Mrs. Erickson was right. Monsieur Henri knows his stuff. I could learn a lot from him—not just about sewing, either, but about running a successful business.
Too bad Madame Henri is such a—
“This is a very stressful job,” Monsieur Henri goes on. “The women who come to us… to them, this is the most important day of their lives. Their gown must be absolutely perfect, and yet delivered on time.”
“I’m a total perfectionist myself,” I say. “I’ve stayed up all night to finish gowns when I didn’t even have to.”
Monsieur Henri doesn’t even appear to be listening. “Our clients can be very demanding. One day they want one thing. The next day, something else—”
“I’m completely flexible,” I say. “And I’m also very good with people. You might even say I’m a people person.” Oh, God. Did I just say that? “But I would never let a client pick something that isn’t flattering.”
“This is a family-run business,” Monsieur Henri says with sudden—and alarming—finality, closing my portfolio with a loud snap. “I am not looking to hire outsiders.”
“But—” No. He is not turning me away. I have to know how he made those ruffles. “I know I’m not family. But I’m good. And what I don’t know—I’m a very quick learner.”
“Non,”Monsieur Henri says. “It is no use. I built this business for my sons—”
“Who want nothing to do with it,” his wife says bitterly in French. “You know that, Jean. All those lazy pigs want to do is go to the discotheque.”
Hmmm. Her own sons are pigs, too? Also… discotheque?
“—and I do all my own work,” Monsieur Henri continues loftily.
“Right,” Madame Henri snorts. “That’s why you have no time for me anymore. Or your sons. They run so wild because you are always here at the shop. And what about your heart? The doctor said you’ve got to reduce your stress levels, or you’ll have a stroke. You keep saying you want to work less, leave the shop to someone else to run sometimes, so we can spend more time in Provence. But do you do anything about this? Of course not.”
“I live right around the corner,” I say, trying not to let them catch on that I understand every word they’re saying. “I can be here whenever you want me. If, you know, you want to spend more time with your family.”
Madame Henri’s gaze locks onto mine. “Perhaps,” she murmurs, in her native tongue, “she is not so stupid after all.”
“Please,” I say, fighting down an urge to yell,If I’m so stupid, would I be living on Fifth Avenue? Because, of course, people who judge you by what avenue you live on are stupid. “Your gowns are so beautiful. I want to open a shop of my own someday. So it only makes sense that I’d want to learn from the best. And I have references. You can call the manager of the last shop I worked in—”
“Non,”Monsieur Henri says. “Non,I am not interested.”
And he shoves my résumé back at me.
“Who’s stupid now?” his wife demands tartly.
But Monsieur Henri—perhaps because he’s seen the tears that have suddenly sprung up in my eyes… which, I know. Crying! At a job interview!—seems to soften.
“Mademoiselle,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “It is not that I don’t think you have talent. It is that we are a very small shop. And my sons, they are in college now. This is very expensive. I cannot afford to pay another person.”
And then I hear four words come trickling out of my mouth—like spit does, while I sleep—that I never in a million years would have guessed I’d ever say. And immediately after I’ve spoken, I want to shoot myself. But it’s too late. They’re already out there.
“I’ll work for free.”
God! No! What am I saying?
Except that it’s seemed to work. Monsieur Henri looks intrigued. And his wife is smiling as if she’s just won the lottery or something.
“An internship, you mean?” Monsieur Henri lowers his bifocals to look at me more closely.
“I… I… ” Oh God. How am I going to get out of this one? Especially since I’m not even sure I want to. “I guess so. And then when you see how hard I work, maybe you could consider promoting me to a paid position.”
Okay. There, that sounds better. That’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll work like a dog for him, make myself indispensable. And then, when he can’t do without me, I’ll threaten to walk away unless he pays me.
I’m pretty sure this is not the most effective strategy for getting a job. But it’s the only one I’ve got at the moment.
“Done,” Monsieur Henri says. Then he whips off his bifocals and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Welcome.”
“Um.” I slip my hand in his, feeling all the calluses on his fingers and palm. “Thanks.”
About which Madame Henri observes in smug French, “Ha! She really is stupid after all!”
Know your…
Wedding-gown train lengths!
The three basic wedding-dress train lengths are:
The Sweep Length Barely touches the floor
The Chapel Length Trails on the floor about four feet out from the dress
The Cathedral Length Trails six feet out from the dress (or more… but only if you’re royalty!)
LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™
Chapter 7
The best way to keep one’s word is not to give it.
—Napoleon I (1769–1821), French emperor
I’m crying as I measure.
I can’t help it. I’m just so screwed.
And it’s not like I know anyone is home.
So when Chaz comes out of his bedroom, holding a tattered paperback and looking sleepy, and goes, “Holy Christ, what are you doing here?” I let out this little shriek and fall over, sending the measuring tape flying.
“Are you all right?” Chaz reaches for my arm, but it’s too late. I’m already flat on my butt on his living room floor.
I blame the sloping parquet. I really do.
“No,” I sob. “No, I’m not all right.”
“What’s wrong?” Chaz isn’t quite laughing. But there is a definite upward curl to the corners of his lips.
“It’s not funny,” I say. Life in Manhattan has completely robbed me of my sense of humor. Oh, sure, it’s all fine and good when Luke and I are in bed together, or curled up on his mom’s couch, watching Pants Off/Dance Off on her plasma screen (artfully hidden from view beneath a genuine sixteenth-century tapestry depicting a lovely pastoral scene when not in use).
But the minute he walks out the door to go to class—which is basically from nine to five every weekday—and I’m left on my own, all of my insecurities come rushing back, and I realize that I’m as close to striking out in Manhattan as Kathy Pennebaker did. The only difference between us, really, is that I don’t have a personality disorder.
That’s been clinically diagnosed, anyway.
“Sorry,” Chaz says. He’s trying not to smile as he looks down at me. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing sneaking into my apartment in the middle of the afternoon? Luke won’t let you cry in his mom’s place, or something?”
“No.” I stay where I am on the floor. It feels good to cry. Also, Shari and Chaz keep the place pretty clean, so it’s not like I’m worried about getting my dress dirty or anything. “Shari gave me your spare key so I could come in and measure for the slipcovers and curtains I’m making you.”
“You’re making us slipcovers and curtains?” Chaz looks pleased. “Cool.” He stops looking pleased when I keep on crying. “Or maybe not cool. If it’s making you cry.”
“I’m not crying because of the slipcovers,” I say, reaching to dab at my eyes with the backs of my wrist. “I’m crying because I’m such a loser.”