Marta waved me over to the back, where the shopgirl had a mountain of clothes heaped over her arms. At first I thought they were meant for Marta, but she ushered me into a dressing room and hooked all of the hangers on the rod inside.
“I…I just need a coat,” I stammered to Marta. She had picked out dress after dress, blouses and skirts that seemed lovely but not at all meant for cold weather.
“First we need to dress you properly,” Marta said. “Then we can worry about coats to match.”
Her tone was so commanding that I couldn’t disobey. I began trying on clothes, one by one. After I came out to model the first dress that fit, Marta conversed with the shopgirl in Hungarian. The girl listened, nodded, and sped out the door as quick as could be. Marta asked the other girl to find me dresses in different sizes if they didn’t fit, and together they admired me in the mirror, pinching the fabric up one way or the other and chattering in Hungarian rapidly. I felt like a zoo exhibit. A pampered, classy zoo exhibit.
The first shopgirl came back with a bag that turned out to be filled with bras and panties. Marta laughed at my red face when the shopgirl brought out the underwear.
“Don’t worry, I will come with you to try these on privately,” Marta said. I thought her definition of private was a little off, but I tried to refuse and she just clucked at me. “To be beautiful outside, you must be beautiful inside,” she said. “And that includes underwear.”
I had to admit, once we found a bra that fit me comfortably, every dress I put on looked better. Marta gushed over some outfits and pooh-poohed others, without any rhyme or reason that I could tell. All of the clothes seemed beautiful and well-made. We tried on shoes, dresses, skirts, and every time Marta wanted something that the store did not have, the shopgirl ran out to the street and came back with it.
One dress in particular stuck out to me as lovely, a light violet satin that flowed over my curves, accentuating my hips. I thought it was a little low-cut, but when I came out with it on, Marta’s eyes shone in delight.
“You are beautiful,” she said. “Magnificent! Don’t you think so?”
The shopgirls nodded in brisk agreement as I turned in the mirror. I smiled as the delicate fabric swished around my ankles.
The pile of clothes Marta had approved was quickly rung up, folded, and placed into golden paper shopping bags. Marta insisted that I buy six sets of the underwear that had fit me, “in different colors, just in case,” as well as two beautiful wool coats in red and black. I began to protest the cost, but Marta pulled out a card from her small purse and charged it without a second thought. I thanked her profusely, but she waved it away with her hand.
“Of course,” she said. “Anything for Eliot. A few clothes is far less than his proper due.”
“Due?”
“Otto and I owe him a great debt. But that’s another story for another day.”
Anxious though I was to hear any scrap of information about Eliot, I let the subject go and happily suited up in wool stockings and a dress under the demure black coat. The wool stockings kept my legs surprisingly warm, and the black leather heeled boots made every step comfortable, despite the heels being higher than what I normally wore. Marta looked me over once, her fingers brushing my hair down, before hooking her arm through mine to leave the shop.
“Perfect,” she said. “And just in time for lunch!”
If the clothes cost more than I had spent in my lifetime, the lunch was just as extravagant. Marta took me to a charming bistro at the heart of the city, again leaving her car double parked on the road. Marta saw my embarrassed look back at the car, and laughed at me as we entered the cafe and sat at one of the front tables.
“You are just as proper about cars as Eliot,” she said.
I struck upon the opportunity. I wanted to know more about Eliot, and his brother’s sister seemed to know everything.
“Why is he proper about cars?” I asked.
“Well, you know…” she said, the smile fading from her face into a look of pity. “His wife.”
My heart sank in my chest, and I tried to hide my expression of disbelief. The world around me seemed to dim and blur, and I could hear my blood pounding in my veins. Sweat beaded under the collar of my coat. I couldn’t breathe.
“He— he has a wife?”
“Oh, he didn’t tell you about her?” Marta sipped a lemon water, her focus drifting over to the waiter. A shock of tears rose up behind my eyes and I looked away, out toward the street, where dozens of people passed by, completely unaware that my heart was breaking. I berated myself for wanting, for hoping. Of course everyone would have thought I was his mistress. And I might have become one, unwittingly. My being went numb with terror at the thought.