“Of course. And would you like to try these as well?”
“Yes. No. Actually, would you have this blouse in a paler pink, please? I love the little bow at the neck.”
“I may have one out the back. Shall I go check?”
“Please.”
I watch the man get out of the car. He’s tall, in long gray trousers, a tailored navy jacket with brass buttons, and a gray-blue tie. Better and better. My pulse jumps. A man who knows how to dress is rare in this world. Perhaps he has a club and visits frequently. Perhaps he owns a club. Or two.
Maybe uptown is full of tall, eligible men. Regrettably, he disappears into one of the coffee shops. Still, if I’m quick with the gown, I might catch him when he emerges. I zoom towards the changeroom and am out of my clothes and shoes in moments.
The emerald gown is a dream; the satin silk slides over my skin like a waterfall. And the color and fit are perfect. I whip back the curtain and stride towards the door, the fabric whispering around my ankles.
Jill runs after me.
“Oh there you are, Jill,” I say. “Would you help me with this zipper, please?”
Up goes the zipper, and the fabric snugs against my waist and settles in a heavy swish, as if it’s alive and begging me for the last, treasured dance with the king of the prom. Perfection. This dress belongs with glass slippers, at a ball.
“I love it! I love your boutique! Would you have some high heels I could try it with? I only ever shop in my flats.”
“Of course.”
Jill disappears again as I back up, twisting and peering at myself in the mirror between the racks. The back of the dress is divine, with a v-line so deep and wide it shows off my shoulder blades. There’s much to be said for our backs – covered and invisible for most of our lives. As long as we remain upright, the back divulges few clues to the actual state of our front.
I begin to laugh at my own joke when – smack! I’m staggering, tripping on the hem of the gown. I grasp at space to avoid falling, and find warmth, fine linen and, beneath it, a firm physique. Mint. Spice. Definitely not Jill.
Blue sports jacket, white shirt, gray tie. It’s him! An apologetic smile; a smile of concern, of interest. A strong, steadying hand on my upper arm, and then at my waist. Heaven. It’s been a while.
“I’m sorry,” the man says, regrettably removing his hand and stepping backwards. It’s him; the man with the red convertible, the appreciator of art. Be still, my heart! “The coffees. The dress. No. Have I burned you?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
Burned me with his hand, yes, but most of the coffee is on the long hem and Jill’s polished floor boards.
“Oh Dirk!”
“Jill,” he says. “Sorry. Slammed right into your customer here. And the dress. I’ll make it up to you. To both of you.” As his glance finds my face, I rearrange it. Joyous pleasure is probably inappropriate. I clap my fingers to my smile, then slowly let them drop.
I remember this silence. Dirk’s eyes linger, on the curve of my cheek, my neck and decolletage and up to my lips and briefly, not too briefly, on my eyes. His are gray with blue flecks – shocked. Interested. They duck away, down to the spreading darkness on the fabric, and back to my waist.
I turn to Jill, treating the stranger to a glimpse of the extravagant scoop of back, so perfectly framed in this gown. It’s my best side, at least in this exquisite dress.
“Magnificent,” he says. “Devastated.”
I study him. His comment is general, about the gown, not me, but the words are thrilling.
Jill, one high heel dangling from each hand, shakes her head slowly.
“I meant well, Jill,” he says. “I brought you coffee.”
“Thank you, Dirk.”
Oh. Perhaps they’re married. Maybe he owns the shop. I clear my throat.
“Would you undo the zip for me, please, ah ... Dirk? I’m Lucy, by the way. Lucy Beston.”
“Of course, Lucy,” he said. “Anything.”
