Page 21 of Things We Tell Ourselves

A young woman in a black dress opens the door for Camille before she can reach out for the handle. “Good morning. Can I get your name, please?”

“Camille Lee.”

The woman steps back, opening the door wider. “Welcome to Harper Exclusive,” she says, waving Camille inside. “Ms. Ortego is waiting for you straight back.”

“Thank you.” She slows as she walks inside. This isn’t like any boutique she’s seen before. Racks of clothes on wheels are organized not in groups of one style in multiple sizes but various styles grouped by colors. Neutral color racks are at the front of the shop. The further she goes, the brighter, more vibrant the racks of clothing become. Their options range from relaxed, everyday wear to items suitable for an award ceremony. She even sees beachwear tucked at the end of a few racks. Her hand goes out absentmindedly to sweep over the fluffed-up feathered dress hanging on the deep red rack. She wants to take it from the rack and find out what it feels like on. No, I am here for business attire, not to play dress-up.

She follows the sound of voices to the back, where a podium sits in front of three mirrors between two dressing room corridors, the perfect vantage point to admire an outfit from all angles.

Facing the mirrors and podium is a plush white loveseat. On a delicate end table sits a silver tray with two empty glass flutes. The racks of clothes block the view of the podium, mirrors, and dressing rooms from the front of the store.

A tall woman walks out from a dressing room, talking to the woman behind her wearing a similar black dress to the woman who greeted Camille.

“I want all of the options to be comfortable and attractive. None of that frumpy stuff Apple Spelling just released in her latest collectors’ line. That was a disaster,” she tells the young saleswoman. The taller woman turns around, causing Camille to do a double take.

“Yes, Ms. Ortego,” the woman in black says, smiling serenely. Both of the women stop as soon as they notice Camille.

“Nancy.” It’s the tall friend of Leah’s who was walking out when Camille arrived.

Nancy gives her a smooth grin, her strong jaw looking more sculpted in the daylight. “You’re right on time.” Nancy glances down at the sleeves of her soft pink blazer, tugging on the rolled-up sleeves. “I’ve already picked out a few pieces for you to try on.”

She’s dressed in all black except for her pink blazer. Despite the color, the blazer’s hard lines and inability to give her the appearance of having curves give her an overall masculine feel that Camille hadn’t noticed last night.

“When Leah called me this morning, telling me that she wasn’t feeling up to par, I knew I couldn’t let you shop alone.” Nancy looks over at the sales associate, who is watching them both intently. “Give us a moment, would you, dear?”

“Of course,” the woman nods. “Would either of you care for a glass of champagne?”

Camille looks to Nancy, raising her eyebrows in silent excitement.

Nancy grins at the saleswoman. “We would.”

Nancy walks up to Camille’s side, wrapping her long arm around Camille’s shoulders, pulling her close as the saleswoman grabs the silver tray from the end table and hurries off. “I couldn’t leave you alone with these vultures. They have taste, yes, but they like to sell new clients those over-the-top Balenciaga pieces that make me cringe.” She directs her to the dressing room. “I put my favorite items in front.” Nancy pulls back the heavy beige curtain to reveal a dressing room that could fit ten women inside. A smaller version of the three-way mirror outside is tucked in the corner. The wall has three gold hooks, with the middle hook holding an impressive amount of clothes while the others are bare.

Nancy lets go of Camille’s arm, instructing, “Come out and show me what you try on.”

“Okay,” Camille says, sheepishly eyeing the hook full of clothes.

Nancy pulls the curtain shut behind her. The first outfit is a tapered, high-waisted, light brown capri that she doesn’t realize is leather until she touches it. She frowns and moves the leather capris to the left hook to try on. Leather in Los Angeles heat is the last thing she would pick out for herself. Just behind the capris is a black, fitted, three-quarter-length top with a neckline somewhere between a turtleneck and a crewneck. She steps out of her clothes. Camille hears the curtain pull back behind her as she pulls the shirt over her head.

“Hold on,” she calls frantically, popping her head through the neckline as she self-consciously tries to conceal herself. She’s wearing her favorite thong, meaning anyone walking into the dressing room has a clear view of her butt, the least favorite part of her body.

“It’s just me with the champagne,” the saleswoman coos, moving into the dressing room, careful to shut the curtain behind her. She gives Camille an unabashed glance, seeing her in the middle of dressing, and then carefully sets the silver tray down. “Allow me,” she says, moving quickly to the pants still clamped on their hanger.

“You don’t have to—” Camille begins, but it’s all for not. In the blink of an eye, the woman has the leather capris off the hook, unbuttoning them in quick repetition. “Thanks,” she murmurs, taking the pants from the saleswoman before she tries to hold them out for her step into. The part of the capris that she imagined would be a zipper is actually four buttons.

The saleswoman steps back, admiring the top. “That Stella fits you perfectly.”

“Thanks,” Camille breathes, hoisting the pants up and over her backside, trying to make it look as effortless as possible. She tucks the shirt in and then starts buttoning, the leather tightening with each button. The woman grabs the champagne flute off the tray as Camille buttons the final one.

“Here you are,” she coos, handing her the flute.

Camille chugs it as if it were her prize for getting into the pants. The attendant steps back so Camille can look at herself.

She steps up to the mirrors. “Okay,” Camille murmurs, looking herself over. The outfit looks good on her, but the bottoms accentuate her rear end. She turns from the mirrors, taking one long swig, finishing off the champagne. She hands the flute to the attendant. “Let’s go show Nancy.”

“Look at you,” Nancy rejoices, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. Another silver tray with a flute rests on the end table where the other attendant is standing, refilling it with more champagne.

They both grin appraisingly. She stops short of the large podium, causing Nancy to tilt her head as she looks her over.

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