6
Holly didn’t have a whole lot of time to think about her surprise discovery of the charm bracelet because, immediately afterwards, one of The Secret Closet’s regular (and most demanding) customers arrived at the store with ‘an emergency, and money to spend.’
Burn was more likeit, Holly thought. A stylist by profession, Mona Sachs had been coming to The Secret Closet long before Holly worked there, and relied on them for many of the clothes she used for her clients, who ranged from movie stars to Hampton housewives.
Today she looked gracefully unkempt as usual. Her bright blonde hair was wound up in some sort of white cotton scarf and a huge pair of sunglasses slipped down her tiny pointed nose. A magnificent suede and fur poncho fell as far as her denim-encased knees, and on her feet were towering spike-heeled brown leather boots. Mona was not only short, but skinny with it, and reminded Holly of a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes. She carried a Louis Vuitton bag in the crook of one arm that was so big Holly was sure she could fit a small child inside, and in her other hand was a BlackBerry. Holly had never seen Mona without the device, and often wondered if she showered with one hand sticking out of the shower curtain.
‘What do you need?’ Holly asked helpfully.
‘I need a wrap for the Met Gala, and itcanbe real fur but, if it is, it has to be really old … and preferably pale, you know, like white or grey or bluish … no tails or heads flopping down or anything, a clean line.’
‘Oh, I see, a starlet who will only wear fur if it’s been “grandfathered” in?’ Holly teased.
‘Ha. I also need some Halston, eighties party style. Have you anything new in?’ Mona leaned towards the back, as though she wanted to run in there and rip through whatever boxes Carole was most likely going through.
‘Let’s start with the fur … ’ Holly walked over to a nearby rack and pulled a stole off a hanger. It was silver fox and in great condition. ‘Look at this one. Pure Elizabeth Taylor - if she were tall and blonde.’
‘Oh my lord, that’s perfect!’ Mona grabbed the stole and ran her hands across it. ‘I'll take it.’
‘Well,’ Holly said wryly, ‘that was easy.’
Mona’s BlackBerry started to beep and she pulled it out of her bag and started texting. ‘Gotta go … ’ she mumbled, without looking up. ‘Can you courier the Halston over direct if you find something?’ Mona’s office was based uptown on Seventh Avenue and she usually trusted Holly and Carole’s judgement.
‘No problem.’ Holly wrapped the fur in tissue and slipped it into a Secret Closet monogrammed bag.
‘Thanks sweetheart.’ Mona never even looked up from her phone as she jangled out through the door and hailed a taxi.
After that, Carole went out on an errand and Holly was kept busy until well past lunchtime, helping customers and occasionally going into the back to unpack a box and sneak another look at the mysterious bracelet. She planned to give UPS a call just as soon as she had a free moment, but by lunchtime there was still lots of work to get through and three more boxes still waiting to be opened.
Well, they’ll just have to wait, Holly thought, switching the sign to ‘Back in 30 minutes’ and dashing out with the latest round of arrivals for the dry cleaner. The service they used was just around the corner on Sixth Street, and when Holly walked in, Thuma, the girl manning the counter, was on her usual perch, slurping soup from a cardboard container.
‘Don’t you ever take a lunch break?’ Holly greeted her, carefully laying the clothes on the counter.
‘How can I? You and Carole are in here every damn minute.’ This was typical Thuma, ornery to the last. From what little Holly could gather, she had come to the United States ten years before and had the kind of Slavic beauty that usually graced the covers of magazines. She wore too much jewellery, too much makeup and kept her hair cut short and slicked back. While Holly never smelled smoke from Thuma, looking at her hands she could see the nicotine stains.
Because they knew so little about Thuma’s past, Holly made wild stories up about her for Carole. Stories like she’d once been a burlesque dancer in Las Vegas, and was fleeing the mob for knowing too much, or that she had held up banks, Bonnie and Clyde style, with the man who brought her to the United States, and that’s why she was always looking over her shoulder.
Of course it was more likely that Thuma was always looking over her shoulder merely to make sure that the dry-cleaning steamer wasn’t overheating.
But Holly couldn’t help it: she had a vivid imagination and adored mystery and romance, especially when combined. Which was why the job at The Secret Closet was so perfect for her.
She pitied Thuma’s customers though. She knew everything about them: who was cheating, drinking too much, who overate, who was changing jobs, who was going broke and who was doing drugs – and was able to derive all this from the smell and spills found on their jackets and dresses, by the labels they wore and the forgotten notes and bank receipts they left crumpled in pockets.
Thuma huffily gotoff her stool and smoothed her hands over the clothes Holly had brought in. ‘Mmm, nice. Did Mata Hari die?’
Holly laughed. ‘I suppose they are a little gaudy.’
‘You think?’ Thuma pulled out one of the gold blouses. ‘This will be no small feat. See how thin it’s got?’ She put her hand under the vintage blouse, and studied it through the worn lamé.
‘Maybe it’s so worn because the owner was a high-priced hooker?’ Holly ventured.
Thuma leaned towards the blouse and gave it a hearty sniff. She was the only person Holly knew who was obsessed with the history of clothing as much as she herself was.
‘Smell it,’ Thuma demanded, shaking it under Holly’s nose. She complied, unsure about what Thuma wanted her to see, or rather smell.
She inhaled. ‘OK … perfume, roses, and … bergamot maybe?’
‘Yes, that’s no hooker perfume: that is prim lady with money and arthritis.’ Thuma held the blouse up and eyed it sadly. ‘Poor lady, maybe she thought it would make her feel young.’
