A saleswoman came over to me, her eyes sweeping down the cream-colored dress that I was still wearing. Evaluating me to see if I was worth her time. Her eyes settled on the credit card that I was holding, and I saw one of her eyebrows raise slightly.
“I need an outfit for a business meeting tonight,” I blurted out. “Do you have anything that would work for that?”
“Of course, mademoiselle,” the saleswoman said. “Let’s see what colors suit you.” She snapped her finger, and another woman appeared instantly. She spoke rapidly in French and the other woman disappeared into the back.
“Let’s get you to a dressing room,” the saleswoman said, gesturing inside with a kind smile. It was crazy, how money could buy good service. She sat me down on a white leather sofa and brought me a glass of cucumber lemon water while I was waiting.
The other woman appeared with an armful of skirts, blouses, and dresses. I normally only tried on one or two things before deciding, but the two women coerced me into trying on half of the store, it seemed. I felt like a Barbie doll. They would dress me up, then put on a jacket, then take off the jacket and put on a scarf. Then take off the scarf and try again with another dress.
It was exhausting, but kind of fun. I could see how women could get into the whole shopping thing. And then, just when I thought I was never going to be finished, the saleswoman led me out to the big mirrors and showed me the last outfit she’d decided on.
Wow.
It was a dark red wool suit that fit me perfectly. The pencil skirt curved over my hips and hugged my thighs. The jacket was the same dark red, buttoning at my waist and flaring slightly at my hips. A cream cowl-neck blouse opened up at my collarbone, giving the whole outfit a softer, more feminine look. Dark pantyhose led down to black pumps that were heeled only slightly higher than normal.
I hadn’t ever worn anything like this before, and I certainly wouldn’t have picked it off of a rack.
“The only thing missing is the accessories,” the saleswoman said. “Would you like to see—”
“Oh!” I cried out, digging in my purse. “I have earrings! Only…” I motioned to my ears.
“I see,” the woman said, examining my unpierced ears.
“Do you know where I can get them pierced?” I asked hopefully.
“Wait one moment,” the woman said. She left me in the fitting room. Her assistant brought me a tray of delicate pastries and bonbons while I waited. I tried hard not to eat the entire tray, but each one was more delicious than the next.
Then I heard the door open. A man came in dressed in a suit.
“This is the jeweler,” the saleswoman said, coming out from the back.
“Jeweler?”
The man was already sitting next to me. He pulled out something that looked like a steel needle.
“You wish your ears to be pierced, yes?” he asked me. I nodded, my eyes wide. The saleswoman had called up a personal ear piercer for me! “Where is the earrings?”
I handed over the diamond studs that Jake had given me. He examined them with an approving nod. Then he cupped my ear with one hand. My heart skipped a beat, but before I could prepare myself, he was already at the other ear. The only thing I felt was a slight pinch.
“Here is a cleaning solution,” the man said, standing up and handing me a black pouch. “Make sure you are cleaning the ears every evening and morning.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “Sure.”
He left and the saleswoman rang me up. I looked at myself in the mirror again while she packed up my old dress. The diamond studs shimmered on my ears, the lobes only slightly pinked. And my figure was sleekly curved under the red wool suit. Feminine, but not too feminine. It surprised me how well the outfit suited me. I tossed my hair back and winked at the mirror, feeling much, much better.
There. Perfect. Very professional. And very, very chic.
Les Roses was a wine bar on the rooftop of one of the swank buildings near the Arc de Triomphe. A fancy wine bar. All of the women I saw were in tight cocktail dresses, and the men were all in button up shirts, most wearing jackets.
I stood on tiptoe to see over the row of ferns at the entryway, trying to look into the wine bar to see if Jean-Luc was there waiting for me.
“Can I help you?” One of the waitresses came over to me, immediately switching to English in a haughty tone. Her features were pinched into a polite expression, but I could tell she thought I should be somewhere else. I was an American tourist, I suppose. Even in a chic dress, I stood out like a sore thumb in the sleek crowd of Parisians here to drink expensive wines.
“Hi!” I said, smiling tightly back at her. “I’m here to meet my friend. Jean-Luc?”