Chapter Text
You work in a small brick storefront, one of the ones built in the gap between two larger buildings: like a bridge from a generic clothing monolith and an Arby’s. You don’t mind it. Sometimes it can feel cramped, but you prefer to consider your store cozy rather than claustrophobic.
Whatever helps you sleep at night.
You pluck your needle and thread out of a pile of scraps you haven’t yet managed to clean up and continue hand-sewing the hem of your current project. You accidentally stab your finger, narrowly avoiding getting blood on the peach taffeta.
The bell on the doorknob chimes.
“Hello!" you greet pleasantly, “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, just looking.”
A blond woman with perfect waves and a bright polka dot dress walks in. The dress is a basic fit and flare with cream lace trim along the neckline, reminiscent of the 1950s. It looks surprisingly genuine. It has all the hand stitching and technique you are used to seeing in vintage clothing in museums. It’s nice to know that you’re not the only seamstress in the world who cares about finicky little details.
You realize belatedly that you’ve been silent for an awkward amount of time.
“Please let me know if you need any help. Feel free to look around.”
The woman smiles at you and it makes your skin itch. You don’t know why.
“Glad to hear it,” she says. She moves away from the counter and you feel like you can breathe.
Weird.
You refocus on sewing your hem, keeping half an eye on the woman wandering the storefront. You can tell she’s not serious about looking at the selection of basic dresses and aprons you keep out. Nor does she explore your ever-growing collection of sewing notions. Instead, she lingers by your binders. You keep your more specific work in there. She flips through them at her own pace, rustling of paper and laminated plastic filling the silence, as she traces manicured nails over the sketches and final photos you’ve put together.
“Your work is lovely,” she says after a moment.
You plaster on a smile. “Thank you, I’m glad you think so.”
“I’m especially fond of your evening ware,” she comments, “Do you do a lot of vintage clothes?”
You hum.
“Yes ma’am, I even do my best to use vintage fabric and trims whenever possible. It makes up a large portion of my body of work.”
She hums. “You have a spark.” She unclips a couple of pages from your binder and tucks them under her arm.
You duck your head. “You’re kind to say so.”
“I mean it,” she continues, as she saunters back up to the counter, “In fact, I would like to commission you.”
“Thank you so much! I’m afraid my queue is booked up for the next few weeks, but I could get you in before the end of the month.”
She smiles, something with teeth.
“Oh darling,” she says, one hand digging in her clutch purse, “I don’t think you understand. I want in immediately; money is absolutely no issue.”
“It’s not just the money, ma’am. It’s not fair to my other client—” You cut off when the woman drops the single largest wad of cash you’ve ever seen on your counter. It’s in all fifties.
“I think you get the picture.”
You swallow around the stone in your throat.
No one has that much cash on them for no reason (especially now, in the digital age). You don’t want to know the reason. You force your eyes back up at hers.
“Yes ma’am,” you say. Your voice is diminutive. You turn away to check your calendar just so you can break eye contact. You can probably fit her in before the rest of your projects. Just stay up a little later in the evenings. It won’t make much of a difference, not really; just a dress should be fine. You steel your spine and straighten. You even manage to look her in the eye, her iridescent pale green eyes. “What kind of dress were you thinking of ordering?" you ask through a plastered on smile. She smiles in return.
“Well, I was actually thinking of a couple.”
“That may not be…” She turns to look at you and you cut yourself off, frisson of something shimmying down your back. “That should be fine,” you correct yourself.
“Perfect!” She claps her hands together, “I was thinking of these three designs. What kind of fabric samples do you have?” She lays your binder clippings on the table and points them out to you.
You bring her to your board of fabric squares. She taps her lips as she thinks, smudging red lipstick. She takes a long while to pick out fabric. Usually, you wouldn’t mind, but you’re itching to get her out of here. In the end, she picks out a floral satin, blue gingham cotton, and a silk so pale gray it’s nearly white.
“Have you had your measurements taken before?”
She nods. “I’m afraid I don’t have them anymore.”
“I can take them now if you have time.”
She smiles, sharp teeth under lipstick.
“Of course, sugar.”
The way she says it gives you pause, rising in your throat. You swallow your discomfort.
“If you’d just follow me,” you hear yourself say.
You lead the woman to the back and grab your tape measure. You look at her dress critically.
“Generally, it’s better when people wear loose-fitting clothes for measurements.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Oh, will this make it difficult? I can change out of it, if you’d prefer.”
“That might be best,” you say apologetically. You step out to give her privacy and lean against the wall. You let out a deep breath and wonder what you did to deserve this. You tell yourself you’re being ridiculous, she hasn’t done anything more than be a tad more demanding than your usually clientele. But the hairs on the back of your neck are standing up. You know better than to ignore them.
When you step back in the room, the woman is wearing nothing but genuine 50’s style lingerie, complete with a bustier and garters.
What the fuck?
You blink and make a conscious effort to ignore it.
“Alright, I’m going to start from your neck and work my way down, will that be okay?”
“Peachy,” she says with a lazy grin. You swallow and get close enough to her that you can smell her perfume. Lavender honey.
Her grin widens when you wrap the tape measure around her neck, just shy of tight enough to indent the skin. You mark the measurement down in your notebook. You take upper arm measurements, then waist. Your fingertips skim the black lace stretched over her skin on accident. You can admit to yourself that this woman is beautiful. She knows it too. She stands shameless in the middle of the room as you work around her. You get the feeling she would be just as shameless completely nude.
You get down to the final measurements and you kneel on the ground by her feet. You deliberately don’t look up at her as you take her inseam. The air turns heavy and cold. You know if you were to look above the floor and your notebook, you would see her calculating eyes watching you.
The whole process takes maybe a minute, but you’re unendingly grateful when you can back away from her.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” you say, still avoiding her eyes. You leave the room before she can say anything in response.
You’re halfway into plugging her measurements into an excel spreadsheet when she breezes past you, once again clothed. Fresh lipstick, you note.
“I’ll be here to pick my order up in two weeks, I trust that will be enough time?”
You want to protest and say you need nearly triple that. Then she arches an eyebrow and you think better of it.
“Of course,” you end up saying, “Can I have a name for the order?”
“The Handler.” She scribbles something down on a piece of paper and uses it to blot her lipstick. The resulting stain doesn’t manage to obscure the phone number written there.
“Call me once they’re done,” she says with a self-satisfied smile. She leaves before you even know what’s happening, flimsy printer paper still clutched in your hand.
“What the fuck was that?" you say aloud to an empty shop. The shop doesn’t respond. You sit down and it feels like the room is shifting around you. Your eyes fall on the wad of cash left for you on your counter. You debate whether or not to count it.
You have to. You’re too nosy to wait. You unfold the neat bundle of bills and rifle through them, hands tracing more money than you’ve held in your life. Part of you wants to put it in a pile and jump into like Scrooge McDuck. (Though, it would make a pitiful pile. Maybe if you converted it into ones.)
“What the fuck,” you repeat when you finally count out the wad of cash the Handler left you. $4751. 95 $50 bills and a lone $1 you’re sure slipped in there by mistake.
Four thousand seven hundred and fifty one dollars.
A dress from you, depending on how complex it is, usually costs around $300. Your skin crawls and for the first time since she arrived you let yourself imagine what kind of person carries that kind of money.
Best case scenario, she’s a bank robber. Or a wealthy recluse.
Worst case….
You flip the sign three hours too early and close up for the day. Your hands are still shaking by the time you make it to your car.