The bells on the door chimed, and in the mirror I saw Amelia enter the salon, removing her sunglasses and stowing them. She blinked a few times to let her eyes adjust, then turned toward me as Jean-Peal spun the chair around. Her face lit up, and I stood, walking nearer so she could see me better.
“You look fantastic,” she said earnestly, squeezing my hand. She turned to the others. “And of course, Jean-Paul, you’ve all done amazing work, as usual.”
“Not at all, madam,” he said. “When the canvas is as pretty as this one, the work is simple.”
I shook his hand, then quickly hugged the two women. “Thank you.”
“Don’t forget. If you need something special for a party, we’re only a phone call away,” Lizbeth said.
Amelia and I went outside, and George raised his eyebrows when he saw me, obviously surprised. I laughed. “Am I that different, George?”
He looked sheepish and shook his head. “Still beautiful, just like before,” he managed to say.
I laughed and climbed inside, Amelia sliding in just after me. She continued to look at me as we drove, and I blushed under her gaze, not sure whether she liked what she saw. Without saying a word or apologizing for her stare, she finally looked away.
“I hope you don’t mind waiting for lunch,” she finally said. “Tiffany couldn’t reschedule for later, so we’re going there now.”
“To the mall?” I was confused.
Amelia laughed. “No. Later we’re visiting Armani and some other stores, but no malls. Tiffany is my tailor.”
“Ah.” I was impressed despite everything I’d already seen. I’d never known anyone who used an actual tailor.
Chapter Four
Tiffany’s workroom was in part of her house near the Garden District, which we reached after a few minutes’ drive. Tiffany was strikingly tall and thin, and I was surprised to hear a French accent, considering her name. I greeted her in French, and she responded warmly and effusively, seeming happy to be able to speak her native tongue. Rather than leaving, Amelia sat down on one of the round chairs in the corner, and I realized she intended to stay. I felt my color rise after Tiffany asked me to strip down to my underwear, but Amelia was typing on her phone, completely wrapped up in whatever she was working on.
I did what I was told and stood on the little platform in the center of the room, clad only in my bra and panties as Tiffany walked around me, peering closely at my body. Once again, I felt like a piece of meat being graded, but I was beginning to get used to it. I glanced over to the corner again, but Amelia was still wrapped up in her work, not looking at me once. I let my shoulders relax a little and looked straight ahead.
Tiffany began measuring me, writing everything down in a little Moleskin notebook she kept in her pocket. At one point, she motioned for me to get down and then measured my head, which I didn’t understand until she explained: it was for hats. I stayed, in the main, quiet throughout the experience, hoping this would be over as soon as possible. Finally, Tiffany told me I could put my clothes on again, which I did, quickly. Amelia never looked up while I was nearly naked, as far as I could tell, which was a relief. I certainly didn’t need for her to know what I looked like in my underwear. After all, she was my boss.
“All set?” Amelia got to her feet and stretched.
“Yes, madam,” Tiffany told her.
“Do you mind letting me know her European size, Tiffany? I want to call ahead to a couple of places so they can get some trials out for us.”
Tiffany looked a little disgusted at the thought of off-the-rack clothing, but she glanced down at her notebook, did a quick calculation, and said, “She’s a 34.”
I was surprised. The last time I’d bought clothes in Paris, I’d been more like a 36 or 38. This explained why all the clothes I owned seemed to hang off me lately. I guess I’d lost more weight this summer than I thought.
Amelia looked momentarily upset for some reason, but the expression faded almost before I saw it. “That’s what I thought.” She looked me up and down. “Much too thin, really. Are you ready?”
“What do you mean? Don’t I need to, I don’t know, see some clothes or something?” I looked back and forth between Amelia and Tiffany.
They both laughed. “Tiffany will simply make your clothes, Chloé. We’ll pick them up when she’s done.”
“Don’t I get any say in the matter?”
“No. You don’t.” She shook her head but looked a little apologetic. “Now let’s go get something to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. After a simple lunch of salads and sandwiches, we toured all the exclusive shops in town, Amelia choosing nearly everything and asking for very little input from me. I could, however, occasionally veto things, which I did repeatedly in the shoe stores. I refused to wear some of the ridiculously tall high heels she chose, mainly on principle. She had to compromise and allowed me to get several pairs of lower heels and one pair of flats, which I adored. I’d stopped counting dollars rather quickly, blown away by the price tags. We were likely spending more today than my new annual salary. To assuage my concern, I decided early on if Miss Amelia Winters insisted that I wear this stuff, she could very well pay for it herself. After all, she obviously didn’t mind spending it, and all I had do to was agree to go along with the spree.
Though most of the clothes we bought for work were off-the-rack, they were all much nicer than anything I’d ever owned. Amelia explained that these would have to do until Tiffany finished some of my tailored clothes, but I couldn’t imagine having anything nicer. For colder weather, she chose thick tweeds, usually in matching jacket and skirts, and nice linens, thick cotton, and silks for the rest of the year. Everything was black, white, blue, gray, or dark, muted gem tones, which Amelia said flattered me, and I agreed. Our second-to-last stop was at Armani, where she chose two “starter” rental gowns for me: one for tomorrow and one for an upcoming event next Friday.
“Where are we going tomorrow?” I asked as we got back in the car. At this point, I was working hard to stifle yawns.
“We have reservations for dinner at seven thirty at Broussard’s. We’ll have a private area of the dining room where I can coach you on table settings and meal behavior before the party next Friday.”
“So why do I need a gown if it’s just the two of us?”
Amelia raised her eyebrows and shook her head but didn’t answer beyond that.
Our last shop for the day surprised me, and Amelia laughed when she saw my expression. “You’ve never been to C’est Magnifique?” she asked, smirking. My face must have been as red as it felt, because she laughed again. “You can’t wear what you have on now underneath all these lovely new clothes,” she explained, patting my hand.
Oh, I thought. She was looking when we were at Tiffany’s.
“Amelia—I mean, Miss Winters,” I said, stuttering a little in embarrassment. “I’m not so sure I’m comfortable buying lingerie with you.”
She laughed again. “What’s to be uncomfortable about? We all wear it, right? It’s just like shopping for anything else. Come on.” She climbed out of the car before I could stop her. Swallowing my mortification, I slid over and climbed out after her.
C’est Magnifique is a high-end, French lingerie store. It was, like all of the places we’d gone today, the kind of place where you didn’t want to look at price tags. It was better just to buy things and leave when they cost this much money. I felt incredibly out of place the second we walked in, and just about everyone in there seemed to look over at us when we came through the door. An assistant dropped everything she was doing and flew across the room, apparently desperate to get our commission.
“Miss Winters,” she said as she reached us, slightly out of breath. “So lovely to see you again. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. This is Doctor Clothilde Deveraux.”
“Doctor Deveraux.” The woman bowed slightly in my direction, t
hen turned to Amelia. “This is your new…assistant?”
Amelia nodded. “Brand-new, yes. We’re getting her all set up today.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” the woman said. “My name is Jennifer, Doctor Deveraux, and I’ll be assisting you today. Could either of you tell me the kind of clothes you’ll be wearing with our lingerie?”
I shivered slightly with something like nerves as Amelia explained what I needed. As they talked, I looked around the shop as covertly as possible, curious about the kind of women that would shop here. Almost all of them were much older than me, and all of them looked wealthy. Only one man was in here, sitting hunched up in the back in one of the chairs by the dressing rooms, clearly trying to appear as small as possible. He had several bags at his feet, and I imagined his wife or girlfriend had put him through the courses today already.
Jennifer took us back to my changing room, but I froze when Amelia entered the little room and sat down on the stool in the corner. I stood fidgeting in the doorway until she looked up at me.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t do this with you in here,” I said, blushing even darker.
“Oh!” She stood up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Please, try everything on in private. I didn’t think.” She inched around me, her arm brushing mine and making me jump. Just before I closed the door after her, she turned and said, “If you find anything you’d be willing to show me, I’d be happy to give you my opinion.” She sat down next to the all-suffering husband, taking out her smart phone.
I closed the door and stood there for a while, breathing deeply to steady myself. What the hell was that? I looked into the mirror at my large, frightened eyes and almost laughed at myself. After all, what did it matter? She really did seem surprised at my reaction, and she probably just hadn’t thought about how strange it would be for me to change my underwear in front of my boss. I reminded myself that she had been professional and courteous all day, and at no point had I felt like she was interested in me in any other way. I shook the tension out of my shoulders and then took off my clothes.
Everything was lovely, and when I found myself debating between a few of the bras, I was tempted to ask for Amelia’s opinion. If Meghan was here I would ask her, I thought, so how is this different? I knew it was different on some unexamined, fundamental level but decided I would make the effort since Amelia had offered to help.
I pulled on one of the silk slips I’d chosen and called out, “Miss Winters?”
“Yes?” she said from outside.
“Would you mind giving me your opinion on something?”
“Of course not,” she said, right outside the dressing room.
I opened the door for her and she came in. After I’d closed it behind her, she stood a few feet from me, looking me up and down. Then she made a twirling motion with her fingers and I turned around for her, slowly. My skin warmed under her gaze and I swallowed, trying to dispel my nervousness.
“It fits wonderfully,” she finally said.
“That’s what I thought. I just wasn’t sure which ones to get. There are so many bras here, and I don’t know what kinds I need.”
She looked at me long and hard, staring at my chest, and I colored again, realizing I’d made a big mistake asking her to come in here. Finally she raised her head. “That style is perfect for most occasions, but you’ll need different colors. You’ll also need at least two or three strapless in different colors for the gowns.”
“Thanks,” I said quietly, unable to meet her eyes.
“How are the panties?” she asked.
I felt for a moment as if my face might catch on fire but managed to nod. “They fit like a glove.”
“I wear the same kind,” she explained, pulling down her skirt a little to show me the top of hers. They were indeed the same. “They’re the best.” Seeing my expression, she smiled and squeezed my bare arm. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Don’t forget to try on some of the sleepwear.”
I wasn’t sure she or anyone else would see me in sleepwear for any reason at work, but I didn’t argue. I opened and closed the door for her and stood there gazing in the mirror for a long time. What the hell are you doing? I asked myself.
After trying on one of the silk nightgowns, I decided I’d tried on enough clothes for the day and pulled on my jeans and T-shirt. I opened the door and showed Jennifer the pile I wanted before following Amelia over to the cash register.
Just as Jennifer finished ringing up and bagging our purchases, two women began to approach us, and I caught my breath at the sight of the stunning younger one. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, framing a face out of classic films. Her body was sculpted, but curvy, with the kind of hourglass figure little girls dream of having someday. She was with an older, elegant woman of the ice-queen type, a cool, desperately thin blonde. Amelia froze as they approached.
“Dear Amelia,” the older one said when they made eye contact. She air-kissed Amelia on both cheeks. “It’s really been too long.”
“Vivienne,” Amelia managed to say, though she looked shaken.
“This is my new assistant, Beatrice,” the older woman said, indicating the bombshell next to her.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” the younger woman said, holding out a limp hand. I almost had to suppress a smile. The bombshell had a flaw: her voice was grating and nasal.
“And this is?” the woman asked, turning her sharp gaze at me. My face felt hot as she looked me up and down.
“Doctor Deveraux.” Amelia’s voice sounded pinched and tight with nerves.
Something about the way Amelia responded to this woman made me want to defend her. “Charmed, I’m sure,” I said sarcastically, holding out my own limp hand.
The older woman touched my fingers with her icy hand and gave me what might pass as a smile, her eyes narrow and knowing. She then turned back to Amelia. “A new assistant so soon, dear? You’re going through them like water lately. Soon there won’t be any assistants left in the city.”
“If you’ll excuse us,” Amelia said, flushing darkly. She turned and grabbed my arm, steering me around them as we made our way out the door.
Amelia was silent on the ride home, and as I contemplated what had just happened, my curiosity began to eat at me. I knew better than to ask about the woman in the store, but I still wondered what it all meant. What had that woman meant to imply by “assistant”? Could Aunt Kate and Meghan be right? Did Amelia usually sleep with her assistants? I glanced over at her again, thinking about her behavior today. While a few moments in the lingerie store had certainly seemed a little inappropriate, my own response had made it that way. If anything, Amelia had been more comfortable with my body than I was, treating the whole thing with her efficient, business-like persona. And anyway, I thought, it’s not like she actually touched me. I blushed at the memory of her eyes on my breasts and decided to stop thinking about it.
When we finally pulled up in front of my house, I was wilting from exhaustion. I bid Amelia good night and poured myself out of the car, dragging my sad, tired body inside. Even if I’d had a full night’s sleep, I would have been beat. My aunt was surprised when she saw me, and I realized after a moment that it was because of the makeup and hair. George came in and out of our front room several times, dropping off piles of boxes and bags before tipping his hat and excusing himself.
“What on earth?” Aunt Kate said, once she’d closed the door after him. She was staring around the room at all of the packages in disbelief.
“I don’t know, Aunt Kate,” I said, rubbing my tired eyes. “I don’t get it either.”
Chapter Five
I went to bed very early and got up very late. Between the incident with Charles and the whirlwind shopping trip, I felt worn out and depleted. As I rolled out of bed, I looked around the room at all the bags and boxes, stunned and a little pleased once again by Miss Winters’s generosity. Is it generosity? I wondered, b
ut shook the thought off. Regardless of her motives, which I very much doubted were as sinister as Aunt Kate and Meghan had predicted, I had enjoyed myself yesterday, and I’d enjoyed spending time with my new boss. That was all. If a natural opportunity presented itself to ask her about her old assistants, I would, but I wouldn’t press her for an answer.
I took an extremely long shower, washing off two days’ worth of grime and sweat, then dressed in my oldest pair of overalls and a T-shirt. I always paint in junky clothes, as I tend to forget what I’m doing when I paint and rest my paintbrushes on myself while I work. My studio was located in the highest part of the house, in what is called the camel’s hump in a shotgun house like ours. It was sweltering up there, but it soon cooled down after I cranked the little window air-conditioning unit up as high as it would go.
I’d been painting for a long time when I heard a knock on the door at the bottom of the attic stairs. “Yes?” I called, snapping back into reality.
“It’s me!” Meghan shouted from below. “Can I come up?”
I turned to my painting and pulled the drop cloth over it. “Sure. Enter at will.”
She appeared a few seconds later, looking around the room curiously. Several of my older pieces were hanging on the walls, much to my embarrassment. I’d wanted to paint over them several years ago, but my aunt insisted on keeping them there “for posterity,” as she called it. The paintings reminded me how far I’d progressed, but I didn’t like seeing my own earlier mistakes. I did have, however, one newer piece I’d completed in Paris last year, a landscape. Meghan made a beeline directly to it.
“Wow! This is incredible!” she said.
“Don’t exaggerate.” I was proud of it.
She turned toward me, brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? This is really amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
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