Page 1 of Tender Offer
Chapter 1
Madison
Fifteen Years Ago
Could this day get any worse?
The answer is a group of tourists stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures of a window display.
My silver sandals dig into my heels as I skid in a last-minute attempt not to pummel a grandmother in awe of a mannequin. I narrowly dodge the older woman with gunmetal curls and a disposable camera pressed to her cheek, but I collide with a bony shoulder.
“Désolé!” I shout to the tall brunette. Then I suck in a labored breath and speed walk into a swarm of people on Boulevard Haussmann who are moving at a snail’s pace.
Of all the days.
The sun reaches over the buildings lining the street to wet my brow. I’m a mess of sweat and frustration.
A wrong-way ride on the Paris Métro put me four extra stops away from the Galeries Lafayette and a fashion show starting in three minutes. The Friday event speaks to my love languages: couture and free.
I have $600 of available credit, and it has to last the next two months. My part-time internship won’t pay much, but it will give me some wiggle room to tour the area and afford the occasional meal I don’t whip up in my tiny apartment kitchen. A croissant is a treat I can barely afford, not without worrying if it will blow my budget, but today it was a must for the metro ride. I had to make it here on time after skipping lunch.
Me and my hunger are arriving fashionably late.
A gap between a man draped in an untailored suit and a woman in a sundress appears in time for me to push through one of the many glass doors and into the historic department store. I stumble inside and gasp.
Wow.
The Galeries Lafayette could fit every Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade attendee under its glass dome. Visiting New York City is still on my wish list, but I imagine nothing compares to a building this size. It’s the love child of the Colosseum and the Marigny Opera House. I’ve never seen anything like it. The grandeur. The luxury.
With a tug to the strap of my powder-blue satchel, I step further into the temple dedicated to style and high-end living.
You need to move if you want to make it.
A swarm of shoppers pours out of elevators—surely it’s a fire hazard. The sweeping staircase is another no-go unless I hike up my skirt and sprint to the fourth floor. How does Sarah Jessica Parker skip across Manhattan in Manolos and still look cute?
I’m in a Carrie outfit now, one of many affordable knock-offs I curated for this trip. Thrift store finds and visits to Wet Seal and Charlotte Russe in Baton Rouge on weekends I could borrow thecar went a long way. My blush tulle skirt channelsSex and the Cityfor the affordable price of $9.99. What few designer pieces I do have are from clients who wanted to toss them in the trash. Thetrash.
One of these days, I’ll have money to spend on labels and not live a life of hand-me-downs. Living in my sister Dominique’s shadow was stuffy enough without having to wear the bland clothes she called “fashion.” You’d be surprised at how many drugstore shelves you’d have to stock to afford Revlon and slip dresses.
I did it for years, and I’m not going back. For now, I’ll fake it until I make it.
Mama taught me how to use a needle and thread at an early age, and that’s come in handy as a stylist. I’ve worked hard over these last two years to make a name for myself. It’s why events like this fashion show are important.
If only I wasn’t so late.
I peek at my watch again and sigh. What’s the point?
Rushing to one of the busiest shopping destinations on a Friday afternoon wasn’t smart. But I didn’t put on these Payless shoes for nothing.
Window shopping and sampling perfume that costs more than a semester of college threads the hours together. Three pass in a blur, lifting the sun from the center of the all-seeing dome through a kaleidoscope of colors. I still have a few hours until it’s too dark to read street signs. My glasses are back in my apartment, and I forgot to pack my contacts.
I leave the Galeries Lafayette as I came: tired, a bit blind, and clinging to the hope that something will work out.
It’s too late to join Tammi, my roommate for this trip, and the other study abroad students. A tour of Paris on a multicolored double-decker bus is not my idea of a fun Friday night, but it was a gamble to skip it for a twenty-minute fashion show. Clearly, the risk didn’t pay off.
The walk back to my apartment’s stocked refrigerator will sacrifice my feet. These heels were comfortable hours ago, but now they’re running on fumes and half a prayer. That leaves spending money on a dinner that will cost a week’s worth of meals.
Paris’s ninth arrondissement is a medley of buildings spanning long, angled streets. It has a mix of department stores, museums, and banks. Not to mention Palais Garnier, the historic opera house. Nothing that regal was ever in the cards or my family’s bank account growing up. Still, I remember reading about it inThe Phantom of the Opera. I lived two hours from New Orleans and dreamed of attending a fancy opera in a custom gown with glittering diamonds coating my neck. That bubble burst, and so will the blisters prickling the bottoms of my feet if I don’t find a place to sit soon.
