by R.S. Grey
“Where are you even going? What could be more important than this event?” she asked with an incredulous tone as I started to push back through the crowd.
It’s not what, it’s who.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Josephine
The world isn’t fair and I hate it. I’d searched for a night job relentlessly over the last week or so and I’d come back with exactly zero interviews and zero callbacks. You know who gets jobs in the fashion industry? Sons and daughters of people in the fashion industry. I thought there’d be a chance for me. I thought I could prove my worth and start at the bottom. Turns out, even the bottom spots are reserved for those born on the Upper West Side. Unless your surname adorns the front of a public library or is engraved in bronze above a hospital wing, chances are you’re not connected enough to land a decent job in New York. It’s like the world’s biggest sorority and I was definitely not deemed worthy enough to pledge.
After two months of living in NYC, I was just as broke as I’d been when I’d arrived on the Greyhound bus. Every paycheck from Julian went straight to paying my rent and student loans, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. I’d been searching for another position everywhere. Ideally I wanted to stay in fashion, but working retail would at least mean I was around clothing. I’d dropped off my resume everywhere: J. Crew, Madewell, Kate Spade, H&M—none of them needed someone who could only work on nights and weekends. (The ladies at Baby Gap had laughed when I’d asked if they could work around my workweek schedule. Cruel assholes.)
I had fifty dollars left in my bank account. My rent was due in three days, my loan payment was due in four, and I’d passed a delicious-smelling Chinese food restaurant on the way to the subway and had to walk right past it. (Lo mein for $15? Are people just shitting dollars these days? Who can afford that?)
“Oh, wow, what pretty dresses.”
I glanced over to the woman sitting in the subway seat beside me.
Her frizzy hair was chopped short to her shoulders. Her deep-set eyes were surrounded by wrinkles, but her lips were coated in a bright red lipstick. She repositioned her circular glasses on the bridge of her nose and stared down at the dry cleaning bag crushed on my lap.
I followed her gaze and frowned.
Yeah, they are pretty dresses. My favorite ones.
I was clutching five thrifted designer gowns I’d collected over the last few years in the hope that I’d have reasons to wear them one day. The gold, shimmery gown at the top of the pile was practically begging me to reconsider my decision. I’d only ever tried it on once.
“Are you a stylist for someone?” she asked. “Is that why you have so many gowns?”
I shook my head, staring hard at the glimmering material beneath the garment bag. “No. I’m going to sell them.”
She gaped. “Why would you do that? They’re so beautiful.”
My chest tightened and for a moment I thought I was going to unload all of my troubles on an unsuspecting stranger. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry in the middle of a stinky subway car.
“No room in my closet,” I lied, feeling my impending breakdown fighting to break to the surface.
She laughed and shook her head. “Ha. The life of the rich, I suppose.”
I didn’t bother correcting her.
When the subway arrived at my stop, I tossed the gowns over my arms to ensure they didn’t scrape on the concrete. The consignment shop I’d picked had a reputation for finding special vintage pieces. I hoped they would recognize the beauty of the gowns enough to offer decent prices.
The shop was tucked away on the first floor of an old brick building. There were no windows on the front of the shop, and had it not been for the small sign on the door, I would have walked right by it.
I pulled open the door, careful not to let the gowns fall in the process, and a small bell rang overhead, announcing my presence. I stepped through the doorway, breathing in the perfumed air. One look around the space confirmed that I was in the right place. The same way a candy store brims over with bright sugary treats, the consignment shop was practically overflowing with painstakingly curated finds. An entire wall was covered in vintage scarves and costume jewelry. Directly across the room, there were five floor-to-ceiling shelves completely packed with designer purses. Hermès, Chanel, Rebecca Minkoff, Gucci—they were all there, making me salivate on demand.
“May I help you?” a small voice asked, drawing my attention away from the rows of coveted purses.
I glanced up to see a petite woman perched behind the counter on a small wooden stool. Her bright red hair stuck out in every direction and she had a layer of blue necklaces weighing down her neck. Her black dress did little to hide her frail figure and when I stepped closer, my gaze was drawn to her wrinkled, worn hands clasped in her lap. In front of her, beside the cash register sat an old, abused sewing machine—likely to blame for the way her hands looked.
“Selling those?” she asked gently.
I shifted my gaze away from her hands, up to her gentle smile, and then I nodded.
“Well bring them here and let me see them. We’ll see what they’re worth.”
“The gold is lovely,” she said as I laid down the plastic garment bag on the counter, to the side of her sewing machine.
She slid thoughtfully off her chair and reached for the counter to balance herself. I studied her movements with care, wondering just how old she was. Her bright hair and kind eyes seemed to conceal her real age.
“May I?” she asked, pointing to the top of the plastic.
“Yes,” I replied as she reached to pull open a drawer.
She pulled out a small pair of scissors and grabbed the end of the garment bag. My stomach sank as I watched her slice through the plastic, from top to bottom, practically cutting my heart right along with it.
“Yes. I knew this one would be lovely,” she said, reaching for the gold gown as she let her scissors clatter back onto the counter.
“It’s Monique Lhuillier,” I said, pointing to the tag for proof.
She hummed and pulled the dress off the stack to inspect it. “Yes. It’s beautiful, but not in the best condition.”
The top of the bodice had intricate beading that I’d tried my best to conserve over the years. It hadn’t been in the best condition when I’d first purchased it, but I’d never had the time to mend it.
She hummed as she turned the gown over in her hands, feeling the fabric between her fingers and carefully inspecting the hemline. I watched her, praying she saw the beauty in the gown as much as I did. When she was done, she placed the gown back onto the pile with a gentle hand and glanced up at me.
“Why don’t you look around while I inspect the rest of these, and then I’ll let you know what I can offer you for them,” she said with a smile.
I swallowed slowly and nodded, even though I’d have rather stayed right where I was, watching her handle my most prized possessions.
“Are those flats vintage Chanel?” the woman asked from behind the counter.
I glanced down at my shoes and smiled.
“Yes.”
“Any chance you’ll part with those?”
My back stiffened. My Chanel flats would never be sold. Even if I ended up on the streets, I’d be the only homeless person in New York wearing vintage Chanel footwear. Because I have priorities.
I shook my head. “Not today.”
Just the idea of having to part with them made my stomach twist into a ball of anxiety. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and took a step back, confirming to myself that I wasn’t allowed to touch a single thing in the shop while I waited for her to finish. Chances were, if I broke something, I’d have to hawk an organ to cover the cost.
I wandered through the store while she inspected the gowns, keeping track of the setting sun through the window on the shop’s door. I knew Julian would be picking up his date for the fundraiser soon. Priscilla Kinkaid. I’d googled her the night before, just to rub salt in
the wound. She was as pretty and as well connected as I remembered. Most of the photos that popped up in the image search were of her sitting in the front row of various fashion shows, smiling next to the who’s who of fashion. She’d apparently vacationed last June with Karl Lagerfeld for Christ’s sake.
She and Julian would make a beautiful couple. Their children would be J. Crew models. Gag me.
I didn’t want to think of Julian smiling at another woman. I didn’t want to think of the way he filled out a tuxedo, making it impossible for his beauty to go unnoticed. He was a perfect gentleman, funny and charming. Priscilla would have to be a complete simpleton not to appreciate everything he had to offer.
“Sweetie, I’m ready for you,” the woman called from the front counter.
I took a breath and braced myself for the results. Hopefully I’d be able to pay my rent for a few months with the dress money. By selling them, I’d have enough time to find another job and get the loan officers off my back.
She’d hung each of the gowns on a garment rack behind the counter. Gold, black, red, blue, and white. They were all beautiful in their own way, and it was almost more cruel to see them hanging like that, right in front of me but already long gone.
“I would be willing to give you $500 for the Monique Lhuillier and $200 for the rest,” she said, pointing to the other four gowns.
My gaze froze on the colorful gowns as my mind tried to process her words. I’d been expecting so much more. That amount would hardly cover one month’s rent. My brows tugged together as my gaze shifted back and forth between her and the gowns.
“Do you mean $200 for each?”
She frowned. “No. $200 for them all.” She motioned to the last four dresses. “They’re not items my clients would pay top dollar for. They’re seasons old, but not quite vintage. Most of them need some major repair work before they’d even be ready for resale.”
I wanted to throw up. I could feel my anxiety rearing its ugly head, pumping through my body and tainting what little hope I had left.
Fuck this day. Fuck my old dresses. Fuck my massive pile of student loans.
I’d expected to be paid ten times that amount. Hell, maybe even twenty. She might as well have offered me nothing at all for the way I felt. I stood across the counter from her, trying to decide what to do, knowing full well that my mind was already made up. I had to sell them. I didn’t have a choice.
I felt like a cheap hooker as I pushed through the shop’s door and made my way out onto the bustling street. Sure, I had $700 in cash stuffed into my wallet, but I felt used and hollow, no better than I had on the way over. Selling those dresses was supposed to solve my problems, but instead, it’d just piled another one right on top, right in the center of my heart.
I was critically close to throwing in my cards. I could feel the pressure rising in my chest, filling every part of me until I thought I’d break right there, in the middle of the sidewalk.
I couldn’t have a breakdown; I had things to do. I needed to take outfit photos for a post that should have been up on my blog two days earlier. I needed to email out more resumes and beg for a part-time job. I’d extend my search beyond the school of fashion retail. Do they have Dairy Queens in New York? I’d serve up fries and ice cream all night long if it meant I could go one day without wondering if I had enough money to make rent.
“Get out of the way lady!” a deliveryman yelled from behind me just before I felt an excruciating pain shoot up from my foot.
“Shit,” I hissed as pain coursed through my foot like a thousand tiny knives stabbing my bones. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
The asshole had rolled his dolly over the top of my foot and all but crushed all my bones to a pulp. I hopped up and down, trying to quell the shooting pain, but it didn’t help.
“Are you kidding me?” I yelled as he continued to walk away, not even bothering to acknowledge that he’d almost broken every bone in my foot.
“Who does that?!” I yelled. “And then you don’t even apologize?!”
He didn’t turn around once. He sped away with his dolly piled seven feet high with boxes, most likely filled to the brim with tiny elephants and lead paperweights. Meanwhile, everyone on the sidewalk shot me glares as if I was the crazy one.
At times I felt as if New York City was trying to kill me. I mean literally crush me under the weight of UPS boxes and overdue rent and rude people. I tried to wiggle my toes, relieved that they didn’t feel broken, and then I glanced down to assess the damage.
At that moment I felt a tiny rip in my heart, right down the center.
THE ASSHOLE HAD RUINED MY CHANEL FLATS.
A fat grease stain spread across the top of the leopard print, right where his dolly had rolled over my foot. The double “CC” logo that Chanel was known for had ripped off and was sitting lonely and forgotten on the sidewalk next to my foot.
I knew I was being ridiculous. I knew people were dying because they couldn’t eat. I knew people had real problems that didn’t include grease stains and designer shoes.
I knew all that, and yet I couldn’t stop the tears from slipping down my cheeks as I bent down to pick up the CC logo. I couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that hit me.
This was the final straw.
I couldn’t do it.
New York wasn’t my city. I was not cut out for the hustle and bustle and I was not cut out to make it in the fashion world.
There.
ARE YOU FUCKING HAPPY, UNIVERSE?!
“Sweetie, stop that. You’re embarrassing yourself,” a gentle voice said from behind me.
I felt a small hand wrap around my waist, tugging on my shirt and trying to pull me back toward the side of the sidewalk.
“Stop that crying.”
I looked back to see the consignment shop owner doing her best to drag me back into her shop.
I shook my head and waved my hands, the universal sign for “leave me alone”. I knew if I spoke up, my words would come out a babbling mess.
“Come inside for a moment. Come inside and we’ll sort this out,” she insisted as she dragged me through the shop door. “Are you upset about those flats?”
For a petite old lady, she was remarkably strong. I don’t think I could have fought her off if I tried. Yet another reason NYC isn’t for me. I couldn’t even fend off an attack from an old lady.
The bell chimed overhead as we stepped back inside, but I could hardly hear it over the sound of my own babbling.
“Stop that crying. I can fix those flats. That’s nothing. With the right solvent, that grease will come right off,” she said.
I wiped my face, trying to get a handle on my tears. Her kind brown eyes searched my features, most likely trying to find the origin of my crazy. Keep lookin’ lady. It’s there.
“Does that make it better? Is that all that’s wrong?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“What else can I do then?” she asked. “I can’t pay you more for those dresses, but I can fix those shoes for free.”
I stared up into her kind eyes, took a deep breath, and went for it.
“Are you hiring?”
“What?” She leaned back and narrowed her eyes, obviously taken aback by the question.
“I promise that I’m a great employee,” I swore. “Despite what the current circumstances suggest.”
She smiled. “You just had a public breakdown on the sidewalk and you expect me to give you a job?”
I felt my lip quiver.
She held up her hands and shook her head.
“Okay. Jeez, just get it together. I can’t give you work. The shop isn’t ever busy enough for two people, but I have a friend who might be able to help. Are you available for some night work?”
“Yes. Yes! Absolutely.”
She let go of my elbows and turned toward the counter. I stayed glued to my spot, watching her pull out an old grey rolodex and dust the top off with her hand. The thing probably hadn’t been used since the 80s. She t
ook her time rifling through it until she finally pulled out a worn business card toward the back.
She met my eye as she dialed the number and offered me a reassuring smile.
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “We all have days like this. Don’t you know the old saying: ‘When someone ruins your Chanel flats, make lemonade’?”
I burst out laughing, completely caught off guard by her humor.
“I don’t think that’s how it goes,” I said, wiping my nose and finally getting ahold of my sniffles.
She was about to reply when I heard a mumble on the other end of the phone line. She held up her finger to silence me and then spoke into the receiver.
“Hey Margery. This is Beth. Beth Montgomery—yes, yes. I’m good.”
There were more mumbles on the other end of the line as Beth and Margery went through the standard pleasantries. Then finally, she smiled up at me.
“I’m glad everything is going good for you. We’ll have to catch up for dinner soon,” she said. “I actually called though because I have a favor to ask you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Julian
As soon as I walked out of the fundraiser, I ripped the bowtie from around my neck and shoved it into my pocket. The damn thing had been strangling me for the last three hours and it felt good to finally get a lungful of air.
A hotel attendant rushed forward to greet me. “Sir, would you like me to call you a cab or do you have a driver?”
I held up my hand and shook my head. I needed to walk. I needed to clear my head in the ten blocks it’d take me to get home. It didn’t feel good to tell my mother off. She wasn’t a malicious person, she was just a bored woman with too much wealth and even more insecurity.
To her, being a good mother meant providing your kids with a prominent last name and the means to succeed. What good was a hug or a kiss? To her, handshakes and air-kisses were the appropriate greetings for everyone from her ladies lunch group to her children. My father had been the affectionate one with us. He was a romantic down to the marrow of his bones. He’d had a way of softening my mother, of rounding out her edges. In the fifteen years since his death, she’d slowly reverted back to her true nature and my relationship with her had taken a turn for the worse. Now, seeing the way she was choosing to handle Lorena’s issues, I wanted nothing more to do with her.
