Page 101 of The Unraveling

She gives me the tiniest, microscopic flick of judgment, then says, “Right this way.”

It was like the famous Pretty Woman moment, only a microaggression.

She leads me to double doors with frosted glass. She gestures at them with a small bow, and then walks away.

Okay then, I guess I’m on my own.

I knock.

No one answers. I knock again.

Nothing.

I can hear distant voices on the other side of the door. I glance at my phone. It’s six now, and I don’t want to be thought of as late.

I push the doors open.

There’s a small, elegant waiting area. Cream chairs and a glass coffee table. Silk wallpaper. Wooden molding on a low ceiling. An intricate chandelier.

“Um…hello?” I call out, once in.

I hear a woman laugh, and then, in a strong French accent, “This way, this way!”

I round a corner, then walk down a short hallway and through an open set of glass doors.

I can hear the woman’s voice speaking in French, but I can’t see where she is. It’s a round room with mirrors and racks of clothing. Beautiful dresses with long hemlines or tight waists and puffy skirts. There are thick coats with beautiful stitching. Silky blouses and camisoles as light as air.

I let my hand run gently over the materials.

This is the kind of thing that literally filled my dreams when I was a kid. I would fall asleep on a creaking mattress with four fans blowing on me, hot without air-conditioning. I would escape on fictional journeys, imagining myself in dreamlands of shopping, vacationing, being in beautiful places. I dreamed of tulle tutu-like dresses—and sky-high heels. I wanted to be a beautiful ballerina with a gorgeous life.

Right now, that’s what it feels like I am.

There is a velvet couch in the center of the room, and on the table in front of it, an ice bucket chilling a bottle of a champagne called Agrapart & Fils. I’ve never had it, but as my heart floats to the top of my chest, I realize I’ll probably be given a glass any moment.

The woman comes out from behind a rack, scaring the shit out of me.

“Jesus!” I say by accident, eliminating any sophistication that I might have briefly appeared to have.

“Jocelyn! I am Laura, your personal shopper.”

She’s a petite brunette with a messy bob and the sort of messed-up teeth that somehow look glamorous on the right kind of chic European.

“My…? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

I think I might. I think I might understand that this shopping extravaganza is about me, but I want to be sure.

“I wasn’t sure of your taste, but Alistair said ballerina chic and that you are tiny tiny. And you are! Look at you, I definitely guessed right for the size on most of the items.”

“Wait, are you saying…is this for me?” Then, dumbly, “Doesn’t the store close soon?”

“Oh my gosh, yes! Of course it is for you. Ah, did I ruin the surprise? I’m sorry about this, dear. For the Cavendishes, we keep the store open late.”

Of course they do. I kind of can’t believe I asked. I’m really making myself sound like a rube. Next, I’m going to ask if there’s a charge for bags.

I look around, trying to take it all in.

My eyes stop on one of the racks I didn’t notice before. Lingerie.

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