CHAPTER ONE
Marley
When Marley Kamal was a young girl imagining her future, she pictured fabulousness. Gorgeous clothes, tons of friends, and the most glamorous job in the fashion industry. She wasn’t too upset that reality came nowhere near those lofty expectations, since as an adult she discovered thatpeoplingwasn’t all it was cracked up to be, anyway. But she was surprised so much of her adult life would be focused onbreasts.
Talking about breasts. Looking at breasts. Worrying about breasts. Andcorrallingbreasts was the most challenging of all.
“I need my boobs to sit here!” said Angel Durand, Marley’s customer in fitting room one, with her thick French-Canadian accent. “Center ice! Maybe blue line! Not end zone!” Angel was currently topless with a black vegan-leather jumpsuit unzipped and hanging at her waist, and her long, nude nails were indenting dimples into her ample breast flesh. Marley was skeptical that Angel’s bosom hadeverseen that particular gravity-defying resting place since puberty, but Marley had been selling dreams, aspirations, and illusions—otherwise known as luxury fashion—for almost a decade now. She knew how to make the customer happy.
Marley tilted her head with feigned sympathy. “We can try adhesive supports again. We just got a new line—”
Angel made a face of disgust. “Absolutely not. My nipples were onfirethe last time I wore pasties. Pink nipples are fine, but mine looked like maraschino cherries!”
Great. The last thing Marley needed now was the painful image of cherry-red nipples in her brain. “I think that jumpsuit might be challenging without shoulder support. Maybe something with transparent straps?”
At that, Angel whipped a strapless underwire bra at Marley’s head. Thankfully, ten years of working with spoiled sports wives had given Marley reflexes as impressive as those of Angel’s hockey defenseman husband.
“I want my boobs to be like yours!” Angel’s hands reached out, ready to grab Marley’s own breasts in her slim white blouse, but again, Marley’s quick reflexes got her out of the way before contact was made.
“I’ll see what I can find,” Marley said, closing the fitting room door. She plucked the expensive bra off the floor. If Angel knew a thing about Marley’s breasts, she wouldn’t want them. Even if they were full and round, no one would want breasts that were silently plotting to kill their owner. Which was why Marley’s breasts were going to be ousted from her body very soon.
Marley twisted the ring on her index finger, reminding herself she was almost done for the day. It had taken six years at this job, but she was officially burnt out from working on the selling floor and dealing with invasive comments and abrasive customers.
She checked on her other customer in the fitting rooms, Paris Mousavi. “How are you feeling in that Armani?”
“It’s too big,” Paris said. “I look like an overcooked eggplant. Icannotbe seen in court like this.” Lawyers in Ontariowore robes in court, so no one would be seeing Paris in the eggplant-esque suit in the courtroom. And the suit fit fine, anyway.
Marley smiled sympathetically. “These Armani suits are not meant to be worn off the rack—they always need tailoring. I’ll send someone up.”
Marley left the ladieswear fitting rooms, her black patent stiletto heels echoing over the marble floor of Reid’s Department Store, and headed toward lingerie while calling alterations to send someone to Paris.
Tova, another sales consultant, caught up with her as she hung up her phone. “Did Angel Durand really tweak your nipples in the fitting room?”
“Of course not,” Marley said. “Angel is lovely.” She knew Tova was waiting in the wings to steal the customer out from under Marley the moment she disclosed that things weren’t rosy in the salesperson-customer relationship.
“Oh god,” Tova said, looking toward the customer service desk. “I’m pretty sure Aubrey Ashton got implants while she was on vacation in Mexico.”
Marley’s head shot to Tova. Aubrey was a sales associate in the store, not a customer. It was highly inappropriate to be discussing the body of a coworker like that. Also… Aubrey didn’t have implants, did she?
“I can smell the silicone a mile away,” Tova said. “Highly suspicious that her Insta didn’t have any beach pictures in Cancún.”
Marley took a quick right and straightened the YSL blouses on a rack, mostly to ditch Tova. She really disliked her. Actually, Marley was at the point where she didn’t like most of the people who worked on Reid’s selling floor. Bunch of snootyvultures. Marley was one of the biggest sellers in the store, which meant most other consultants frothed at the thought of dethroning her.
Ruby Dhanjee was working at the lingerie counter. She was Marley’s cousin and easily her favorite person at the store. Ruby had just returned to town six months ago after years away, and Marley had referred her for the position at Reid’s.
Marley gave Ruby a pleading look. “Please tell me you have a bra in a 42G that won’t show under the Alice and Olivia jumpsuit.”
Ruby shook her head. “Impossible. That’s backless and strapless. Why don’t you show her some other jumpsuits? The green Stella McCartney one or the Vivienne Westwood.”
Marley chuckled at Ruby’s suggestion. “You know we do carry lines that aren’t from the UK, right?” Ruby was obsessed with anything from England. Except colonialism, of course.
“I’d put her in Halston,” Tova said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.
“Tova,” Ruby said sweetly, “there’s a woman over there looking at formal dresses.”
“On it,” Tova said, rushing away. She didn’t even thank Ruby for giving her the customer. Marley raised a brow once Tova was gone. Was Ruby handing Tova commissions now?
Ruby snorted. “I saw the girl looking up each dress on her phone on a designer dupes site. She’s not going to buy anything. Erin Prichard was just here with a message for you.” Ruby put on a fake British accent. “Her Excellency has requested your presence in the personal shopping suite at five o’clock sharp.”
