as he looked over today’s notes. Aurora grinned, but didn’t bother pointing out that he himself only wore plain jeans and a button-up shirt, despite his warnings of the weather.
“I’ll be fine. Thank you, though. It is very cold, but hopefully not for too much longer.” She shouted just a little; Mr. Cheng was hard of hearing.
“Hopefully,” Mr. Cheng replied. He was looking over the book. His hands turned the pages precisely, wrinkled and spotted with age. Still, he was as sharp as ever wit
h a needle and thread.
Aurora was about to ask how he’d been, but he was off all on his own, darting into the back to fetch the finished tailorings. She didn’t have to wait long; he might have had them already set out and ready, for how fast he returned with them.
“Great, great,” she nodded as she thumbed through the fabric, comparing them with the original orders made. “These look perfect, Mr. Cheng. The truck will be here in the morning to get them. Thank you so much.”
“No problem, no problem,” he insisted, grinning. “Always happy to help Madame Moreau.”
Aurora hesitated. “Have you… have you heard about what happened?”
Mr. Cheng’s smile dimmed. “No. Something happen?”
“Mr. Cheng, Madame Moreau is in the hospital,” Aurora explained gently. “I think she had a—a heart attack, or something. She was awake when she left in the ambulance, just very weak.”
Mr. Cheng was very still. “She in hospital now?”
“Yes… I can give you the hospital and her room number, I called about an hour ago—”
“This bad…” Mr. Cheng murmured to himself. “This—this very bad!”
Trying to calm him, Aurora set a hand on his arm. “Hey! It’s going to be okay! The doctors are taking care of her. She’ll be back to normal in a couple days—”
He snapped his head towards her suddenly, so suddenly that Aurora cut off her sentence in surprise. Mr. Cheng’s smile was gone now. He looked serious, more gravely serious than Aurora had ever seen.
“You—go home. Go home, now!”
“Home? I can’t—I have another job—”
“Doesn’t matter!” Mr. Cheng ushered her towards the door. He dug through his pants pocket and pulled out a roll of bills; he crumpled a fifty into Aurora’s hand. “Take taxi. Get home, right away. Not safe. I can’t explain now, but please—go home.”
Aurora stood in the doorway, staring at him, as Mr. Cheng opened the outer door to the drawing night and let in a blast of icy wind. He’d never been anything other than friendly and passive to the world’s troubles. It seemed out of place, completely out of place, that he should be so upset now. Aurora knew that he was close to Mme. Moreau, but what was this about ‘not safe’?
