by Julia Holden
I know the Vespa has a kickstand. But at that moment I was more focused on getting down and kissing the sidewalk. So I got off the Vespa without putting the kickstand down. Gravity being what it is, the Vespa fell on its side. For a second it looked to me like a cobalt-blue horse that was sick and keeled over, and I had the irrational thought that somebody would have to put it out of its misery. Then I remembered it was a Vespa, and not my Vespa, either. I picked it up, figured out how the kickstand worked, and parked it properly. By Paris standards.
When my knees had mostly stopped shaking, I went inside the store.
28
When you walk into Armani on Avenue George V, there is a little branch of the store on your right, which displays men’s sweaters, shirts, ties, and accessories. On your left are the sales desk, men’s dressing rooms, and the bathroom. Most of the store stretches in front of you like a corridor. You walk past mannequins with fancy women’s clothes on your left, and racks of men’s suits, coats, and jackets on your right. There’s a comfy chair for customers, then a row of sweaters, shoes, bags and accessories down the middle. In the back is the promised land—women’s clothing: pants and blouses and jackets and suits and dresses and gowns and beaded gowns and oh my. In the very back are the ladies’ dressing rooms, the tailoring room, and the stockroom. Not that I took everything in the first time I walked into the store. I didn’t. I was distracted by the fact that as I was walking in, Lucy Liu was walking out.
I am not absolutely sure it was Lucy Liu. But I think so. Besides, it seems like the kind of place she would shop.
After my brush with Lucy, I started looking in earnest for Celestine. Of course, I did my best to look at the clothes too. It was my first time in an Armani store. For all I knew then, it would also be my last time, so I wasn’t going to miss anything. And if you are wondering what is the big deal with Giorgio Armani, I guess you have never watched the Oscars, the Emmys, the Golden Globes, or Joan and Melissa Rivers.
There were just a few people shopping. Most of the people in the store looked like they worked there. Even though they were all wearing different outfits, all the outfits were navy blue, and all the people wearing them were slim and cool and oh so fashionable.
At that moment Celestine came out from the ladies’ dressing room area at the back of the store. She was probably fifty feet away, but she spotted me immediately and her face lit up.
She broke into a run, then planted her feet flat, held her arms out like a surfer, and slid all the way up to me. She gave me a big hug and kissed my cheeks, right, left, right, left. Wow. Four was a new record for me. Then she looked at me, and all the blood drained out of her face. “Oh my God.” She gasped. “What are you wearing?”
I was wearing a navy pantsuit and a perfect little scoop-necked white top under the jacket. Just like Celestine.
All of a sudden I realized why she had two of the exact same outfit in her closet. I was wearing the Armani salesgirl uniform. “I didn’t know,” I said. “But . . . it’s not so bad, is it? I mean, it’s kind of funny.”
She didn’t look like she thought it was funny. In fact, I never saw Celestine look so serious. “You don’t understand,” she said. “He may be coming to the store today.”
“He who?”
She looked around and lowered her voice. “Signore Armani.”
Giorgio Armani the person lives in Italy, and spends most of his time in Milan. When he comes to Paris it is mostly for fashion shows, not to visit his stores. And if by chance he goes to one of the stores, it tends to be the store at the Place Vendôme—the very same Place Vendôme where Josh Thomas took me to his favorite bar in the world and then walked out on me, and where I subsequently got lost coming out of the Ritz. Everything in that store is Giorgio Armani black label, the most expensive. So the news that he might actually be coming here, to the Armani Collezioni white-label store, which is only the second most expensive, had everybody who worked here excited. Thrilled. Terrified. Like if you went to church one Sunday the same as always and somebody mentioned to you, “Oh, by the way, the Pope is stopping by today.”
“Là! Il est là!” A handsome young man who stood halfway out the door was pointing urgently down the street.
All the navy-suited people ran for the door, even Celestine. She ran right out with the rest of them. Leaving me alone in the store. Me and the three customers. Fortunately, nobody seemed to be actually shopping.
You know what I mean. I don’t care what or where the store is, some people only ever walk into a store to look, even if it’s a Wal-Mart in Valpo, Indiana. Furthermore, I have found that the higher the prices in a store, the higher the percentage of just-lookers. So I hoped that the man and the two women were just browsing.
Sure enough, the man wandered out, and about half a minute later one of the women left. The other lady was strolling through the men’s clothes up at the front, so I figured I was safe, at least as long as nobody else came in.
For the first time since I walked in, I looked at the floor. It’s made of tan-colored stone, very soothing. And very smooth. I remembered the way Celestine slid up to me. We used to do that at home, when I was little. Kirland is very cold in the winter, so there’s always plenty of ice. Before I learned to skate, I used to run and slide, just the way Celestine had on the stone floor.
I looked around. The browsing lady was still in men’s, so I took a little run, planted my feet, and slid. Then I did it again. Took a longer run, and slid even farther. And farther. And—
“Excuse me.”
In midslide, I looked up to see the browsing lady holding a blouse.
“How much is this. . . .”
I opened my mouth to say something, although I had no idea what. But she put her hand up, right in front of my face, and stopped me.
“No, wait,” she said. She dug into her purse, a brand-new Louis Vuitton shopping bag. Not the nice classic Vuitton, but that new print in those obnoxious candy colors. She pulled out a palm-sized gadget, typed something on the little chicklet keys, then looked up. “Chemise,” she said, with a huge smile. Only she said “Chemise.” Pronouncing the ch like channel.
I couldn’t help myself. “Chemise,” I said. Pronouncing the ch like Chanel. Bear in mind, I think I have made this clear already, but I do not speak French. It just so happens that chemise is a perfectly good English word. But the ch is pronounced sh. Even in English.
All of a sudden two things occurred to me. First, I probably shouldn’t be saying anything at all to the customers. And second, I probably shouldn’t be correcting the customers.
“Do you know,” the lady said, “that is just like you French people.”
I wondered if impersonating an Armani salesgirl is a criminal offense in Paris.
“First ignoring me while you slide around like you were a child, then correcting me like I was a child. I have only one thing to say to you,” she said.
Our Father who art in Heaven.
“Thank you.” She grabbed my hand and shook it. Her long fingernails dug into my skin. “Thank you so much. Everybody in Atlanta told me the French are just bossy and rude and condescending. Especially in stores. But do you know, since I have been here, everybody has just been so”—she struggled to find the right word—“nice,” she finally said, and made a face like it tasted bad in her mouth. “I don’t know why, but they have been depriving me of a genuine French experience. So God bless you, child.” She smiled a big smile. For a second I thought about telling her that bright red lipstick was so not her, but I figured maybe that would be a little too much genuineness all at once. “Now tell me,” she said, holding up the blouse. “How much is this . . . chemise?” Pronounced right.
I looked at the tag. Which she could have done just as easily. But she wanted me to be French. I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I tried to remember how French people speak English.
“Sree hundred and twenty.” It sounded really fake to me, but she didn’t blink.
Instead, she hel
d the blouse up in front of herself. “What do you think?”
I didn’t like it on her. But I did see one on the same rack that I thought would be nice. Several, actually. I picked one of them up. “Zees one,” I said. “Zees eez, for you . . . more good.”
“Ooh,” she said. “This is going to be fun. Well, dear, let’s get me into a dressing room.”
I got her size pretty much right away just from holding the clothes up and eyeballing. Even though I had some experience with Nathalie Gauloise, all I knew was that a thirty-six was a size four. Dottie—that was her name—was no size four. She looked like a ten to me, which it turned out was a forty-two. Fortunately there were lots of those on the rack.
She was a very easy fit, and a very fast shopper. If she put something on, it fit. If I told her it looked good, she wanted it. So in about ten minutes she was ready to pay for a pile of clothes.
“Don’t let me forget to fill out that form to get my tax back,” she said.
I started to perspire. I could help somebody pick clothes, and I could tell them if something looked good or not, but cash registers? Credit cards? Tax forms?
Dottie walked out of the dressing room and I followed her, carrying a huge stack of stuff. I did a quick count in my head. About 5,600 euros. With the crappy exchange rate, over seven thousand dollars.
As we walked toward the front of the store, a man appeared.
He wasn’t very tall—maybe five-nine, tops. And he was an older man. But just because I use the word older, do not think one single negative thing about his looks. Because he was . . . well, gorgeous. He was tan, and he had the most gorgeous white hair and gorgeous blue eyes. He was wearing blue jeans that were faded just the right amount and that fit him perfectly, and a navy blue T-shirt—wool, I think, maybe even cashmere—that fit him even better than the jeans. And he had the most amazingly gorgeous muscled arms.
If that seems like a lot to notice while you’re walking from the back of the Armani store to the front, did I mention he was gorgeous?
As Dottie and I got close to the front of the store, I saw that all the blue-suited men and women who worked there were gathered in the doorway. There were more of them than fit in the doorway, so some of them were outside looking through the window. They weren’t looking at Dottie, or at me, or at the pile of clothes I was carrying. They were looking at the gorgeous man.
He, however, was looking at Dottie. And at me. And most of all, at the pile of clothes, which I put down on the counter next to the register.
The man turned to the blue suits crowded into the doorway. “Dagli un lavoro,” he said.
Nobody moved.
When he spoke again, he sure sounded annoyed. “Porco Giuda,” he said, “ma non c’e nessuno qui che parli italiano?”
He smiled at Dottie and me. He had the most dazzling white teeth, and the most charming smile. When he turned toward the door, I somehow knew he wasn’t smiling.
“Hire her,” he said. In English. Then he walked straight out the door. Right through the blue suits, as if they weren’t there. They might as well not have been. They parted for him like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea. He was not Moses. He was Mister Giorgio Armani.
Although you have probably figured that out by now.
Then he was gone, and the spell was broken. All the employees rushed into the store.
I turned to Dottie. “Sank you.” At that instant my best friend appeared next to me. “Celestine weel help you now,” I said.
29
It was amazing how fast the day went by. I guess I never had a job I liked so much before. No offense, Uncle John. Anyway, before I knew it, it was seven o’clock.
Seven o’clock. Now why did that ring a bell?
Uh-oh. The clerk at the Hotel Jacob told me to pick up my suitcase by seven. “We have to leave,” I said to Celestine. “Right away.” Suddenly I had a very bad feeling.
“I will drive,” Celestine said. If she saw my look of terror as we approached the Vespa, or noticed the scrapes on her scooter from my parking job, she didn’t mention it.
“Please hurry,” I said. I didn’t know if seven o’clock was some kind of deadline, if I was already too late, or what it was I was too late for.
We pulled to a stop directly across from the hotel. “Go claim the bag,” Celestine said. “Have them call you a taxi, and put the suitcase in the trunk. I’ll give you the fare.”
Even though it was a quarter past seven, I hesitated. I was afraid to go into the hotel, which was full of Movie People I had just put out of work. I was about to ask Celestine to get the bag for me—only at that moment, across the street, I saw a man turn the corner and come running in our direction. A man I knew. All of a sudden my face felt hot. I ducked down behind the Vespa, which didn’t provide a lot of cover, but was better than nothing.
“What are you doing?” Celestine asked.
“I can’t let him see me,” I said as the man rushed into the hotel.
“Him who?” she asked.
“Josh.”
“Who is Josh?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Celestine gave me a look. “Oh yes you will.”
A whole minute went by. My legs were starting to hurt from squatting behind the Vespa, so I asked, “What’s he doing?”
“Talking to the desk clerk.”
“What’s he saying?”
“How should I know? He’s across the street. And inside.”
“Does he look mad?”
Celestine looked back toward the hotel. “I think he’s yelling.”
“How can you tell if you can’t hear him?”
“He’s pounding on the desk.”
Just then, a beat-up little gray pickup truck pulled in front of the hotel. The sides of the cargo section were unpainted plywood. Even though I couldn’t see very well, it looked like there was trash in the flatbed.
“What color is your bag?” asked Celestine.
“Pink.”
“Pink??”
“It’s my mom’s bag. I wouldn’t buy a pink suitcase.”
“Okay.” Then she looked across the street again and frowned. “This is not good.” The way she said it, it sounded so much worse than not good that I stood up to see.
A bellman walked out of the hotel and tossed my mom’s suitcase into the back of the pickup truck like a sack of garbage. Then the truck barreled away. Before we could even move, it was gone.
I was just starting to comprehend what had happened when I saw Josh step out of the hotel. I ducked back behind the Vespa so he didn’t see me. “That’s great,” he said to the bellman. “Thank you very much.” Then he walked down the block, reached the corner, turned, and vanished.
I stood up. My knees were shaking, and not because I had been crouching down for so long. “Did you see what he did?”
Celestine nodded.
“He told them to get rid of my stuff.”
She nodded again.
It is very difficult for me to describe how I felt at that moment. I was crushed. Shattered. Any word that describes being smashed into tiny little pieces. Because Josh Thomas had done this to me. My Josh.
Only it was very clear now: If he had ever been my Josh, even for a second, he wasn’t now. And he never would be. Never could be. Not ever again.
I still felt terrible that I was personally responsible for his movie falling apart, even though, as I think I have shown, you would have to be a pretty mean person to really think it was my fault. But how could he have done what he just did? After the way he kissed me? After he left that perfect rose in my room?
He must really have been bitter to get them to throw away my things like that.
Then ohmygod, the full force of the disaster hit me. “My Grandma’s dress was in that bag.”
“We’ll find it.” Celestine said it because she is my friend, but I knew she didn’t believe it. There was no logo on the truck. We didn’t get a license plate. We had no way to trace it. It was just gone
.
I knew I would never forgive Josh for sacrificing Grandma’s dress to get back at me. But there was so much more. Even though we’d practically just met, we had been on the verge of something. Something perfect. Only now, right before my eyes, he had killed that something.
Celestine and I got on the Vespa and rode away without another word. On the way back to the apartment, she stopped for Japanese takeout even though I told her I wasn’t hungry.
Back at her place, she pulled two big bottles out of the refrigerator. “Sake,” she said.
I always thought you were supposed to drink sake hot, but I knew better than to question Celestine’s judgment about such things, so we drank cold sake. I didn’t feel very hungry, but I ate the sushi anyway. It was yummy. It seemed only mildly strange to me that in three days in Paris, other than breakfast, I had yet to eat anything you’d actually call French food.
By the way, sushi is something you should not order in Kirland. I don’t even think there’s anyplace that sells sushi, but if there is, don’t buy it.
I finished a very delicious California roll. I don’t know if they call it that in Paris. But in any event, I finished it. Then the next thing I knew I was crying. For Grandma’s dress. For Grandma. For Josh. For me. For losing everything in the world that mattered to me.
Except my best friend. Thank goodness Celestine was there. She knew when to let me cry. And, when I had pretty much cried myself out, she knew exactly the right moment to take two more big bottles of sake out of the fridge. I should mention, it was quite good cold. We got pretty toasted. Celestine asked about Josh, like she said she would. I told her all about him, like I said I would. I told her pretty much everything, starting from when I met him. She thought he was obnoxious, like I did at first, then kind of fell for him, like I did next, then really fell for him after the kiss on the bridge, then felt awful for him, like I did after the dress fiasco, and finally hated him along with me for the way he made them throw away my mom’s suitcase and Grandma’s dress. “I hate him,” I said when I was finished.
