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She clasps her hands together. “Excellent.”
“Maybe we should try the dress first?”
“Oh, yes.” She beams. “I’m so happy I found you.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
I show her to the bedroom for privacy to undress, but she shakes her head with a laugh.
“Darling, I’m used to undressing on set.” Shimmying out of her dress, she says, “It’s just a body.”
She has a beautiful one for modeling clothes. I help her into the dress and with the zipper before fastening the necklace, and then scurry to bring the swivel mirror from the dressing room into the lounge. She turns left and right, studying her reflection with a critical expression. I give her a hand mirror to see the effect of the necklace hanging down her back. It looks as if the dress was made for her—because it was. It fits like a glove. I hold my breath until she finally tears her gaze away from the mirror to look at me.
“Zoe.” She pauses dramatically. “I’m buying this.”
My heart almost jumps out of my chest. “But you haven’t even asked the price.”
“I don’t care how much it costs. I have to have it.” She turns sideways and admires her reflection again. “I’ll need shoes, but I have time to shop, and I know exactly the place in Marseille. I’ll have to change the hairdo I had in mind.” She takes up her hair, and then frowns. “I’ll need a bag.”
Having been prepared, I unwrap the tissue paper around the clutch I’ve covered with the same fabric. It’s simple—thin and narrow. “Will this do?”
Her red lips stretch. “You’re a genius.” She takes the bag and poses with it. “I’m going to own that red carpet.”
I have to agree. The dress looks good on her, but most of her presence comes from her attitude. She’s enthusiastic and energetic. It’s hard not to be swept along.
“Shall we try the day dress for the charity event?”
“Let’s,” she says with a wink, turning for me to undo the zipper.
The blue dress needs a minor adjustment. I’ll have to take the hem down a fraction so that it still passes for decent. We agree on the length, and then I let her dress while I carefully package the dress and the necklace.
“Champagne?” I ask as she writes out a cheque.
“Oh, no, but thank you.” She makes a face. “I count every calorie I ingest.”
“The effort shows.”
“Thank you.” She smiles sweetly, giving me the cheque.
We agree on the date the dress will be ready, when she’ll be back in Marseille before heading home. I hand her one of the business cards I’ve designed and ordered online with my logo, website, and contact details. After dumping the box with the clutch and necklace as well as the dress bag in the guard’s arms, she leaves with an air kiss in a faint fog of perfume like a dispersing dream.
I stare at the cheque in my hand to be sure it’s real, but the numbers are there, four zeros that will put Maxime and me out of our credit card debt and relieve most of our pressing financial concerns.
Elation hits me. I walk to the mannequin on a cloud. For a moment, I can only stare at the plastic model and the naked curves that used to be covered in the dress. I look down at my hands. They’re red and my fingertips raw from sewing. My nails are short and torn. These hands aren’t pretty, but they earned every cent I hold between my fingers. There’s joy in that. There’s immense satisfaction in being self-sufficient again, more than I’ve ever been.
Without Maxime, I doubt this would’ve been possible. Without him, I’d still be a seamstress in a sweatshop, battling to make a living. I wouldn’t have been here in France, sewing designs that look like pictures from Madame Page’s instruction manual. I wouldn’t have been so unhappily in love that I’d pour my hours and days into a dress for someone else.
Sitting down on the sofa, I consider the whatifs. Damian would’ve offered me a job, and I wouldn’t have taken it. It’s too important for me to be independent. I would’ve moved someplace better, of that I’m sure, and maybe I would’ve become a seamstress in someone else’s factory, in the workshop of a big, local design brand, but I doubt I would’ve had the courage to do what I’ve done. I would’ve been just me—romantic, frilly, and old-fashioned.
I failed at design school, but maybe the failure wasn’t all a loss. It’s only two dresses. There’s a long road still before I can say I’ve made it, but it’s a start, and a good one. For that, I’m grateful to Maxime, no matter how unorthodoxly it came about.
When Maxime comes home an hour later, I’m still floating in my bubble. Usually, I’d have dinner ready, not because I want to be a good housewife, but because I like to be useful. Tonight, I don’t feel like cooking. We’re not eating pasta. We can order Chinese takeout for a change.
