This job would not only have finally given me entry into the fashion scene, and given my parents long overdue bragging rights, it would have solved all my money problems. Not overnight, but I would have been able to comfortably pay my bills and put away a little money in savings every month. And now, thanks to that cab-stealing weasel, I’ve got about as much chance of landing this position as I do of growing a third boob.
The door to the office swings open, and Thérèse steps out, along with the third interviewee.
“I want to thank you for coming today,” she says. “You all are excellent candidates.” She’s not making eye contact with me. “As you know, this is a very competitive position. We’ll review your applications and contact you all by the end of the week.”
My stomach squeezes in on itself, and I blink away hot tears of humiliation. She’s not even going to interview me.
The other three exchange quick smirking glances, shooting me scornful side-eye looks. They smile as they stand up and shake her hand, one by one. I hang back, marinating in shame, and wipe my hand on my sweaty dress before I go in for a quick, damp handshake. She grimaces before accepting my hand, and drops it quickly.
“Well! Good luck with all your endeavors.” She says with a small, brittle smile. She walks us down the hall towards the elevators. She probably wants to make sure I’m really leaving.
The other three file into the elevator, chatting with each other and shooting amused glances in my direction.
It’s the death of my dream. I know that, but I can’t let it end like this. I step back and let the elevator door shut. Thérèse looks at me warily.
“I know I don’t have the job,” I blurt. She cocks her head to the side with a blank look on her face and doesn’t contradict me. “I completely understand. I just wanted to apologize for being late, and for my appearance. I didn’t show up here looking like this because I don’t care. I do care. I love coming to Hudson’s. I’ve been coming here since I was six to look at the Christmas displays. My parents used to take me to New York every Christmas and we’d come here as a treat, until…” I trail off. Until my mom got sick and we had no money for anything.
“Anyway. I woke up early, and I even arranged for a cab so I could make sure I’d get here on time and not wrinkle up my outfit on the subway. Unfortunately, my taxi was stolen by an insufferably arrogant jerk in a fancy suit, and what with rush hour, I couldn’t find another one. I ran the whole way here. Twenty blocks.” I gesture at my outfit, making a wry face. “You can see the results. But I know I made a terrible first impression, and I am sorry for that.”
Her eyes shine in unexpected sympathy. “I understand. We all have bad days. And I hate men like that. New York has too many of them.” She says it with a particular vehemence, as if she’s encountered more than a few. Or as if she’s thinking of one in particular.
I nod. “You know, Hell’s Kitchen doesn’t usually attract that type. But this guy has been hanging around there for the past few weeks for some construction project, and this morning he actually cut in line at the coffee cart, and then he grabbed my cab. I was standing there yelling ‘That’s my cab!’ and he just threw a whole bunch of money at me…well, at my doorman, to give to me. And he got in the cab and left.” I mutter under my breath “Dove-Gray-Dickweasel.”
Apparently I didn’t mutter quietly enough.
“Your cab was stolen by an arrogant ass of a man in Hell’s Kitchen, this morning? A man who patronizingly bestowed money on you like a knight tossing coins at a peasant? A man in a dove gray suit?” For some reason, she’s staring over my shoulder as she says it. “Excellent observation, by the way. It shows your eye for garment colors. Not merely gray, but dove gray. I assume you would know the difference between that, and charcoal, and smoke?”
“Of course. Also silver gray, pewter gray, taupe gray, stormy gray, Payne’s gray, gunmetal gray, and heather gray.” I recite the colors enthusiastically. Don’t get me started on color theory…whoops, too late. “Wearing dove gray is a bold choice, because it’s a light gray, and darker grays are perceived as more authoritative. The choice of dove gray indicates that the man wearing it is either somewhat submissive and wants to fade into the background, or he’s extremely confident to the point where he transcends traditional color choices.” I turn around to see what she’s staring at. At the same moment, a faint, familiar hint of old-lady perfume drifts my way.
Standing down the hallway, crouching down to hug a little girl, is the cab-stealing bastard who’s ruined my life. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit now, and his hair is slicked back as if he’s just showered. A woman stands next to them, beaming down with a sweet smile. Aside from the smile, she looks like a female version of him. In other words, she’s dark haired, gorgeous, and effortlessly chic. She has a different air about her, though. She seems kinder, more serene.
“Are you by any chance the reason he came in here a little while ago smelling like a nineteenth century boudoir?” Thérèse asks. “One of my friends downstairs texted me about it. It was the talk of the store. He apparently mentioned something about a woman jumping into his cab and assaulting him with a perfume bottle. All the girls on the floor secretly applauded – when his back was turned.”
“He’s…” I can’t even finish my sentence. I’ve really put my foot in it now.
“Dove-Gray-Dickweasel.” There’s something particularly shocking about those words coming out of Thérèse’s perfectly glossed pink lips. Her faint French accent lends the word “dickweasel” an amusing air of elegance. “Also known as Blake Hudson, CEO of Hudson’s.”
Argh. I should have known. I did study up on the store when I got the job interview, but that consisted of visiting their website and the store to brush up on their latest lines.
I know that the store was started by Lawrence Hudson in the 1940s. The store has always been a family business. Lawrence left it to his two sons, William and Raymond. There was some kind of massive financial scandal that almost sank the store twenty-two years ago, and then a couple of years after that, Raymond and his wife died in a car crash, leaving behind a young son and teenaged daughter.
I should have done a little more research. If I’d known that my evil nemesis owned this place, there would have been scorch marks burned all the way down Fifth Avenue from me fleeing for my life.
I shake my head in confusion. “I don’t understand. If he’s the CEO of Hudson’s, why has he been coming to Hell’s Kitchen to supervise some construction crew? I heard they were building a restaurant, with offices on the upper floors?”
“He’s helping a friend of his, Nico Rossi. Nico is opening a new restaurant there, and he’s also going to have a café at our popup event. You’ve heard of our Popup Palooza?”
“Oh, my God, yes. It sounds amazing.”
Hudson’s has always been big on what I like to think of as store theatre. Every year, they dream up new ways to lure people through their doors, and the rest of the industry takes notes. They have theatrical window displays, in-store concerts, body-painted models stalking through the aisles, a mini locomotive train running through the children’s department, design-ins with seamstresses in the store windows whipping up elegant creations.