Vivienne laughed. She actually laughed, tossing her platinum bob. “Sweetheart, the manager reports to the regional director, who reports to the family that owns this brand. You think a name tag scares me? Go home. Wash that coat. Maybe try our outlet in three years.” The security guard, to his credit, looked uncomfortable and stepped back. I picked up my notebook, opened it to a page of sketches — early concepts for the fall handbag line — and slid it across the counter. Vivienne glanced down, annoyed, ready to dismiss it. Then she saw the letterhead clipped to the inside cover. Her smile froze. At that exact moment the front doors chimed and Mr. Alden, the regional director, walked in with two board members trailing behind him. He spotted me across the showroom, straightened his tie, and hurried over with both hands outstretched. “Sir, I’m so sorry we’re late — traffic on Wilshire was brutal. The founder is waiting for you in the private salon upstairs. She said she wouldn’t start the design review until you arrived.” Vivienne’s hand went to her throat. The two younger clerks stopped giggling. The woman in pearls suddenly found the floor very interesting. Mr. Alden finally noticed Vivienne standing frozen behind the counter and his face changed. “Vivienne. Why is our incoming creative consultant standing in the entryway instead of the salon? And why does he look upset?” He turned to me, voice dropping. “Please tell me nothing happened.” I looked at Vivienne. She was already shaking her head, whispering no, no, no, mouthing an apology no one could hear. I didn’t answer him right away. I just tapped the notebook — the one with my name embossed in gold on the leather cover, the same name that had been on every internal memo about the boutique’s restructuring for the past six weeks — and watched her read it. Then I finally spoke, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. “Mr. Alden. Before we go upstairs, I think we need to talk about staffing.”
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