1
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life in my 75 years is that one person can have the ability to change and influence your life in immeasurable lengths. Even the smallest of acquaintances can tip the scales of your life just enough in either the right or the bad side, and all it takes is a small push. Now, this is not my story, but I tell it as if it were, because from then on, my life has depended on a single watershed moment that happened nearly 50 years ago.
I was 25 at the time and with no money to my name. Both of my parents had died a year before and I had to take care of my younger brother by myself. I worked odds and ends jobs whenever and wherever I could find them to be able to pay the rent of our small dilapidated apartment and buy food. I worked as a babysitter, an assistant baker, a pigsty handler, a cleaning person, a shoe shiner… you get the idea. It was hard, but I always made it work. There was never a day when my brother wanted for anything in his life.
My dream was to become a fashion designer. I kept a notebook in my nightstand full of cloth designs I’d come up with on my own. They weren’t perfect, but they weren’t half bad, either. I thought I could probably make it in the fashion industry, but I also knew that without money or contacts, it would be near impossible to be part of the fashion community, let alone become a designer myself.
One day, as I was making my way home from my current job through the city, I finally made my fate. It was a rainy day, and I was walking sullenly on the sidewalk. I really thought this would be the job I’d be able to keep, but my employer, a wiry old man who communicated with grunts rather than words, had informed me earlier that I wouldn’t be required the next day. I could collect my final paycheck and leave. I did just that, and was now thinking about where to apply for a job next. Maybe the local tailor was hiring an assistant, perhaps—
As I was trying to figure out where I could apply, a car came rolling on the street at high speed, way to close to the sidewalk and drenched me from top to bottom in sewer water. I gasped and wiped my eyes. Cursing in my mind and looking back at the black car. To my astonishment, it had stopped. I hadn’t thought the driver would stop, as in my experience people who do this are inconsiderate and oblivious to others’ feelings. But they had indeed stopped, and a tall, burly man dressed in a tuxedo came emerged from the car and looked at me.
“You, come here,” he told me.
I tensed. Me? I mouthed. What was he going to do to me? He nodded, and I walked up to the car cautiously. As I approached, the man opened the back door of the car and gestured me in. Inside, a woman was talking.
“…what did you do to this poor woman, Sean? Are you okay?” she asked me.
That was my first impression of Mrs. Laurette. And what I took away from that day, as insignificant as it might see, to some people, was that she called me woman, not girl. I had gotten used to everyone calling me girl, even though I was 25. But she didn’t that time, and she didn’t do it after, either.
“I’m fine, I guess. Just… drenched.” I extended my arms as if to demonstrate, and laughed nervously.
“Well, that needs to be fixed, doesn’t it? Get in.”
“But, ma’am, your car.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that. Nothing a dozen scrubbing men can’t remove.” I knew she meant it as a jape, but it embarrassed me more. She noticed and added, “Get in, get in, it’s just a car!”
So, I obliged. She asked me where I was going, so I told her. “Very well. We’ll go to my apartment to get you changed and then I’ll have Shane give you a ride home.” Shane looked at us in the mirror and gave a quick nod. “What’s your name, by the way?” she asked me.
“Uh… Paula London, ma’am.”
“Well, pleased to meet you, Paula. I’m Antoinette Laurette.” She offered her hand. Mine was covered in muck, so I simply offered the back of my wrist as a kind of awkward fist-bump. She looked exasperated, but bumped it anyway.
“Wait,” I said after a minute of turning her name in my head. “Laurette? Like, you know… the Laurette Fashion Company?”
“Yes, just as in that Laurette.”
My jaw dropped. “You are Madame Laurette. You’re one of the most accomplished and talented fashion designers in the world.” I’d completely forgotten my situation and was gushing with praise at her.
“Please, dear. Call me Mrs. Laurette here,” she demanded, but a smile played on her lips.
“Oh, sure,” I replied. “Whatever you say.”
We drove in silence for a while, and in my mind, I pondered the question of asking her to see my notebook. I thought that maybe I was overstepping my boundaries, but I was really in a once-in-a-lifetime situation here, and I didn’t want to ruin my chance.
“Mrs. Laurette?” I said after a while.
“Yes?” she removed her eyes from the window and looked at me.
“You see, um… I, um…”
“Just tell me, dear. Don’t be afraid of my answer, just focus on your question.”
I nodded. “You see, I keep a notebook at home with my own fashion designs and ideas. It’s kind of my hobby, and I’ve always dreamed of making it my career, so I was—”
“You were wondering if I could take a look. Sure, why not? It’s the least I could do, after what we did to you.” I muttered my thanks and kept silent for the rest of the drive.
Once we were in her apartment, she provided me with a new pair of bell bottom jeans and a gorgeous long-sleeved lace blouse with small hear designs at the hem. She removed my leather boots and socks, which were soggy and brown with mud, and provided me with a new pair of Laurette-branded high heels.
“This is not a high-heel weather, but you don’t need them to walk, since you’ll be driven home,” she told me.
All in all, she’d given me about $400 in clothes. I thanked her and promised to return everything to her with Shane, along with my notebook.
“Nonsense!” she waved a dismissive hand. “This is yours; you can keep it. God knows I have enough already. Just make sure to send me the notebook, okay?”
Once home, I retrieved the notebook and gave it to Shane. Before, however, I grabbed a pen and scribbled my name and phone number on the first page, just in case Mrs. Laurette wanted to contact me after.
I waited expectantly for a week, but nothing happened. She didn’t call me, and neither did she return my notebook. I had to start designing on loose sheets of paper which were about to run out. Money was tight, too, and I couldn’t, for the life of me, find a new job.
Two days, later, my phone rang. I ran to answer it, my heart beating a mile an hour, and almost jumped for joy when I heard Mrs. Laurette’s voice on the other end.
“Paula, I love your designs so much! I think you really have a future in this business. If you’re interested, you could come and work as my assistant. I could use some help.”
I was so ecstatic, that I forgot to answer. I felt like I would explode in a million pieces.
“Paula? Are you still there?”
I quickly cleared my throat. “Yes, I am,” I replied, trying to keep my voice level. “I would be honor to work as your assistant, Mrs. Laurette.”
“Marvelous! I’ll meet you tomorrow at nine on the dot.” And she hung up.
I ran to my brother’s room and hugged him tight. He’d been napping, and I scared him pretty bad. His heart was racing, and he was repeating “What is it?” over and over in my ear.
“Luck has finally smiled at me, Hec!” I confided. “I hope we’ll be able to get out of here and to a better life in some time.” I felt him relax under my embrace, and he hugged me back.
I was so excited that the next day I arrived at 8:30 instead of 9, and decided to wait outside Mrs. Laurette’s building so as to not intrude too early, but after five minutes, the doorman tapped me on the shoulder.
“Mrs. Laurette says that you can go up,” he informed me, and escorted me to the elevator.
I arrived at her penthouse apartment again. Mrs. Laurette was sitting in her armchair, all dressed up and made up. She gave me a piece of paper with the amount of money I would get per month. I almost fainted. It was enough to upgrade my brother’s school and get a prettier home in a better neighborhood. I thanked her, and then she gave me my first task. She handed me my notebook, open on the last page, where she had doodled a dress.
“Fix it,” she told me. And left.
I started changing lengths, adding lace, shortening waist, making some changes here and there. By noon, I had a completely different dress from the one she’d drawn. I went to her bedroom and knocked. She told me to come in, and I handed her the notebook.
She considered it for a while, and then said, “Very good! It could use some more work, but I like the way you think! This sash makes a great addition. The only thing I’d certainly remove is…” She grabbed an eraser and erased a boutonnière I had drawn on the dress’ lapel. You see, there had been an unspoken rule that almost everyone upheld. Women’s fancy clothes needed to have a boutonnière, no matter what they were. Mrs. Laurette appeared not to like it, though.
“It’s a stupid symbol,” she said. They try to set us apart with it, but I won’t have it. I despise those things. You see, year ago I was invited to a fashion party with other major designers. I was one of only three women. The host was Robert Pacco, the president of RP. When he saw me arrive without a boutonnière, he demanded that I wear one, so I left. I don’t think he’ll be inviting me this year. Anyway, it’s a stupid and unnecessary tradition. I’m not saying women should never wear it, just that it should be optional.”
I understood pretty quickly that Mrs. Laurette was training me rather than I assisting her. She taught me a lot and gave me hundreds of tasks, but she wasn’t always there. She’d come and go, checking my performance whenever she arrived again and giving me feedback. She taught me valuable lessons almost every day, but there was one that stuck with me the most, which she’d given me after I asked whether she thought I should add a lace to the hem of a dress or simply leave it plain: “You do you, dear. Everyone’s going to have an opinion on everything you do, and that’s something you’ll simply have to live with if you pursue this career.”
“I’ll add a boutonnière, then,” I joked.
She pursed her lips. “If that’s what you want—”
“I’m kidding! But thanks for the advice.”
About three months later, Mrs. Laurette approached me with an invitation. “Turns out Robert Pacco wants me back at his party this year,” she told me.
“Are you going?”
“Not unless you agree to come with me,” she offered, and her eyes glinted.
“Of course, that would be great!”
“Then come tomorrow at five, we’ll get ready together.”
My anxiety made me, once again, arrive almost an hour earlier. And again, the doorman told me I could go up. Mrs. Laurette and I spent the better part of an hour choosing our outfits. I decided to wear a mint dress with a satin white belt and no lace and the high heels Mrs. Laurette had gifted me on the day we met. She wore a double-breasted beige pantsuit with matching heels. No boutonnière. Then we were on our way.
I can’t remember a lot of what happened that night, so please forgive me if I can recount its events in full detail. To the best of my recollection, we arrived at seven and Mrs. Laurette introduced me to everyone. They were all very nice to me. Somehow I doubted they’d behave the same in another scenario, but I didn’t care. Robert Pacco was one of the nicest people I’d ever met. He showed me around his penthouse and made a quick joke about boutonnières when he noticed that Mrs. Laurette wasn’t wearing one (to which she responded with a cool smile and pursed lips).
When things went horribly awry was when he asked me to get a drink at the bar. I remember it distinctly, and know I can’t believe how stupid I was. He didn’t want a witness when he poured poisoned Champagne into Mrs. Laurette’s glass to make a fake toast. When I returned, she was gasping for breath on the floor. Pacco knew she’d tell someone about the boutonnière business, and he’d guessed correctly it had been me. By sending me away and made sure he had no witnesses. For all I know, everyone else was in on his plan. They told the detectives that they’d also drank from the same bottle, appearing flabbergasted. To this day, I don’t know what happened, exactly, but I know he did it.
When I saw her like almost dead on the floor, after having experienced first-hand her elegance and style, after seeing the kind of proud woman she could be, I knew I wouldn’t be able to take it, and I ran home. My Hector was asleep, but I woke him anyway, and hugged him and cried on his shoulder.
I’d thought that would be the end of everything. I thought I’d have to find a new home again and return to my irregular jobs, but I was wrong. Three days after the party, Shane knocked on my door and presented me with Mrs. Laurette’s will, in which she’d left her company to me. I’d never thought about it, but she had indeed appeared to be a really lonely woman. Other than Shane, I’d never seen anyone in her house.
In her letter to me, she mentioned that she was doing writing it now because she wouldn’t put behind Pacco doing something to her because of her slight the previous year. I guess she wanted to go so they wouldn’t think she was a coward. Like so many other things, I don’t know for sure, but that’s the story I like to tell myself. She did it to prove herself, and to let them know that she wouldn’t be swayed, ever. While I read her letter, a single line echoed in me head: You do you, dear.
And that’s the story of my short-lived acquaintance with Mrs. Laurette. As for me, I’m still running the company. People were dubious of me at first, but when they learned what I could do, they accepted me as their new leader. I came up with hundreds of ideas that gave our brand a much-needed vitalization, and we became as popular as ever. Now is my time to retire, but I am satisfied with my job. I hope Mrs. Laurette is happy, too, wherever she is. Knowing that I followed her advice to the very end.
