Perhaps it’s time I did start treating myself to something beyond a handbag or pair of sunglasses. And Monte Carlo is the perfect place to do it.
That idiotic acronym that was popular a while back flits through my head: YOLO! You only live once. When the next forty days may be your last, it puts things in perspective. What’s a grand dropped on a dress that I have no more use for other than dinner and showing up Magnus Reinhardt?
Establish dominance right away, lest he get the wrong idea about just how accommodating I’m willing to be. After all, buying the wine this morning helped me this far along. Magnus obviously appreciates having his expectations turned on their head.
I grab my purse and quickly make my way out of the hotel. The weather is gorgeous, the perfect complement to the stunning scenery. I forego the offer of a taxi and decide to walk, mostly since I’m feeling myself. I’d be lying if there wasn’t a tiny part of me that is also still counting pennies in my head.
It doesn’t take me long to find a high-end dress shop, since this city seems to be rife with them, especially in the touristy spots. One dress, in particular, catches my eye. It’s a peacock blue, sleeveless, knee-length dress with a silver belt that would perfectly accentuate my hourglass shape.
The inside of the shop is refined and quiet, the kind of place where each dress has real estate dedicated to only that particular style with so much space in between that you know each piece comes with a hefty price tag.
No matter. Splurging is what I’m here to do.
I see the dress further back in the store, but before I can even reach the section, I find an obstacle in the form of a sales associate, blocking my path.
“Bonjour, madame,” she says with a gracious smile that doesn’t even attempt to reach her eyes—eyes that are now scrolling up and down the length of me. The tiny pinprick of disdain creates enough of a hole in my ego for the air to slowly begin to seep out.
“Bonjour,” I say brightly, then try to walk around her.
She begins speaking French, walking to catch up with me.
“Oh, I don’t speak French,” I say, giving her a darling smile as I kept walking.
“Ah…how is it I can help you today?”
“This dress,” I say, pointing to the one that caught my eye.
“Madame, do you have an appointment?”
That’s enough to stop me. I turn to her in surprise. Maybe I was mistaken in assuming the worst about her.
“An appointment?”
“Oui, madame,” she says, giving me an apologetic look…with the faintest hints of patronizing smugness.
“I didn’t realize I needed one,” I say, looking around the perfectly empty store as though to point out the obvious.
She ignores it, her eyes turning to icicles. “Oui, an appointment is necessary.”
“Well, then,” I say, giving her a pat look. “How do I make an appointment?”
Once again, her eyes trail down my body and back up to my face. “I’m afraid there is a long wait.”
“Yes, I can see,” I say in a sarcastic voice, looking around once again. “Since your first client of the day seems to be running late, and seeing as I’m the only one in the store, perhaps you’ll indulge me the ten minutes it would take to try on this dress?”
Any hint of graciousness is gone. “The dress is very expensive.”
And there it is. It isn’t even as though this is the first time it’s happened. I could play Russian roulette walking into any store, no matter whether it’s high end or budget-friendly.
The Brooks Brothers (of all places) in midtown? I was patently ignored for a full half-hour, even while standing right at the damn cash register to buy a tie for Theo.
The Kate Spade in the Financial District? The sales rep couldn’t have been more accommodating.
Most of the time, I take it on the chin and suck it up.
Today is not one of those days.
I’m tempted to forget my home training, but I take an alternate route instead.
“Expensive?” I ask in surprise, placing a hand against my chest as though shocked. “I would have never guessed!”
She sniffs and lifts her chin up to give me a haughty look.
“Well then, it’s a good thing that I...” I pause for effect, letting my eyes do the talking for me as they casually wander up and down her length the way she’s so freely done to mine. “Actually, have a well-paying job so that I…can afford it.”
It’s petty and mean and so beneath me. For all I know, she makes more than me. Mostly, I’m just pissed off that the brief burst of empowerment I felt walking out the front entrance of La Mer has been so thoroughly obliterated by a few simple words and imperious looks from this woman.
Her cheeks color with outrage. “I’m afraid without an appointment, we can not accommodate you.”
It occurs to me that all I would have to do is say the name Magnus Reinhardt and this little attitude of hers would do a complete one-eighty.
Which somehow makes it so much more insulting.
“You know what? There’s a reason why you have no clients in your store. Even if you do only work by appointment, what few you do have don’t respect you enough to show up. I hope you work on commission because watching it fly out the door along with me is the only satisfaction you’ve managed to give a customer today—or what could have been a customer. The dress isn’t even all that.”
I walk out before she can even react beyond blinking her eyes in surprise. I make sure I’m well away from the shop before coming to a stop to calm myself down. I take several deep breaths reminding myself of who I am and what my worth is, not in monetary terms but just for a little damn respect.
I think of my parents, who always lifted me up, reminding me that even a girl from the Bronx can be
