by Selena Kitt
I’d been combing the busy streets for work for hours when I came upon the big “Sales Help Wanted” sign in the storefront window. I’ll never forget walking into her shop. With Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose” playing in the background, I took in all the luxurious silk and lace lingerie that Madame Paulette imported from Paris. Tables of delicate, perfectly folded brassieres, panties, and garters mingled with carefully organized racks of beautiful slips, negligees, and robes. There was also a carousel filled with package after package of fine silk stockings. Standing erect behind the cash register, the petite but chic Madame Paulette was dressed in her signature gray A-line skirt and perfectly pressed white blouse and drinking a glass of red wine. I introduced myself and told her I was interested in the sales position. She gave me the once-over and nodded approvingly. In her deep raspy voice, she said, “Ma chérie, zee shape of a women’s breasts lies in zee straps. Let me see if you know how to adjust one.”
Leaving her wine behind, she led me to a small dressing room in the rear of the store where a well-heeled buxom woman was trying on numerous bras. Madame Paulette beheld the half-naked woman in her ill-fitting lacy bra and shook her head. “Ah, non, non, non. It eez all wrong for you.” Sorting through the pile of bras strewn on a petite gold-leafed chair, she found another and handed it to her. “Please put on theese one, and mademoiselle will adjust it.” With a nod of her chin, she looked my way.
The stocky woman nervously slipped on the big-cupped bra, front to back, and I hastily hooked it for her. Madame Paulette shot me a pleased smile. I surveyed the customer in the bra; the bra had potential but was not fitting her quite right. With nimble fingers, I tightened both straps, lifting up her boobs. I had learned how to put on a bra from watching my mother prepare for her “dates.” At least the crack whore had been good for something. And being a difficult fit myself with my full C-cup breasts, which I’d inherited from her, I was quite an expert on making bras fit, though mine were the cheap cotton K-Mart variety.
“Now bend over and wiggle your breasts into the cups.” I said after I finished adjusting the straps.
The woman did as asked and then stood up. She looked at herself in the floor length mirror, and her face lit up. The lacy, underwire bra fit her perfectly and did wonders for her saggy boobs. “I’ll take it and two more just like it!”
“Superbe!” Madame Paulette beamed. “I will have my new assistant wrap zeem up.”
My heart broke into a happy dance. I had landed the job as Madame Paulette’s sales assistant. Always good with my hands, I wrapped up the bras in beautiful layers of delicate, scented tissue paper. The ecstatic customer couldn’t wait to hand over a crisp hundred-dollar bill for the three bras.
From that day on, I worked from ten to six every day except Saturdays when Madame Paulette, who I learned was Jewish and from Paris, took a day off to observe Shabbat. Despite her diminutive size, she was an incredible, bigger than life woman who understood people, understood life, and understood the basic need women had to look and feel beautiful under their clothes. She taught me about how to examine the quality of lace, how to tell the difference between nylon and silk stockings, how to take a woman’s measurements, how to make an alluring window display, how to charm customers, and even how to handle gentlemen who were shopping for something sexy for their secret mistresses. “Life eez no fun without sex or wine,” she would preach. Twice a year, she would go to Paris and handpick items for the boutique. Every day, she gave me a French lesson so that one day I would be prepared to go to Paris. “Zee French are so difficiles,” she’d always complain in her charming accent.
The one thing I’d noticed while working at her store was the number of young women who stopped in on their lunch breaks or way home from work, allured by the beautiful display windows. Inside the shop, they lusted for the exquisite but exorbitant French lingerie that they, like me, couldn’t afford. I was convinced there was a market for gorgeous, sexy underwear at a reasonable price. When I shared this thought with Madame Paulette, she shooed me away with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Mon dieu! I can sell nothing but zee best!”
I’d been working for her for a little over two years and had just turned eighteen when over a bottle of Bordeaux, which we shared every Friday evening to welcome Shabbat, Madame Paulette broke the news that she wanted to retire and was going to sell the business. My heart sank. There was no guarantee that the store would remain a lingerie shop or if I was promised a job. “Would you like to buy it, ma chérie?” she asked. After the shock died down, I told her I would love to, but there was no way I could come up with the twenty-five thousand dollar down payment. Madame Paulette was as disappointed as I was but needed the money for her retirement.
A potential buyer was in the picture—Boris Borofsky. He was a tough Russian gangster—a freakish pink-eyed albino—who wanted to buy the business for his idle, bottle-blond trophy wife, Ina. The latter took a strong disliking to me, and I knew if the deal went through, I’d be out of a job. I wanted the business so badly. I had visions for it and dreams! But with my meager wages and the cost of living in Brooklyn, I hadn’t managed to save a penny.
Kevin, with his boyish good looks and winning personality, had gotten a job as the host of an underground “men’s club” that happened to be owned by the obnoxious Russian pursuing Madame Paulette’s business. He’d been able to save five thousand dollars and offered the cash to me.
“Kev, I can’t take your money,” I sobbed, touched by his offer. “Plus, I would need to come up with twenty thousand dollars more.”
“I have an idea,” he said.
I listened without interruption as he explained his plan… to rob the club. He hated the abusive Russian more than I did. He was a cheap, foul-mouthed womanizer without an ounce of humanity. Moreover, he was a gay-basher who had threatened Kevin with both his job and life. Because many of his business deals involved drugs and human trafficking, he kept hoards of loose cash in a safe in the basement. A single security guard made regular deposits after hours.
A deep shudder ran through me as I flashed back to that terrible night. A night I wish I could forget but couldn’t. The night of terror that scarred me forever, emotionally and physically. The vault... the alarm… the assault…the gun shots…the screaming…the pain… the blackness…the blood. My eyes grew watery.
“Madame, I did something terrible.” A tear trickled down my cheek. “I hope you can forgive me.” I recounted my crime with no detail spared. By the time I was done telling her the secret I’d hidden all these years, I was a blubbering mess.
She took my icy cold hands in her warm ones. “Ma pauvre petite, you are lucky to be alive.”
Her reaction stunned me. I thought for sure she would condemn me. She tenderly brushed away my tears and continued.
“Do you know, ma chérie, the Russian came to my store looking for you?”
My tear-soaked eyes widened. “He did?”
“Oui. I knew there was something terribly wrong because you did not come to work or call in for several days. En plus, he was missing teeth, and there was a thick bandage on each cheek.”
Kevin’s bullet! It must have gone through one cheek and out the other. I faintly remembered hearing Boris curse as I lost consciousness in Kevin’s arms.
Madame continued. “He was very angry but could barely move his mouth. He wanted to know your name. I made up a different name and told him that you no longer worked for me. Since I paid you in cash, there was no way for him to find out your real identity.”
I was speechless. Unbeknownst to me all these years, Madame Paulette had helped save my life.
“I immediately called your apartment. That handsome young gentleman friend of yours luckily answered zee phone. I told him that I believed your life was in terrible danger and that you should get as far away from Brooklyn as possible. I offered him money, but he told me there was no need.”
The hazy memory of a panicked Kevin telling me that Boris was after me flitted into
my head. I was weak, still in bed, barely recovered from my gunshot wound. Kevin threw together a duffel bag full of basics, and two hours later, he was pushing me in a wheelchair through Kennedy Airport with the sack of money on my lap. I vaguely remembered him telling the suspicious security guard that the cash was for a much needed surgical procedure. Glib Kevin could talk his way through anything. Soon after, we were on a plane to Los Angeles on our way to safety.
A harsh cough from Madame Paulette brought me back to the moment. My heart was melting. She was both my mentor and savior. Blinking back tears, I wrapped my arms around her frail body and hugged her. “Madame, how can I ever thank you enough?”
“You must stop crying, ma chérie.” Her expression grew wistful. “We’ve all done terrible things we’ve regretted to survive.”
My sobbing came to a halt. “What do you mean?”
“When I was a young woman, I slept with a Nazi officer to save my family.”
I gasped. Had she lived with this horrible secret her whole life?
“Had I not, we would have all been sent to a concentration camp.”
I was speechless.
“Alors, ma chérie, you must forgive yourself. You have redeemed yourself and done many noble things with what came of it. I am proud of you.”
I hugged her again. It was probably the last time we’d embrace.
She sighed against me. “I still wish you could have bought my beezness.”
Boris Borofsky had purchased it, but sadly, his incompetent wife ran it into the ground. It was now a Starbucks. The fate of Madame Paulette’s boutique tugged at my heartstrings. If only things had worked out…but “what ifs” didn’t matter anymore. I gently squeezed her hand.
Another caregiver stepped into the room. This time a handsome silver-haired doctor. “I’m afraid, Ms. Long, that Madame must take her nap now.”
“Bah! Sleep eez for zee dead!” grumbled Madame Paulette after he left.
Her words at once amused and saddened me. The reality that she was going to die soon hit me hard. I held back more tears.
I gave her a final double-cheeked hug, and then we just held each other. Her frail bones warmed mine. When we finally broke away from each other, she wearily said, “Ma chérie, there eez something else I want to tell you.” She paused while her eyes grew watery. “I had a husband. His name was Henri Lévy. He died fighting for the Résistance. I want to be buried next to him.” She ripped out a sheet of paper from the writing pad on her night table and scribbled something on it. “This eez where he eez,” she said handing it to me. I folded up the sheet and placed it in my bag.
“Oui, Madame. I will take care of it.” A fresh round of tears was verging.
She smiled contently and closed her eyes. Softly, she repeated what she’d said earlier. “Remember, ma chérie, that it eez better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
I tiptoed out of the room with a less guilty conscience and the newfound knowledge that Madame Paulette had indeed known true love.
Chapter 7
The ride back to the city was uneventful. We were in counter-traffic and made excellent time. I thought about what Madame Paulette had told me…and Jaime Zander. I wondered if I would bump into him at the hotel or have to wait until tomorrow’s pitch at his office. I pined for the former.
We got back to the hotel by four p.m. I headed straight to my room, caught up on some e-mails, took a short nap, and showered. As I towel dried myself, the room phone rang. My heart galloped. Could it be Jaime? Wrapping the towel around me, I sprinted to the phone. With a shaky hand, I picked up the receiver.
“Glorious.”
It was Kevin.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been crazed all day with post-show interviews. I have to have dinner with some of the models and a network executive. Do you want to come along?”
After such an emotional afternoon, the last thing I wanted to do was have dinner at some pretentious restaurant with a bunch of bubblehead models and some fawning network guy.
“If it’s okay, I’m going to pass, Kev. I’m beat.” At some point, I needed to tell him about my encounter with Madame Paulette, but this wasn’t the time.
“It’s Valentine’s Day. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
Kevin knew how downtrodden I got on this holiday. “Yeah. I’m going to order room service and curl up with some book boyfriend.”
Kevin mock-sniffed. “But I’m your one and only Valentine.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry. You are. Have fun tonight!”
“Mwah! Happy Valentine’s Day, Glorious. I love you.”
“Love you back.”
As I hung up the phone, a pang of sadness stabbed me. Book boyfriends were as close as I’d ever gotten to the real thing.
Though it was now only 5:30, I was ravenous. Other than the chocolate, I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. My body was crying out for food. Maybe a good steak, a baked potato, and an iced tea. Definitely no alcohol after last night’s binge, the effects of which still lingered a little.
As I was about to reach for the phone, it rang again. I picked it up on the second ring.
“Have you had dinner yet?”
Jaime! I sucked in a gulp of air. “Don’t you have a hot Valentine’s date?”
“No. I don’t do love.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then, come eat with me.”
Silence.
“My suite is three doors down to the right.”
Silence.
“We can talk business.”
Silence.
“Just get your lovely ass over here.”
* * * *
Jaime’s corner suite was triple the size of mine—a mini palace in the sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around it and overlooked the sparkling city. The views were breathtaking.
The lights were dimmed, and scattered candles scented the air. He ushered me to a black leather couch and strode over to a built-in veneer cabinet in the corner. Putting on some soft jazz, he said, “Room service should be here any minute. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve already ordered for both of us.”
“Perfectly fine.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Casually dressed in charcoal sweats that hung low on his hips and a soft white tee—and barefoot— he looked freshly showered and sexy as hell. How could he always look this way? Having slipped back into the gray ensemble that I’d worn earlier in the day to keep things businesslike, I felt overdressed and uptight.
I surveyed his suite. While mine was decorated with mid-century reproductions, I got the sense that the furnishings in his were authentic and included pieces from Bauhaus, Charles Eames, and others. He had moreover personalized the spacious interior with a bold geometric patterned rug and colorful pillows that picked up the hues of the many intriguing abstract paintings scattered on the walls. They were similar in style to the ones in his office and all signed PAZ.
He crossed the room with his long-legged confident gait and sunk into a creamy leather armchair opposite me. My eyes roamed down his face and landed on his crotch. Holy shit! There was a tent between his thighs!
“Do you live here full time?” I asked, fumbling for conversation.
“Yeah.”
Okay, so it wasn’t a fuck pad, but it was still an odd living arrangement. Was it because he could fuck transient women and never have to see them again? I mentally slapped myself and asked, “Why do you live in a hotel?”
“It’s convenient. I work long hours and travel a lot, so having all these amenities makes things easier.”
I could understand that because I lived in a full maintenance high-rise building in Los Angeles that catered to my every whim—except room service.
He paused. “And because I own it.”
My eyes popped. He owned this hotel?
Before I could inquire further, there was a loud knock at the door. Jaime jumped up to open it. A handsome, college-aged waiter wheeled in a white linen-covere
d cart with two silver dome-covered platters on warmers. I was surprised there was also a chilled bottle of Cristal in a bucket of ice—especially after my embarrassing episode last night.
“Mr. Zander, would you like me to set up a table here or would you prefer to eat in the dining room?” asked the eager-to-please waiter.
“Right here is fine,” replied Jaime, pointing to the area between his chair and the couch.
The waiter magically transformed the cart into a small dining table, complete with linens, utensils, and a votive candle.
“I’ll take it from here,” said Jaime, slipping the waiter a twenty-dollar bill. The thankful young man scurried out of the suite.
I watched as Jaime expertly uncorked the champagne and poured the bubbly into a pair of flutes.
“Just a little for me,” I said hastily as he filled my glass. Careful, Gloria. Control yourself. The last thing I wanted was a repeat of last night.
With an amused look, he respected my wishes and filled my flute only halfway. “To a fine meal and fine company.” He clinked his glass against mine, brushing his fingers along my flesh. I nervously took a sip of the champagne. The bubbly did little to calm the butterflies swarming my stomach.
His eyes stayed on me as he drank his champagne. “I hope you like filet mignon. I asked for it rare—like you.”
The breathy way he said “rare” led me to take another, this time, bigger gulp of my champagne. The truth was, I did like my steaks that way.
He lifted the silver dome. A plate with a small, succulent steak, buttered peas, and potatoes au gratin assaulted my senses. It all looked and smelled divine.
He slid back into his chair and scooted it up to the table. His clean, fresh scent mixed with the mouthwatering aroma of the food.
“Eat!” he ordered.
“What about you?” I asked after placing my napkin on my lap.