Again she laughed gently, patted my arm, then clapped her hands. That was apparently the signal for several of her employees to bring in articles of clothing: a rolling clothes rack full of dresses hanging on a rod, a cart with a small Ferris wheel on top that displayed high heeled pumps in an array of colors each on its own pedestal, and, lastly, a fancy three-tiered, pink draped utility cart full of undergarments from the kind of shops I’d never entered.
It was quite a grand production, and to say that my mouth dropped open with saliva dripping down the sides was so close to reality that I covered my mouth just to make sure that wasn’t the actually happening. It was obvious by the Simone’s presentation and the quality of the items that I wouldn’t be able to afford any of it.
What was Judy thinking? What had she told Simone? Although Judy’s husband paid me well, he hadn’t turned me into a wealthy consumer. This selection would take a whole month’s salary.
I opened my mouth to attempt to explain that to Simone, but as if she sensed my hesitation, she nodded. “You are fortunate that Judy has taken you under her wing for this enterprise. Your clothing allowance is unlimited. We can select whatever is best for you.”
Okay, then my mouth did crack open before I slammed it shut. I swallowed hard and reached from my glass, which was empty.
“Our guest has no beverage. Bring her a spring water. We must get her energized for her next task, which is trying on these clothes,” Simone’s voice rang out with a cheerful liveliness that told me she was enjoying dressing me up. I guess this was her version of playing with dolls.
“The undergarments were all the same size. I was given a pair and sent into the bathroom to start my fashion show. I wouldn’t say that the lingerie looked comfy, but as instructed, I donned the light pink pair. As long as I didn’t have to model them in front of the group of helpers, I was willing. I’d actually always wanted some fancy dainty delicates, but I’d never had the courage (or money) to shop for them.
And so, the task began. The shoes were a challenge. I wobbled and tried to ignore the pinchy points, although the shoes were all in my size. A woman entered and stood by to help me don the dresses. I’d never had someone zipping or easing me into clothing before. In fact, I’d always bought my dresses at stores where I was the only one in the dressing room, and I often took a purchase home without trying it on, then evaluated it in the privacy of my apartment. Apparently taking such a risk that a garment wouldn’t be just right for me, absolutely horrified Simone when I made the mistake of mentioning my usual practice.
“There will be no more of that,” she said. “Garments should be designed for your body specifically, not mass produced to maybe be acceptable.”
Obviously, Simone and I did not share the same social or financial strata, but I said nothing. The idea sounded good in principle.
Each time I tried on a new fashion statement, Simone insisted that I walk about with the eyes of her three workers all watching me. Doubtless, my face bloomed in reds, and I wanted nothing more than to rush home and hide in one of my old worn-out nightgowns while wearing my fuzzy, comfortable cat slippers. But I was doing this for Judy.
I slipped on and off a total of eleven dresses, each time, enduring the brief consultation that followed each round. The discussion was always in a foreign language (French or Italian, I think.) As I stood there, trying not to fidget, and debating whether I should just call it quits and wear the dress that I’d warn to work that day, Simone would occasionally interject remarks.
“You look lovely, my dear,” she’d say, or “Yes, that dress very much suits you. Red is a great color for you, although I do like the blue equally.”
I was rather surprised that the dresses fit me at all. I supposed more expensive clothing lines carried bigger sizes.