The Allure of Julian Lefray (The Allure #1)(41)

“Where are you even going? What could be more important than this event?” she asked with an incredulous tone as I started to push back through the crowd.

It’s not what, it’s who.





Chapter Twenty-Four


Josephine





The world isn’t fair and I hate it. I’d searched for a night job relentlessly over the last week or so and I’d come back with exactly zero interviews and zero callbacks. You know who gets jobs in the fashion industry? Sons and daughters of people in the fashion industry. I thought there’d be a chance for me. I thought I could prove my worth and start at the bottom. Turns out, even the bottom spots are reserved for those born on the Upper West Side. Unless your surname adorns the front of a public library or is engraved in bronze above a hospital wing, chances are you’re not connected enough to land a decent job in New York. It’s like the world’s biggest sorority and I was definitely not deemed worthy enough to pledge.

After two months of living in NYC, I was just as broke as I’d been when I’d arrived on the Greyhound bus. Every paycheck from Julian went straight to paying my rent and student loans, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. I’d been searching for another position everywhere. Ideally I wanted to stay in fashion, but working retail would at least mean I was around clothing. I’d dropped off my resume everywhere: J. Crew, Madewell, Kate Spade, H&M—none of them needed someone who could only work on nights and weekends. (The ladies at Baby Gap had laughed when I’d asked if they could work around my workweek schedule. Cruel assholes.)

I had fifty dollars left in my bank account. My rent was due in three days, my loan payment was due in four, and I’d passed a delicious-smelling Chinese food restaurant on the way to the subway and had to walk right past it. (Lo mein for $15? Are people just shitting dollars these days? Who can afford that?)

“Oh, wow, what pretty dresses.”

I glanced over to the woman sitting in the subway seat beside me.

Her frizzy hair was chopped short to her shoulders. Her deep-set eyes were surrounded by wrinkles, but her lips were coated in a bright red lipstick. She repositioned her circular glasses on the bridge of her nose and stared down at the dry cleaning bag crushed on my lap.

I followed her gaze and frowned.

Yeah, they are pretty dresses. My favorite ones.

I was clutching five thrifted designer gowns I’d collected over the last few years in the hope that I’d have reasons to wear them one day. The gold, shimmery gown at the top of the pile was practically begging me to reconsider my decision. I’d only ever tried it on once.

“Are you a stylist for someone?” she asked. “Is that why you have so many gowns?”

I shook my head, staring hard at the glimmering material beneath the garment bag. “No. I’m going to sell them.”

She gaped. “Why would you do that? They’re so beautiful.”

My chest tightened and for a moment I thought I was going to unload all of my troubles on an unsuspecting stranger. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry in the middle of a stinky subway car.

“No room in my closet,” I lied, feeling my impending breakdown fighting to break to the surface.

She laughed and shook her head. “Ha. The life of the rich, I suppose.”

I didn’t bother correcting her.

When the subway arrived at my stop, I tossed the gowns over my arms to ensure they didn’t scrape on the concrete. The consignment shop I’d picked had a reputation for finding special vintage pieces. I hoped they would recognize the beauty of the gowns enough to offer decent prices.

The shop was tucked away on the first floor of an old brick building. There were no windows on the front of the shop, and had it not been for the small sign on the door, I would have walked right by it.

I pulled open the door, careful not to let the gowns fall in the process, and a small bell rang overhead, announcing my presence. I stepped through the doorway, breathing in the perfumed air. One look around the space confirmed that I was in the right place. The same way a candy store brims over with bright sugary treats, the consignment shop was practically overflowing with painstakingly curated finds. An entire wall was covered in vintage scarves and costume jewelry. Directly across the room, there were five floor-to-ceiling shelves completely packed with designer purses. Hermès, Chanel, Rebecca Minkoff, Gucci—they were all there, making me salivate on demand.

“May I help you?” a small voice asked, drawing my attention away from the rows of coveted purses.

I glanced up to see a petite woman perched behind the counter on a small wooden stool. Her bright red hair stuck out in every direction and she had a layer of blue necklaces weighing down her neck. Her black dress did little to hide her frail figure and when I stepped closer, my gaze was drawn to her wrinkled, worn hands clasped in her lap. In front of her, beside the cash register sat an old, abused sewing machine—likely to blame for the way her hands looked.

“Selling those?” she asked gently.

I shifted my gaze away from her hands, up to her gentle smile, and then I nodded.

“Well bring them here and let me see them. We’ll see what they’re worth.”

“The gold is lovely,” she said as I laid down the plastic garment bag on the counter, to the side of her sewing machine.

She slid thoughtfully off her chair and reached for the counter to balance herself. I studied her movements with care, wondering just how old she was. Her bright hair and kind eyes seemed to conceal her real age.