No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  Instead of settling for a routine job, she could have an interesting career using the skills that had been drummed into her from adolescence. It gave Dominique a charge to think of relying on her own resources. All at once, she realized that she had never before done so. She thought of her time at the RAF. How independent of Solange she had wanted to be! But the independence had been short-lived. In the end, she had returned to her mother’s home. And she had allowed herself to be pushed into marriage with a man she didn’t love. Why? Because it had been the safest, easiest course. Even now—though she lived alone—she counted on Danielle for financial help and food.

  Dominique was tired of feeling like a beggar, tired of reacting instead of acting. She needed a goal, not just a means of getting by from day to day. And her new plan gave her that. It made her feel she could succeed.

  She threw down a few coins and gathered up her raincoat and purse. Enough of being turned down for mundane jobs! It was time to go after something at which she would truly excel. But first, she had to devise a strategy. She would get started that very afternoon. She was glad, anyhow, for an excuse to go home and wait for Danielle’s call. It was hard to concentrate on anything when she was so anxious for news of her mother.

  A half hour later, Dominique scooted up the stairs of her building as fast as her sore foot permitted. As soon as she opened the door leading into the vestibule, she heard the phone ring. Maybe it was Danielle!

  She hobbled up the four flights of stairs as the phone shrilled insistently. Dominique was afraid it would stop before she arrived. Danielle, though, knew to let it ring many times. Finally grasping the phone, Dominique cried, “Hello?”

  “I got through to her,” Danielle said at once. “I called and called and finally I got through.”

  “What did she say?” Dominique asked breathlessly. Her heart drummed against her ribs.

  “It’s worse than we thought. We’ll probably see it in tomorrow’s papers.” Danielle’s voice had the staccato tone of a person in shock. “England and France have bombed Egypt. They may invade. The Egyptians have been arresting foreigners all day. They’ve told Mother she has to leave. Immediately. She’s coming here to live with us. They’ve taken the business, the houses, the car—everything. She’s allowed to bring clothes. But no jewelry. No furs. Nothing valuable.”

  “But”—Dominique was aghast—“what about everything in the house? All the family things?” She heard Danielle take a deep breath, as though bracing herself.

  “She has to leave it all. She’s allowed to take the clothes she can fit in a few suitcases. That’s it.”

  “Oh, my God!” Dominique slumped to the floor as she tried to digest her sister’s news. She was too stunned to take in the full import of it.

  Danielle was silent. Then she began haltingly. “Dominique, I know I’m awful… I know I should be grateful that Mother’s getting out alive—and I am—but how are we all going to live in this little place?” she cried. “You know how Ronald was with you. And that was only temporary. Now he’s going to have Mother on his hands. He’s going to hate it. He’s going to make my life—”

  “Where is he now?” Dominique asked urgently.

  “He was so angry at me, he just stormed out of here. And he blames you, too. He says that if you had stayed in San Francisco where you belong, Mother could go to you!”

  Dominique felt like she’d been kicked. “Ron’s being a brute!” she shouted. “Why do you put up with it?”

  Danielle’s own temper, as hot and edgy as Dominique’s, erupted. “So I should leave and end up like you?” she shot back.

  “Dominique was struck dumb. Danielle’s words echoed the thoughts Dominique had had in the coffee shop, but they hurt coming from her own sister. How could Danielle say such a thing to her? She felt humiliated and furious at the same time. Before she could respond, her sister cried, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to say that! You were brave to leave Anton. You were!”

  The apology did nothing to ease Dominique’s hurt. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “Dominique!” Danielle’s voice was almost hysterical. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean what I said!”

  In a small, distant voice, Dominique said, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden. I thought it would be easier.”

  “I know. And I know Ron’s being unfair. But, Dominique…” Danielle beseeched her to understand. “I still love him. He’s great with the girls and he… he loves me. He really does.”

  Dominique was embarrassed by her sister’s abject defensiveness. She looked up at the naked light bulb that provided the only illumination in the hall. A few steps away was her dingy little room. Her home. Hunger was a daily burden. And, most of all, loneliness was chiseling away at her. Who was she to judge her sister?

  “If you still love him,” Dominique said raggedly, “then that’s all that matters.” She sighed. “Anyhow, don’t worry. It’ll all work out with Mother.”

  “I suppose.” Danielle sounded hopeless.

  “Well…” Dominique didn’t know what more to say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Uh… Dominique,” Danielle sounded uneasy.

  “Yes?”

  “Ronald’s furious over this. Maybe it would be better if we skipped this week.”

  Dominique’s heart plummeted. She wanted desperately to see her sister. And then there was the meal. If she didn’t eat at Danielle’s, she wouldn’t eat at all. But she couldn’t force herself on Ronald. She couldn’t force Danielle to defy him.

  “That’s no problem, Danielle,” she said in a cold, even voice. “I’ll see you… another time.”

  “Thanks for understanding.” Danielle sounded guilty. “I love you.”

  “Good-bye,” Dominique replied.

  Dominique didn’t move from her spot for several minutes. It was hard for her to fathom the changes that were crashing down on her. Her own circumstances were difficult enough, but she had been prepared for some hardship when she left Anton. Now, though, she had to worry about Solange. Her stomach knotted as she envisioned her mother’s flight from Egypt. Suppose she were stopped at customs again? Now that the French were at war with Egypt, Solange would never escape! She could be beaten or, worse, arrested.

  Dominique knew she would not stop fretting until Solange was safe in the United States. But then what? The proud matriarch would have to deal with a resentful son-in-law. How would she accept the change in circumstances? Or would Ron be kinder to Solange than he had been to Dominique? Maybe. After all, Solange was not running away from a husband. Dominique tried to reassure herself that Ron would reconcile himself to Solange’s presence in his household. After all, what alternative did Solange have? She would have no money, no one else to turn to.

  Dominique sighed and folded her arms across her chest as though huddling against the cold. Her reflections brought her back to the harsh reality of her own situation. She had no job, but worse, she had no food.

  The gold watch that had been her grandmother’s gleamed mellow and rich in the dim light. Dominique knew she couldn’t put off pawning it any longer. She thought about the shop on the corner that she passed each day. It closed at eight o’clock. She could still make it.

  Dominique gathered her purse, then pushed herself to her feet. With a firm pull, she cinched the belt of her raincoat. For a second, she hesitated at the top of the stairs. Then she squared her shoulders and limped down the stairs to the pawnshop.

  Saks said no to Dominique. No positions available at all.

  But it was only ten-thirty and Dominique had several more stores on her list. She’d spent hours at the library on Saturday researching the list. Her goal had first been to discover which stores sponsored the most events. That done, she had looked up articles about each retailer.

  Finally, she had used one of the publicly available typewriters to redo her résumé so that it reflected her background in organizing events.

  Now Dominique stood on the sidewalk gazing at Saks’
inviting display of fur coats and tried to decide where to go next. It was cold and sunny, with the nip of winter in the air. Dominique shivered in her raincoat and stared longingly at the furs.

  She moved out of the shade of Saks’ awning and crossed the street to the broad sidewalk in front of St. Patrick’s cathedral. Sun flooded the busy thoroughfare, warming Dominique. Her walk slowed as she watched the tourists sitting on the stairs, maps spread on their laps. She thought with amusement that a few weeks before, she, too would have been unable to find her way around New York. Now she knew it intimately, thanks to her job search.

  All at once, she was filled with hope. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was the bright sun. Or maybe it was that her foot felt so much better after the weekend’s rest. Maybe it was the busy, diverse crowd pushing her along. But, suddenly, Dominique felt like part of the vibrant life of the city. She smiled and nodded at the pretzel vendor on the corner. Near him, a man in a business suit lovingly smeared bright yellow mustard on a pretzel. Dominique could almost taste the tang of mustard and salt, the warm dough, crusty on the outside, chewy on the inside. Her stomach growled and she put her hand self-consciously on it. If she bought a pretzel now, she would have to forgo lunch. She turned her head away and quickened her step so that she would not be tempted.

  She hurried up Fifth Avenue, passing a montage of bright displays. Then she stopped in front of the venerable Tiffany—the second store on her list. For a moment, she gazed in the windows, admiring the beautiful diamond necklace in one, the silver place settings in another, the fine crystal in a third. Then, gathering her courage, she took a deep breath and pushed through the revolving doors.

  Dominique’s interview at Tiffany was more encouraging than at Saks. The personnel director was familiar with the American College in Cairo, and praised it. He had been stationed in North Africa during World War II and was suitably impressed with Dominique’s job experience as secretary to Group Captain Hampton. He would keep her application on file, he promised. But, regretfully, there were no openings at the moment. However, would Dominique care to go to lunch? He was attractive, and Dominique was hungry, but she took one look at the gold ring on his left hand and said no.

  Bergdorf-Goodman’s personnel director looked over her résumé carefully. “You have a good background,” he told Dominique. Her heart soared with optimism as he telephoned the director of publicity to ask if he would see Dominique. But when she presented her ideas to the second man, he told her they were too extravagant. Dominique wanted to argue, to remind him that they were just broad concepts, not final plans, that she could work within any guidelines he set. But she could tell from his closed expression that arguing would be futile.

  That left six names on Dominique’s list. It was almost four o’clock and she estimated she had time for only one more try that day. Orman’s was the closest, so she chose it. As she made her way through the late afternoon crowd on the street, she tried to remember everything she’d learned through her research.

  Only five years old, Orman’s wasn’t like any store in New York, or anywhere else for that matter. Out to make a splash in the world of retailing, it contained a couture department as exclusive as Bergdorf’s and a furniture department as fine as Lord & Taylor’s. The square footage was almost the same as Macy’s, but with a less crowded feeling. It had more salespeople than any other store, larger dressing rooms, and more custom services. Yet Orman’s was anything but stodgy. The philosophy was that shopping should be fun, an event. To this end, there were daily makeup demonstrations, food samplings, and fashion shows. In addition, Orman’s had initiated a system that Retailing Today predicted would become the norm for high-toned department stores. Clothes and other merchandise were not grouped by function as in other department stores, but rather arranged in small, exclusive boutiques, many devoted to one designer. In fact, Orman’s was always the first to launch new trends, to try new kinds of publicity, to experiment with the psychology of decor.

  Dominique had visited Orman’s before, and she liked it, but she had always viewed it through the eyes of the customer. Now, as she stepped through the main doors into the sweetly scented cosmetics department, she tried to observe as much as she could about the store’s clientele, displays, and general image.

  Orman’s had none of the museum-like quality of Saks, but it nevertheless exuded an air of opulence. There were mirrors everywhere, reflecting imaginative displays of accessories and cosmetics. Mannequins were adorned with items from several different departments to create fanciful vignettes. But most appealing was the sense of life that pervaded the atmosphere. Salespeople smiled and moved busily about. Models glided down the aisles sporting the latest fashions and handing out small samples of perfume. Orman’s bewitched Dominique with its air of adventure, discovery, and possibility.

  Standing in the black marble entrance, Dominique felt a surge of optimism. She was sure that she was right for Orman’s. She made her way past the mirrored pillars of the scarf and handbag department until she found the elevator. An attendant in a navy blue uniform with gold epaulets held open the doors as Dominique entered, then closed them behind her.

  Dominique’s first stop when she exited was the ladies’ room. Standing in front of the full length mirror, she pivoted from side to side, checking for hanging threads. She decided her peach wool suit looked immaculate but dull, with its rounded collar and straight lines. Not nearly as snappy as the Orman’s image. She withdrew the silk scarf she had tucked into the sleeve of the raincoat and draped it around the collar of the suit. That was better. The apricot-colored print brought out the auburn in her hair. A touch of lipstick and she was ready. Dominique stared into the mirror at her reflection. Her eyes stared back at her, their expression serious. Too serious. She wanted to project confidence and sophistication. She forced a stiff smile. Then she thought about actually getting the job at Orman’s and her smile broadened so that dimples appeared at either corner of her mouth. She tilted her chin up, pivoted, and marched to the personnel office.

  Brash and innovative as Orman’s was, the New York store manager, Bruce Fisher, seemed the opposite. He was a soft-spoken man who wore horn-rimmed glasses, discreet gold cuff links, and a conservative suit that looked as if it was tailored on Savile Row. He had an air of wisdom and maturity, though Dominique estimated that he was no more than forty.

  As she sat opposite him explaining her ideas, she felt she had discovered a kindred spirit. He seemed to understand just the sort of mood she was trying to create with her concepts. As she spoke, he picked up the thread of her ideas and carried them one step further, mulling aloud how they might work at Orman’s.

  Filled with enthusiasm, Dominique pulled from her purse some typewritten pages. She unfolded them to reveal diagrams of her ideas—lists and cost estimates as well as logistical details. It had been her first opportunity to show them to anyone, since her other interviewers had not been interested.

  Bruce Fisher took the papers from her and studied them seriously. Then his frank gaze met Dominique’s. “This is very impressive. Well thought out.”

  Dominique held her breath. Clearly, Fisher had something to add.

  “I can offer you a job today, but not the job you’re hoping for.”

  Dominique almost cried out with relief and joy. Any job would be welcome.

  Fisher sat back in his chair and regarded her for a moment. “Everyone here starts at the bottom unless they already have a retailing background. We believe that our employees should be acquainted with many facets of the store before taking on a position of greater responsibility. And”—he paused—“we find that retailing isn’t for everyone.”

  He put down her diagrams and picked up her résumé. “It says here that you have secretarial experience.”

  Dominique nodded, trying to suppress a small twinge of disappointment. She should be thrilled to be offered any job. And she was! “Yes, sir.”

  “I have a secretarial opening in my office. You’d be working j
ust down the hall from me with two other ladies who help organize our events. They’re both secretaries, but with considerable responsibility. They report directly to me, as you would. Every once in a while, they help out our press secretary, Hank Benson. Mostly if he has a big press mailing. But he’s a former reporter and does most of his own typing.” Fisher chuckled. “Probably the fastest in the office.

  “I pretty much oversee the events. They’re very important to Orman’s image, especially as we’re still such a new store.”

  Dominique tilted her head thoughtfully as she listened. An article she had read in the Wall Street Journal about Orman’s came to mind. There had been several paragraphs devoted to Fisher.

  For all his seeming gentility, Fisher is cutthroat in his marketing strategies. He doesn’t underprice his competition; instead he beats them to market with new, innovative lines. He has successfully built Orman’s image with a two-pronged approach. The first is his buying strategy. “I look for what’s different, extravagant, whimsical, bold, yet still within the confines of acceptability,” Fisher says.

  The second element he relies on is publicity. He could easily entrust Orman’s public relations to an underling, but it is his pet project. It was he who launched the publicity/special events department and he who realized that it was the key to distinguishing Orman’s from all the other up-market department stores in New York. While other stores put on fashion shows and sponsor decorous charity benefits, Fisher fills the society pages with events that range from gala to just plain irreverent, but never stodgy.

  Dominique was glad now that she’d taken the time to research the stores to which she had applied. “It seems like you want Orman’s to be regarded as more creative than the competition… more avant garde,” she said.