I falter for a second. “H-hello,” I say softly and turn my gaze to the clothing — the perfect distraction. Everything is aligned neatly in rows, color coordinated. A few star items are displayed in perfect arrangements against the walls. There are a few more mannequins, flawlessly dressed. The purses are hung together next to the cash register desk. The symmetry and order of items reminds me of my own closet. In another life, Renee and I could probably be great friends — she seems to understand order. I wonder if she gets off on it like I do.
“Feel free to look around,” she says, “and let me know if you need any help.”
“I will,” I say meekly and turn my gaze to a rack of skirts. I flip through them, not quite seeing them. She’s even more beautiful in the flesh. Her voice is deeper, huskier than I would have imagined, and she’s very tall. Probably about five feet nine or so. What do I say to her? I already know everything about her and her family. Does she have any clue what her daughter is up to? Fair enough, Ava is officially an adult now and is free to make her own choices. But an older married man with two kids? Didn’t Renee teach her integrity? Or is Renee as promiscuous as her daughter? I glance in her direction. She is turned away from me. I take the opportunity to study her. She is wearing a short A-line black leather skirt, paired with a fluffy short sleeved white blouse. She wears tall black boots with a low chunky heel. She manages to look both sexy and sweet — a lethal combination.
Yes, she’s definitely promiscuous.
I turn my gaze back to the skirts — the prices are fantastic and the styles are really nice. I like this store. The girls would love it too, although I’m not sure how they would feel about previously worn clothing — I’m a little iffy about it myself. I decide to pick out a few pieces to try on. I might as well kill two birds with one stone.
After extensively perusing the aisles, I finally select four pieces. Linen capris. A frilly polka-dot skirt, a pretty pink top and a pair of stylish skinny jeans, torn at the knees. Trying on clothes will give me an excuse to talk to her. And I also have the clothes in my bag. I will be here for a while.
She’s at the front desk when I walk up to her. She looks up from herGlamourmagazine. “All set? Would you like to try those on?”
I smile. “Yes… and I also have a few items to sell, if you…” I hand her my linen bag. “You might be interested.”
She grins widely. “Of course, we’re always looking for new supply.” She takes the bag off my hands. “I’ll have a quick look-through while you try on your items.” Her hair is so long and beautiful; luscious and thick with golden highlights. I wonder what kind of conditioner she uses. Probably some homemade miracle potion.
“Sounds good.”
I’m struck by her eyes — blue as the sky. Ava has her mother’s eyes. My heart sinks at the thought of the beautiful girl, and visions of her entangled in my husband’s arms.
Renee leads me to one of the two change rooms.
“Thank you,” I say as I close the door. The small room is adorned with a silver framed mirror and a purple velvet chair. I stare at my reflection. I feel plain. Small and insignificant. Odd.
I’ve never adored myself, but I’ve always been in a relatively good place as far as my looks are concerned. I know I’m not exceptionally beautiful like Renee or Ava, but I’m pretty… some might say cute even — pixie-like, quirky.
I usually own it, but today I’m at an all-time low. I shrug out of my blouse and skirt, and find myself in my purple underwear. I look so normal on the outside. But inside, it’s a total utter fucked-up circus. Renee has no idea.
The sight of me in the pretty top and skinny jeans raises my mood — they fit perfectly. I’m keen to try on the skirt and capris. I’m giddy as I slip into the silky fabrics. Suddenly, I’m pretty again — thus is the power of fashion.
As I slip back into my regular clothing, I assess my situation. What am I trying to achieve here? I’m achieving absolutely nothing. Perhaps a little chit-chat. That’s it. If my friends knew what I was up to, they’d ask me what’s the point. They just wouldn’t understand. It’s a compulsion to see further, closer up, an insurmountable curiosity, an itch. I know there is no point.
I decide to buy all the items, and then quickly leave. I’ve come here. I’ve seen her in the flesh. She’s not going to give me the answers I seek. What am I going to say?Hey, by the way. I think your daughter might be having an affair with my husband. Thoughts? Do you have any pertinent information that might possibly help me in my investigation?Of course I’m not going to say that. Especially when I have no proof. I’m not about to act like the crazy woman I really am. I need to move on.
“Any success?” she asks as I make my way to the cash.
“Actually, yes,” I say cheerfully. “Everything fit.”
“That’s great,” she says but her smile fades as she hands me back my linen bag. “Unfortunately, I won’t be be buying your items today. Although, they’re quite nice. They’re not quite what our customer base is looking for.”
Her words vex me. My clothes are not good enough for her, not good enough for her precious customers. For a moment, I have the urge to storm out in a huff. Of course I won’t. I do still want to purchase the items I’ve tried on.
“That’s okay. I understand,” I say.I understand that you’re a stuck-up fashionista. Whatever.
I really don’t know what I was thinking, coming here. Did I think I’d find a clue hidden in the pockets of a jacket? There is no way I can go from here, to becoming BFFs with Renee. Which would be the only way I could get proper information, only if we were close enough pals to share confidences over cocktails or glasses of wine. Buying a skirt at her stupid store will not get me there.
Her fingers dance over the cash register as she inputs my items. “May I take your name and email?” she asks kindly. “It’s for our mailing list.”
My pulse quickens. “Uh… no, it’s okay.”
She cocks a brow. “Are you sure? I can email you info about special sales and discounts.”
I’ve never been good under pressure and don’t want to appear conspicuous. “Uh… My name is… Lara Smith.” My heart is frantic now — I hate lying. “Uh… my email is [email protected]," I say, making it up on the spot.
She clicks in the info and then smiles. “How would you like to pay?”
“Uh… cash.” I nervously dig into my Nine West bag and fish out my wallet.Yes, definitely cash.
