Meg Cabot - Queen Of Babble - In The Big City

But Monsieur Henri had managed to get them back to their original snowy-whiteness. He either had a way with fabrics, or some kind of wicked chemicals in his back room.

“Because,” I say slowly. “I just moved here to New York from Michigan, and I’m looking for a job—”

“Maurice didn’t send you?” Monsieur Henri’s eyes are still narrowed suspiciously.

“No,” I say. Really, what is going on here? “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Madame Henri—who has stood at her much taller husband’s side, peeking around his arm at my portfolio—gives me the once-over, her gaze taking in everything from my perky ponytail (Mrs. Erickson advised me to keep my hair out of my eyes), to the Joseph Ribkoff sheath dress I’m wearing beneath a vintage beaded cardigan (it’s gotten chillier outside since I arrived in New York. Summer isn’t quite gone, but fall is definitely in the air).

“Jean, I believe her,” she says to her husband in French. “Look at her. Maurice would not send someone as stupid as she is to trick us.”

I want to yell “Hey!” in an enraged voice and stomp out of their shop in a huff, since I perfectly understood that she’d just called me stupid.

But on the other hand, I can see that Monsieur Henri has turned the page and is looking at the before-and-after shots I took of Luke’s cousin Vicky’s hideous self-designed wedding gown, which I managed to salvage into something semidecent (though in the end she chose the Givenchy I repaired instead). He actually seems interested.

So instead I say, “I had to do all that by hand,” referring to the stitching on Vicky’s dress. “Because I was traveling at the time, and didn’t have my Singer.”

“This is hand-done?” he asks, squinting at the photo, then reaching for a pair of bifocals tucked away in his shirt pocket.

“Yes,” I say, trying hard not to look at his wife. Stupid! Well, what does she know? She obviously can’t read. Because it says right on my résumé that I’m a University of Michigan grad. Or I will be in January, anyway. The University of Michigan doesn’t accept stupid people… even if their fathersare supervisors at the cyclotron.

“You took out the rust stains,” Monsieur Henri says, “without chemicals?”

“Just cream of tartar,” I say. “I soaked it overnight.”

Monsieur Henri says, somewhat proudly, “Here we too do not use chemicals. That is how we received our endorsement from the Association of Bridal Consultants and became Certified Wedding-Gown Specialists.”

I don’t know how to reply to that. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as certified wedding-gown specialists. So I just say, “Sweet.”

Madame Henri elbows her husband.

“Tell her,” she says in French. “Tell her the other thing.”

Monsieur Henri peers down at me through the lenses of his eyeglasses. “The National Bridal Service gave us their highest recommendation.”

“That is more than they have ever given that cochon Maurice!” Madame Henri cries.

I think calling this poor Maurice guy—whoever he is—a pig might be a bit much.

Especially since I’ve never heard of the National Bridal Service, either.

But again I manage, for once in my life, to keep my mouth shut. There are two wedding gowns on dressmaker’s dummies in the window of the tiny shop. They’re restoration refurbishments, according to the placard in front of them… and they’re exquisite. One is covered in seed pearls that dangle like raindrops, glistening in the sun. And the other is a complicated confection of lacy ruffles that my fingers itch to touch, in order to figure out how they were created.

Mrs. Erickson was right. Monsieur Henri knows his stuff. I could learn a lot from him—not just about sewing, either, but about running a successful business.

Too bad Madame Henri is such a—

“This is a very stressful job,” Monsieur Henri goes on. “The women who come to us… to them, this is the most important day of their lives. Their gown must be absolutely perfect, and yet delivered on time.”

“I’m a total perfectionist myself,” I say. “I’ve stayed up all night to finish gowns when I didn’t even have to.”

Monsieur Henri doesn’t even appear to be listening. “Our clients can be very demanding. One day they want one thing. The next day, something else—”

“I’m completely flexible,” I say. “And I’m also very good with people. You might even say I’m a people person.” Oh, God. Did I just say that? “But I would never let a client pick something that isn’t flattering.”

“This is a family-run business,” Monsieur Henri says with sudden—and alarming—finality, closing my portfolio with a loud snap. “I am not looking to hire outsiders.”

“But—” No. He is not turning me away. I have to know how he made those ruffles. “I know I’m not family. But I’m good. And what I don’t know—I’m a very quick learner.”

“Non,”Monsieur Henri says. “It is no use. I built this business for my sons—”

“Who want nothing to do with it,” his wife says bitterly in French. “You know that, Jean. All those lazy pigs want to do is go to the discotheque.”

Hmmm. Her own sons are pigs, too? Also… discotheque?

“—and I do all my own work,” Monsieur Henri continues loftily.

“Right,” Madame Henri snorts. “That’s why you have no time for me anymore. Or your sons. They run so wild because you are always here at the shop. And what about your heart? The doctor said you’ve got to reduce your stress levels, or you’ll have a stroke. You keep saying you want to work less, leave the shop to someone else to run sometimes, so we can spend more time in Provence. But do you do anything about this? Of course not.”

“I live right around the corner,” I say, trying not to let them catch on that I understand every word they’re saying. “I can be here whenever you want me. If, you know, you want to spend more time with your family.”

Madame Henri’s gaze locks onto mine. “Perhaps,” she murmurs, in her native tongue, “she is not so stupid after all.”

“Please,” I say, fighting down an urge to yell,If I’m so stupid, would I be living on Fifth Avenue? Because, of course, people who judge you by what avenue you live on are stupid. “Your gowns are so beautiful. I want to open a shop of my own someday. So it only makes sense that I’d want to learn from the best. And I have references. You can call the manager of the last shop I worked in—”

“Non,”Monsieur Henri says. “Non,I am not interested.”

And he shoves my résumé back at me.

“Who’s stupid now?” his wife demands tartly.

But Monsieur Henri—perhaps because he’s seen the tears that have suddenly sprung up in my eyes… which, I know. Crying! At a job interview! — seems to soften.

“Mademoiselle,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “It is not that I don’t think you have talent. It is that we are a very small shop. And my sons, they are in college now. This is very expensive. I cannot afford to pay another person.”

And then I hear four words come trickling out of my mouth—like spit does, while I sleep—that I never in a million years would have guessed I’d ever say. And immediately after I’ve spoken, I want to shoot myself. But it’s too late. They’re already out there.

“I’ll work for free.”

God! No! What am I saying?

Except that it’s seemed to work. Monsieur Henri looks intrigued. And his wife is smiling as if she’s just won the lottery or something.

“An internship, you mean?” Monsieur Henri lowers his bifocals to look at me more closely.

“I… I… ” Oh God. How am I going to get out of this one? Especially since I’m not even sure I want to. “I guess so. And then when you see how hard I work, maybe you could consider promoting me to a paid position.”