Copyright © 2012, 2014 by Nellie Bennett
Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Amanda Kain
Cover images © liuka/iStockPhoto
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
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This book is a memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over a period of years. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been re-created.
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Originally published in 2012 in Australia, by Allen & Unwin.
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CONTENTS
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Shopgirl
The Window
The Call
The Class
The Shoes
The Shoe Man
The Search
The Macarena
The Dancer
The Bien
The G Word
The Seduction
The Compás
The Sevillanas
The Dancing Jesus
The Kiss
The Feria
The New Season
The Days of Christmas
The Amor de Dios
The Apartment
The Present Perfect
The Tough Times
The Latinas
The Fiesta
The Happy Ending
The Gypsies
La Soleá
The Vegan Aficionada
The Little Black Dress
The Primos
The Ghetto
The Escape
The Dark Night of the Soul
The Stranger
The First Date
The Basque
The Wedding
The Doctor’s Orders
The Happily Ever After
The End
The New Beginning
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
THE SHOPGIRL
Or
You have to have it!
It was the perfect skirt. Red wild silk with layers of ruffles and a wide sash that cinched in the waist. It was the kind of skirt that makes high heels optional. You could wear it barefoot through the city with just a flower in your hair and be a gypsy princess.
I couldn’t help myself. I unclipped it from the hanger and closed the fitting room door behind me. I knew I shouldn’t be dreaming such a dangerous dream, but the skirt was whispering to me, “Try me…try me…”
I slipped it on over my trousers. As I tied it around my waist, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The three lights shone down on me like spotlights. I swished the skirt, imagining I was Carmen dancing on a table in front of her bullfighter lover, lifted up onto my toes and—
Knock knock knock.
Uh-oh.
Dropping my arms, I quickly stepped out of the skirt and unlocked the door. Standing outside with her hand poised to knock again was a woman holding an armful of clothes to try on.
“Hello.” I gave a bright smile and straightened my suit jacket. “Let me take those for you.” I took the clothes out of the confused customer’s arms and hung them up in the fitting room. “I love this dress,” I said of the black-and-white cocktail dress she’d picked up off the front display. “It looks fabulous on.”
The woman looked around the fitting room for clues as to what I’d been doing in there. Her eyes dropped to the red silk skirt in my hand. “What size is that?”
“Er…” My grip tightened on it. “This one’s on hold.” Yeah, right. On hold for who? For me? And how exactly was I planning on buying a seven-hundred-dollar wild-silk creation with the twelve dollars and seventy-three cents I had left in my bank account until payday? “Just let me know if you need anything,” I said, stepping out of the fitting room. The woman stared at me without saying a word as I closed the door on her.
I held up the skirt again. It was a dream with three tiers of ruffles. It was the kind of skirt you’d slip into before climbing out your bedroom window in the middle of the night to run away with the gypsies.
Run away with the gypsies…
If only, I thought, looking around at the customers waiting to be helped, sweaters waiting to be folded, shelves to be dusted, racks to be restocked. Of all jobs, this had to be the most ungypsy. I was a shopgirl. You may or may not know my particular shop, but they are all pretty much the same. It was a grand establishment department store. This one was in Sydney, but they are the same in every big city. It had been there in my grandmother’s day, though it had a different name back then. It was the place my mother used to take me when I was little to choose a present on a special birthday, and I’d feel so grown-up when the ladies sprayed perfume on my wrist. It had always been a part of my life, and every time the doorman pulled open the door it was like coming home…
But I didn’t get to go through that door anymore, with its green-uniformed doormen and the pianist playing “Rhapsody in Blue.” I had to walk an extra half block to the staff entrance. It was there, under the fluorescent lights, that I’d swipe my ID card, fix my hair, and join the line to check my bag.
Standing in line with a dozen other shopgirls, I tried to remember back to when this job had felt glamorous to me. It hadn’t been so long ago. This was my first job out of high school, but my excitement at joining the workforce was quickly dulled by swipe cards and bag checks and rosters and five-minute coffee breaks.
The bag check was supposed to be a must, as apparently most in-store theft is committed by staff. Still, some of the women I worked with flouted the rule, like Vivienne from Covers, who strode past the security guards on her five-inch stiletto heels, muttering to the Howard Showers girls in her gorgeous Polish accent, “I won’t leave my bag with those men. It is worth more than they make in a year. Imagine they put a scratch in it? I sue the store!” The girls sashayed past in a cloud of perfume and stepped through the open doors of the staff elevator.
But I didn’t mind handing over my scruffy old bag. They could put as many scratches in it as they liked and I would never notice. I placed my bag on the counter, and the security guard gave me my ticket. And with the ticket tucked away in my pocket, I squeezed into the service elevator with ten other black-suited women to take the short ride up to Level Two—Women’s Fashion.
Every morning at nine twenty-eight the elevator doors opened and I’d walk across the marble floor. First I’d wave to the girls in Burberry as they fixed their makeup, then say hello to Martene in Escada as she started up the computer. I’d call out a “Hi!” to Nathan in Moschino, who would always respond by jumping up and down and giving me an enthusiastic wave. Then I would say a profe
ssional “good morning” to silver-haired and gray-suited Deborah in Armani. Next to Armani was our little corner, which was where I’d find Sascha, flipping through French Vogue.
“Darling…have a look…” Sascha pointed to the latest paparazzi pics of aspirational celebrities and their handbags. Sascha had an obsession with designer handbags. She herself had an impressive collection, and an equally impressive collection of Amex bills.
You see, retail is a dangerous profession. Once you’re in it’s very difficult to get out. When you spend all day behaving as though there could be nothing more natural than spending three hundred dollars on a T-shirt, you start to lose a little perspective. And when the new collections come in, you start using on yourself those same arguments that you’re trained to use on your customers. “It really is an investment piece,” you tell yourself, ignoring the little voice of reason that says, “What?! Property is an investment. That is a red trench coat!”
And then, of course, there’s our favorite trick, the price-per-wear ratio: retail price divided by number of days worn equals daily wear price. Sascha had taught me this magic ratio. When I’d been shocked by the price of the new ostrich-skin Birkin bags, she had patiently explained to me that you have to look beyond the fifty-thousand-dollar price tag and remember that its daily wear price is only a dollar sixty-seven (if you live to be a hundred and five). By this ratio, every day you don’t buy it you’re actually losing money. So you buy it, and then, like Sascha, you have to work Sundays. For the next ten years.
I knew there was probably something wrong with me, but I just couldn’t get excited about the idea of spending fifty thousand dollars on a handbag, especially not one that I would only end up bringing to work every day. And not when there was a whole world outside of Vogue magazine to explore.
I wasn’t normally interested in fashion magazines, but this morning the latest Harper’s Bazaar caught my eye. Scrawled across the cover in red letters was an invitation to “run away with the gypsies.” Standing behind the counter, I leafed through the pages, gazing at the dark, evocative shots of models posed in the moonlight in front of campfires and painted caravans. Their fabulous clothes were thrown on like rags. I took in the detail of ripped stockings under ruffled skirts, a tarnished-gold bullfighter’s jacket over a tight black dress; it didn’t matter to me whether the beaded bolero jacket was Valentino or Chanel, or if the silk-covered stilettos were Jimmy Choos or Louboutins. It was the idea behind the photos that spoke to me. Run away with the gypsies… It was the idea of escape.
This issue also featured a tribute to the magazine’s iconic editor, Diana Vreeland. As part of the tribute they had revived her signature column, Why Don’t You?, in which Vreeland used to make obscenely extravagant suggestions for improving and reinventing yourself.
Why don’t you…dance flamenco in Dior stockings?
Yes! Why not? I could just see myself in an underground flamenco bar: dripping with polka dots, sipping on Spanish wine as a handsome bullfighter whispered sweet nadas in my ear…
And that was when the bell rang over the speakers, letting us know that the doors were now open to customers. I snapped back to reality, put the magazine away under the counter, and started up the register.
The number-one rule of retail is that the first customer of the day is always returning something. I spotted her as she stepped out of the elevator and remembered her from a week earlier: I had spent two hours with her as she tried on everything in the store before discarding it on the floor like used Kleenex. In the end she had bought one sweater off the sale rack. And I knew that sweater was what was inside the rumpled plastic bag that she held in her hands.
I took a deep breath and reminded myself of my shopgirl training—those three days when the store managers take normal, functioning people and try to brainwash them into chirpy department store lackeys. First-Class Service Rule #1: Smile!
Smile. Hmmm, there’s an interesting concept. In retail you only really smile when your customer says the words: “I’ll take one in every color.” When I first started working, I was genuinely bright and friendly, but with time I’d become like the rest of the girls. We didn’t spontaneously smile. It just wasn’t done. Instead, we had degrees of smiling. There’s the “Can I help you? I thought not” smile. The “Oh, it’s you again” smile, and the “Please go away and let me finish my coffee before it gets cold” smile. I hated being like that, but it was contagious. Though with the nine-thirty returns I generally didn’t even try to fight it.
The woman with the return walked past me and up to Sascha at the register. Sascha managed a tight smile and the standard response: “Not suitable then?” I watched as she took the sweater out of its bag and inspected it for sweat marks before processing the refund.
I couldn’t help thinking about the absolute futility of this entire industry. Why so much effort goes into producing garments that within six months will be old and “so last season” and sent out to be incinerated. And I couldn’t help wondering what I was doing with my life. It seemed to be ticking away as I gazed at the clock, waiting for my coffee break. I entertained myself by wandering around and choosing the one thing I would buy if I could afford to.
Why don’t you…team a strict suit jacket with a sexy silk skirt?
That was when I found the red skirt. It had just been flown in and was the star of the new collection. I held it up to myself and imagined that I was in some glamorous nightspot, drinking red wine and dancing on tabletops…
By the time lunch came around we still hadn’t made one sale. I slunk into the dusty back room and sat down on a wooden stool to eat my lunch. The room only had about as much floor space as a handkerchief, but it contained the entire autumn/winter season on racks and in boxes, stacked high above my head.
Why don’t you…drink sangria instead of wine at your next summer party?
Oh yes! I imagined going to a place where lunch was a long, leisurely affair, preferably outside in the sun with a glass of sangria. Looking around me, all I could see were boxes full of white shirts and pinstriped pants. I wondered, What if these boxes fall and I am crushed to death? Crushed to death by business suits. How tragic.
When I stepped back out onto the floor, fixing my (polished and professional) lip gloss, Sascha was helping a woman into an alpaca coat. The customer was a tall, blond, aspirational mother, the kind you see in ads for dishwashers and home Pilates studios.
“Oh yes,” she cooed as she gazed at herself in the mirror. “I have to have it.” As she strolled to the register, she grabbed a mink stole off a shelf, glanced at it, then threw it at me. “Wrap this up for me too, will you?”
All in all it was a day like any other. When the six p.m. bell finally rang, my back ached from carrying armfuls of clothes to and from the fitting rooms, and I had more mascara under my eyes than on my lashes. Feeling rebellious, I scorned the staff elevator and went down the escalators with the customers. I pulled off my name tag and pretended that I too was just out for a late-afternoon shop. On the ground floor I wove between the cosmetics counters where tired makeup artists were packing up their brushes and the perfume squirters were putting away their samples. I strolled across the marble floor, ducked into security to pick up my bag, then stepped out the gilt doors into the cool evening air.
I love the bustle of the city just as the shops are closing. Customers wander past with their new purchases, chatting happily. They run across the street and jump into empty taxis, while shop assistants make a dash to reach their bus before it leaves the curb.
I saw my bus pull in but decided to let it go. I wasn’t in a hurry to get home. Instead I wandered down the busy city street doing some absentminded window-shopping. My eyes lingered briefly on a Ferragamo scarf, a pair of red stilettos, a Gucci bag. A gloved hand reached into the Cartier window and plucked out the diamond-encrusted watches to take them to their nightly resting place in the safe.
At the end of the street, the glowing windows of the designer boutiques gave way to the brightly lit shop front of a travel agency. A sign in the window offered best prices to Rome, New York, Singapore, Paris. There’s nothing I love more than gazing at the window of a travel agency. I love looking at the names of destinations I’ve never visited and imagining the adventures that could await me there. Athens, Bangkok, Madrid…
Why don’t you?
THE WINDOW
Or
What’s your best price on a ticket to everywhere?
Dubai, Honolulu, Marrakesh…
Perhaps not everyone window-shops for adventure, but I was raised by travelers and had a genetic predisposition for it. In our house we had almost as many maps as books, and the books reached as high as the ceiling.
Traveling had always been a part of my life. My parents were independent filmmakers and their whole marriage was one long honeymoon trip, occasionally docking in Sydney to regroup and refuel. My two younger brothers and I came along for the ride.
I had a passport before I could walk, and when I was little, one of my favorite games was to spin the globe in my father’s office and jab my finger at a destination, then try to read the name. I just loved the idea of far-off places, and when I spun the globe, it was all one big swirl of possibilities.
Standing on the busy city street watching tired-eyed women in black suits rush past on their way home, I couldn’t help feeling a little in awe of that child who had played with a globe of the world like it was a toy. Life was still a game to her, because she hadn’t been burdened with the questions that plagued this shopgirl’s waking hours:
“Is this blue or black?”
“What size is a fourteen?”
“How do you get to Menswear?”
Surely I was destined for something more than this? I’m relatively intelligent. I mean, I’m no Einstein, but on an intelligence graph I rank somewhere between Posh Spice and Stephen Hawking. Okay, more up the Posh Spice end, because graphs make me dizzy. But surely the extent of my ability wasn’t holding T-shirts up to the light to determine whether they were dark navy or bluish-black?
Only in Spain Page 1