“Taking your red hair into consideration you’ll look stunning,” the assistant said, “no, it isn’t cheap, but vintage clothing of this standard is rare. Exceedingly rare in some cases.”
“There’s no label.”
“Feel the quality, go on, feel it. You don’t need a label to know this is quality.”
The red-haired woman did as asked, and the assistant wasn’t lying.
“Besides, there is a label,” the assistant said, “check the skirt, left side by the hem.”
The red-haired woman again did as she was asked. A small tag was sewn into the seam exactly where she had said it would be. On it read “WJG Clothing. United Kingdom”, another tag stated, “Hand Wash Only”.
“WJG Clothing? I’ve never heard of them.”
“I did a little research on them; they had a very select customer base of quite high-end clients. Businesswomen, celebrities, one-of-a-kind creations.”
The red-haired woman lifted the dress to eye level and examined the lace that covered most of the upper bodice. The work seemed random, but she could make out shapes in there that seemed to change even as she was looking at them. On the hanger, the lace looked as though it left little to the imagination. Though it covered much of the shoulders and had small sleeves, it plunged over the breasts until it created little more than a shelf bra to cover her modesty.
“Notice how the cut tightens in under the hips with a large flounce beneath? The style is called a ‘mermaid’, and I think it’s easy to see why.”
The woman looked down at the bottom half of the dress, it would be very unforgiving, and anyone who wore it would reveal any excess weight as if drawing attention to it with a sign of flashing neon.
“Honestly, you at least have to try it on.”
“I’m not sure. It’s very expensive.”
“But it’s made for you.”
“I don’t think I could dare wear it!”
“If I had your body, I would sell a kidney to get that dress.”
The red-haired woman looked at the assistant. She was a pretty woman, exactly the kind of woman who looked like she should work in the clothing industry. She looked as though she could wear any dress on display and wear it well. Almost any dress, she corrected herself, then she appraised the one she held again. Not this one, the assistant was right, this one had been made for her.
“Can I try it on?”
She was not sure that she would have beamed so readily if she had been the assistant. The young woman who had been serving her was far more confident in her own body than she was. The red-headed woman would have felt less inclined to chance a knock on her self-esteem.
Did she really judge herself so much on those around her?
The assistant led her into a small cubicle. Inside was a low bench that had been painted a pale blue and a wide, full-length mirror. She undressed to her mismatched underwear and immediately thought that she would need a matching set that would not reveal itself under such a dress, and then slipped the garment on over her head. She half turned to see the zip in the mirror and slid it closed. Usually, she would not have managed that part of the process without some difficulty, but in this case, the dress barely needed the zip at all.
The back plunged almost to her waist, and most of it was lace.
She appraised herself in the mirror. Usually, she would give herself a cursory check, but not spend too much time genuinely admiring the result. She was not completely consumed with vanity. But today she turned slowly and took in the whole effect.
She was completely correct about the lace bodice, it barely covered her modesty, but it did cover it. It could not have fit her better if it had been made for her. The dress fit snugly around her hips, and she found – to her great surprise – that she could walk in it relatively easily, despite it clinching in around her thighs.
If she were honest her very first thought when seeing the dress on was that she looked like Morticia Adams after a killing spree. Her hair looked even more red than usual, it picked up the colour of the dress and magnified it, and her skin glowed.
She took a moment longer and realised the assistant was growing impatient when she heard her call.
“Do you need a hand? Is everything okay?”
She took a couple of deep breaths, mainly to make certain nothing would pop out that shouldn’t, and then walked barefoot back onto the shop floor.
The assistant took a step back.
Behind her, a couple had entered the building, a man and woman ten years or so older than the red-headed woman. The man stopped in his tracks and gaped at her, and for a moment his companion did too.
“That isn’t a bloody dress.” the assistant said in an all too serious voice. “It’s a weapon of mass destruction.”
With that, the red-headed woman knew the assistant had made the sale.
The dress stayed folded in a box at the top of her wardrobe. Most nights she would take it out and look at it, tempted to put it on just to see how it looked, but never quite daring to do so. She began to wonder why she had purchased it, as she just hid it away, though a part of her knew that it was bought as a symbol more than a dress.
The closet in which it was kept was in a bedroom only she used, and this bedroom was connected to a few rooms that rarely received guests. The red-haired woman would return home from work without so much as a cat to greet her at the door, and that was something she told herself she was happy with.
The first thing she saw as she entered was the TV that hung on the far wall. It was the largest TV she could fit through the door, and it had taken almost an entire day to put it all together. This wasn’t because she lacked any proficiency at building things, it was just that she had to do a two-man job as a single woman, and this meant slow and tiring work.
A little while after purchasing the TV she bought and assembled the surround sound system, and when it was set exactly right any sounds from the real world around her were absorbed by the movie and became an extension of whatever she was watching.
At work, she would tie up her hair and wear her eyeglasses to lessen her nearsightedness. It was a requirement to wear a hairnet on the deli counter and tying up her hair made that easier to do, and though she could use the till easily enough, anything further away that was a blur, so it was far more practical just to wear her glasses.
Each day was a carbon copy of her yesterdays, and her tomorrows had little about them to inspire any change. So, the red-haired woman saw no reason to change, and so no change occurred. Through it all the dress sat in the box in the top of her cupboard. It didn’t collect dust because she would take it out and look at it every night, never daring to put it on.
“A few of you know, but I thought it best to gather you all together to tell you officially.” The manager consulted a piece of paper he held in his right hand, coughed, and continued. “Olivia Neiman, Albert Neiman’s only daughter, died last night in a motor accident. This is sad news, as I’m sure you’ll all agree, but we must look to the future of the business.”
The manager looked over the assembled staff. The red-haired woman was standing at the very back of the room, her hair still coiled under her hairnet, and her eyes squinting slightly so she could see him comfortably.
“Olivia managed our sister store, Neiman’s New You, and I have been asked to take over her position, leaving the position of manager here open.”
A murmur ran through the staff. The manager indicated to a young man sitting half facing the staff from the side of the room.
“Toby here will manage for the time being, but we believe that there will be a significant shuffle of staff between the Grocery and Deli, and New You, creating an exciting opportunity for those who might be interested.”
“So, the management position here is up for grabs?” Someone asked.
“To the right applicant, yes.”
“And we can transfer over to New You?”
“Be good not to go home smelling of fish.” Someone else offered, and there was a titter of laughter from around the room, the death of Olivia apparently forgotten.
“Yes, any requests for transfer will be considered,” the manager cut in, “to the right applicants. But you have to be aware that New You is high fashion, it isn’t a grocery store, working in that environment isn’t for everyone.”
The meeting descended into a Q and A of obvious questions and skilfully avoided answers, but by this point the Red-Haired woman wasn’t listening. Her attention had been drawn to the mental vision of the assistant at the vintage dress shop. The assistant who could wear any dress in the store – almost.
She returned to the deli counter and used the ordering book to compose her transfer request. She would return to the small pad throughout the day, crossing out lines and reconstructing them, sometimes completely ripping the sheet of paper free and beginning again from where she left off. So consumed by the task she didn’t notice the other deli-counter girl steal glances at it when a customer distracted her, and she didn’t see the cruel smile it provoked.
As the day continued and the letter evolved, she never let herself think consciously of what she was doing. The thought of typing up the letter had not entered her mind. The image of herself printing it and giving it to her manager was unthinkable. Regardless, the words formed into sentences and the sentences collected into paragraphs until a letter had formed, and – even though the thought of actually typing it out had not crossed her mind – the red-haired woman took her time doing just that on the little laptop that used to be used for invoicing before the new system was put in place.
She was almost asleep in bed that night when the realisation struck her.
She had done it. It was like remembering a dream from the night before, one that had been almost forgotten until a random word had brought a shard of it back into sharp – sometimes painful – relief. She had slipped the letter, no envelope, just a single sheet of paper, onto the manager’s desk before she left. She had not been thinking about doing it as she did it, her body had done it of its own accord, and now the gravity of what she had done descended upon her.
Panic enveloped her, seeping into her until her breathing came in short, laboured gasps. The weight of what she had done pressed her into the mattress. Some part of her knew she hid behind the hairnet and spectacles. The same part of her that knew she had always intended to print and present that letter to the management. It was a repressed part of her, something had driven it down deep inside her since she had been a child.
She thought of the little girl she had been, all teeth and innocence. It had been rudely awakened when the rest of the girls had discovered the allure of pretty things. While they had made themselves into facsimiles of the models that they saw draped across magazine covers, the red-haired girl had drawn into herself – but the dress had woken her.
The red dress. She thought of the red dress in its box on the top shelf of the wardrobe, and her heart calmed. She thought of the soft fabric, silken against her skin. She thought of the slight roughness of the lace that should have irritated but instead soothed.
Before long she slept, and her dreams were wonderful.
The desk was a cheap hardboard veneered with faux wood, but the colour was rich enough to lend it some class. She examined the swirls in the fake grain as she waited, never letting her mind wander too far from the red dress. The manager was only a minute or two from seeing her, but it felt a great deal longer, and the air in the office had developed a thickness that wanted to push her from the room. She had begun her time by looking at the family photographs that adorned the wall behind the desk, all the faces grinned too broadly, and she had the unnerving feeling that all their teeth were just a little too long, so she looked at the fake wood instead.
“Claudette!” The manager shouted as he entered the room, and the red-haired woman drew a sharp intake of breath. She had never warmed to the name and hated when people shortened it to “Claude”. The man swayed to his side of the desk and slumped down into the swivel chair behind it. The red-haired woman thought she heard it creak under him.
“I was surprised.” He said as he fished out a familiar letter from the top drawer of his desk and pretended to read it through. “I thought you were happy working here Claudette?”
She opened her mouth to answer but it seemed the manager did not require one.
“The culture over at Neiman’s New You is very different from the culture here at the Grocery and Deli.” He leaned back in the chair and this time she knew she heard it complain under the strain. “I’ve always endeavoured to promote a casual approach. Friendly. Far more like an old neighbourhood store than the large company we are. At Neiman’s New You, things are quite different.”
His voice dropped into a conciliatory tone.
“Presentation is everything over at Neiman’s New You. The staff are mirrors to the aspirations of the customers in that store. Each are walking advertisements that do more than serve customers merchandise, they serve them inspiration. Do you understand?”
Of course, I understand, do you think I’m a child? She shouted in her head. Do you think I can’t see through your words? Do you think you are being subtle?
Instead, she nodded and smiled a tiny smile that barely made it past the corners of her lips.
“You’re a good worker Claudette. You’ve turned that Deli counter around, and we would hate to lose you to Neiman’s New You only to see you grow unhappy there.”
So why would I be unhappy there? She asked, again in her mind, but certain that the question must hang on her face for all to see. This time she did not nod and smile, she just looked at him. He looked sweaty, and though he wasn’t too badly overweight, he was flabby looking, like a partially deflated balloon that could not regain its former shape. His tiny mouth sat amid voluminous cheeks that dwarfed any other feature, making him look like a caricature of the man she assumed to be underneath.
She supposed that he was a good advertisement for a grocery and deli, though it did occur to her that they should branch out as a confectioner as well to make him even more fitting.
“Here,” he held out the letter to her and she automatically took it, “think about it, Claudette. We are happier if we find a place where we can belong, and you belong here.”
He smiled and his cheeks puffed out as though they might burst. She looked at him, her face hot, and her mouth slightly open as if she had intended to speak. She wasn’t, she had no idea what she could say. She thought of reassuring him that he was wrong or asking for a trial at the other store, but nothing in him invited anything but agreement.
She turned and it was then that she saw that he had left the door open. Standing just outside was the girl who shared her duties on the deli counter. Her face was carefully composed, and neutral, but the red-haired woman could not help but imagine a grin desperate to break out behind the patently false disinterest.
Her legs carried her from the room, down the stairs and out onto the shop floor. Without consultation with her mind her body headed towards the deli counter, and – at first – she felt nothing but a dull ache inside. Even the smallest dream can be taken from a person. Those tiny things that most would overlook meant everything at that moment. Gone, whisked away by people who did not know anything of its true worth to you.
As she worked, the ache grew, and before her shift ended it had transformed into something unfamiliar. It took her some time to place the feeling, and it was only when a customer – a little lady who was the greater part of eighty – asked her to clean a fresh fish for her that she placed the feeling. As the little cleaver sliced the head of the dead animal the red-haired woman felt the jolt shake her arm to her elbow.
She looked at the sheen of blood on the blade and thought of the red dress.
The carbon copy days continued with each one a poor facsimile of the last. The edge of the images around her greyed and distorted until what seemed different was nothing more than substandard reproduction of what had gone before.
One day her assistant failed to turn up to work and the Red-Haired woman’s complaints at the loss fell on deaf ears. Everyone around her knew where the assistant had gone, and if the Red-Haired woman had been a little less naïve, she would have remembered her waiting to see the general manager on that day she had been refused her transfer, and she would have known too.
Perhaps it was best she did not know.
Her anger became a permanent layer, just under her skin, threatening to break the surface at any moment. Her hands grew raw against the dead flesh of the fish she served to the sometimes-smiling customers. Under the thin latex gloves, her skin was white and cold and if she ever spent more than a cursory glance in the mirror, she would have seen what others around her saw.
The cold never left her now, if anyone had touched her, they would have recoiled, but no one ever touched her, and the cold grew slowly inward. In her closet, the red dress stayed in its box, and – though she often thought of it – she never looked at it again.
Neiman’s Grocery and Deli was once part of a small empire, and as such it held some prestige. The staff were of the highest calibre and the produce was imported at great expense. This all showed in the prices asked, but everyone had once known that quality began and ended at Neiman’s Grocery and Deli.
Things have changed. The supermarkets undercut the mom-and-pop stores, even the large ones like the Neiman chain. They undercut, replaced, and charged whatever they liked. People went along after they had executed their own choice by choosing poorly, but some of the smaller stores lived on, just.
Tricia thought the place needed a coat of paint, but the produce was fresh and – though it was somewhat embarrassing to serve people who knew her family by first name – it was a steady job, and Patricia “Tricia” Sommers needed a steady job. Something that she could get into quickly before her predicament began to show. Once that happened, she might need money, and she doubted her parents would be forthcoming with help.
The man who led her from room to room was hunched at the shoulders, and as such was a little shorter than she was. Tricia wasn’t an Amazon; she rarely had the opportunity to look down on others as she spoke. So, this was a novelty, and it endeared the little man to her.
He showed her the ladies’ locker room, barely tapping the outer door and averting his eyes when he said the actual words, and then they moved to the canteen. The rooms were larger than the store needed. Once there must have been many more staff there than there were now. Tricia felt a little sad at that thought. Neiman’s Grocery and Deli was as much a part of the town as anything. It was a part of its history, as well as a part of her own.
She followed the little man, whose real name was Victor Larraz, around the store. When they met another staff member he would introduce them, and slowly it began to dawn on Tricia that they were all old enough to be her grandparents.
Well, this would only be until she was on her feet. She would continue to look for work, certain something else was sure to turn up. She had performed well in her end-of-year exams and could have gone on to higher education if the opportunity had presented itself. She assured herself that things would change, and then she could study something to raise her aspirations. There was always time.
Finally, the little man led her behind a counter and instructed her on the basic requirements of the job. The countertop till was easy to figure out and the job would not burn up too many brain cells. Tricia felt comfortable with that part of the job, it was the customers that filled her with anticipation.
“So, I’ll leave you to introduce yourselves then,” he said and made his way to the shop floor with a little wave. Tricia was confused before she saw the other person behind the counter.
“Hi,” she said brightly, but the old woman with the grey hair clumsily pushed under her hairnet just looked at her. Tricia appraised her, guessing the other woman was perhaps in her sixties. She was skinny but carried herself with surprising poise for such a position.
The older woman indicated to the front of the counter, and Tricia turned to see a customer waiting for service. Tricia smiled and said the words she was instructed to say, and her working day began.
She would try again with the old woman later. Hopefully, she would break through her resistance. Tricia had expected it. Some people had worked here since they left school. People who felt that this was their home and would resent her intrusion. Tricia thought kindness would change that, and she glanced at the woman’s name tag.
Well… she would be sure to make Claudette understand that Patricia ‘Tricia’ Sommers was here to stay.