“Thank you for calling Hargrove’s,” the automated voice on the other end of the call answered. “You’ve reached the Human Resources department. Your call will be answered shortly.”
“Human Resources, this is Joan.”
“Hi, this is Deborah Hansen, I’m looking for LuAnne?”
“What is this regarding?”
“Joshua Cane suggested I give her a call.”
“Oh Joshua!” She said, her voice suddenly friendly. “Yes, right away. One moment please.”
“This is LuAnne,” she said with a twangy accent I couldn’t place. “You’re friends with Josh? How is he? I need to call him.”
“He’s good. He said I should give you a call.”
“Great, what can I help you with?”
“Well I just graduated with a degree in Fashion Design from Canyon Cove University and I was wondering if you have anything open?”
“Everyone at Hargrove’s starts on the selling floor. Are you alright with that?”
“Can I still participate in the Designer Challenge?”
“Of course you can, that’s open to everyone but the deadline is approaching,” she said. “Listen, since I’m in a good mood and you’re friends with Josh, I know of an opening as a tailor in the men’s department. It’s a busy department and while it might not be high on your list, at least its more than just working the floor. Why don’t you come in and I can tell you more about it. Is 10am good?”
“Sounds great. I’ll be there,” I said before hanging up and bouncing happily in my seat. “There you go, Trap! Things are turning around. Maybe now I won’t have to worry about you attacking me in my sleep out of starvation.”
Chapter Three
Deborah
After walking down the inconspicuous path near the parking garage entrance for Hargrove’s, I entered my code into the keypad and entered the building. My first couple of days were mostly orientation and paperwork, but after that I was finally allowed on the floor.
While my title was ‘tailor’, I knew I wasn’t much more than a glorified salesperson. The job definitely had its faults but I kept reassuring myself that it wasn’t a step back, that with the right connections I could get a buyer interested in looking at my designs.
Plus there was the Annual Designer Challenge. Hargrove’s was famous for its window displays along the avenue. At Christmas people would crowd the windows for a glimpse. The contest gave the winning designer a collection display in the window, and for sale in all their stores, plus the chance that Hargrove’s would sponsor the collection at Paris Fashion Week. It was an exciting opportunity and the only reason I took the job.
Walking down the long hall, I looked over my outfit as I did every morning I came to work at Hargrove’s since I started a week ago. Knowing how much I’d be on my feet, I wore a pair of black palazzo pants with an ivory organza blouse with ruffled sleeves and a deep v-neck. Both pieces were made by me. I tried to wear as much of my own designs as possible since I had such a hard time finding clothes that fit me properly, not just because of my shape, but because of my height.
As I walked on the store’s white marble floors towards the men’s department, I could already see last night’s sales team left it a mess. Dianna, the manager who trained me, was already on the floor and putting the clothing back in on hangers or getting them ready for folding. Usually everyone towered over me, but she was just as short and very petite. She reminded me of a china doll with her perfect auburn waves hanging down her back. That is she did until she turned around.
Dianna Brubaker’s facial features were reminiscent of a bird. Her thin, pointed nose, hooked down at the end pointing to an equally pointy chin. Her sharp features were unfortunately accentuated by her fragile frame which she covered up with long flowing skirts and buttoned up tops. Everything combined to make her look much older than her thirty years of age.
The poor girl looked like she could blow over at any second and she regularly complained about it. Dianna ate constantly, always hiding food in the drawers around the register. It was another one of her tirades—no matter how much she ate, she couldn’t gain any weight. I hated her for it. Not that I wanted to be that thin, but I wouldn’t mind not having to consider the size of my ass when I was squeezing into a restaurant booth.
“If you ever leave the department looking like this, I swear I’ll kick your ass,” she said as I approached.
“Hey, I know better. Plus I’d still get stuck having to clean it up,” I said as I started folding a rumpled pile of expensive polo shirts.