Page 1 of Love Lessons
ONE
Occupational Hazard
VERA
July
“The dress hasto be exactly right,” my client says. Even though we’re on a Zoom call, I can see that she’s wringing her hands.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask, my pen poised above my notebook.
“My stepdaughter’s wedding. And, well, it’s complicated. Even after five years, her mother’s family is openly hostile to me.”
“Oh, ouch.” I set down my pen. “So your dress has to walk a fine line. Beautiful but understated.”
“Yes!” Her eyes light up. “It has to be classy but not dull. I need to look stunning but not flashy. And it can’t be too young or too sexy, because the bride’s mother makes me out to be some kind of slutty Cruella de Vil.”
“So I shouldn’t show you anything in a Dalmatian print, then?”
“Thanks, but no.” She laughs. “My friend told me you would make this fun. I dread this wedding, if you want the truth. The only part of it I’m looking forward to is a new dress.”
“We got this,” I tell her. “I realize an outfit won’t make years of trouble go away. But if the dress is just right, it can change your whole outlook. It can bring you a few hours of much-needed magic.”
“So where do we start?” she asks. “And money is no object.”
I can’t imagine ever using those words. But it doesn’t hurt her choices. “I’m going to ask you a few questions about your preferences, and then I can gather some photos to show you. What color are the bridesmaids’ dresses? We don’t want to match them, but we don’t want you to clash, either.”
“They’re light pink.”
“And—” That’s as far as I get before the noise starts up outside.Nrrr-nrrr! Ngggn-ngggn.It’s a deafening buzz—the sound of metal teeth tearing through a piece of lumber.
Oh no. Not again.
My head gives a throb, and I feel like crying. I’ve been subjected to this all day, on and off—the buzz saw of death—and it’s right outside my Brooklyn window.
On the computer screen in front of me, my client flinches on Zoom. She can’t hear my apology, so I mimeone momentand mute my microphone. At least one of us doesn’t have to listen to the sound of her own head splitting open.
Oh God. Our meeting was going so well. Not only is this loud and inconvenient, but it’s stressful. My personal-stylist business is still in the fledgling stages, and every client counts. If I can’t make this work, I’ll burn through my savings. Then I’ll end up begging for my old job back at the Midtown department store.
Who could build a tiny but stylish empire under these conditions?
The moment the awful sound stops, I unmute myself and smile tightly. “Sorry about that. We were talking about sleeve length. You said this wedding is in September?”
“That’s right. It’s indoors, so I could really go either—”
Nrrr-nrrr!
God, she can’t even get the sentence out of her mouth before the sound starts up again. Panicking, I hit mute again. I’m so frustrated I could throw my computer across the room.
I smile instead. This is a new client—a referral. And I desperately need her to think of me as a professional.
“You know,” she says when it’s finally quiet. “Maybe we should do this another time?”
“Anything you need,” I say quickly. “Are you free tomorrow?”
“Yes! You could meet me in my office,” she suggests. “Ten thirty?”
My heart drops. “Absolutely,” I agree sweetly, even though her office is on the Upper East Side and a forty-five-minute commute away. I don’t really have the time for that meeting. But I also don’t have the time to drive her away before my first sale to her. “Tell me your address.”
