In the afternoon, I have my first customer when an elegant woman in her late thirties walks in. I try to remember that she’s a visitor, not yet a customer. I’m determined to turn her into one.
“You have a great selection,” she comments. “I’ve yet to see the newest collection anywhere.”
I smile. Yeah, this is what my store’s unique selling proposition should be: always carrying this season’s collections, not old ones. The downside? I must also sell each collection as soon as I bring it in before it becomes last season’s.
“What would you like to try on? With your hair and long legs, can I tempt you with an Elie Saab dress?”
“Oh, absolutely, he’s one of my favorites.”
Eying her again, I decide she’s a size four, and take an appropriate dress from the hanger. “How about this one?”
“Lovely. None of my girlfriends will have anything like it.”
I show her inside the changing room.
“This looks gorgeous on you,” I say when she comes out, parading in front of the large mirror.
“Right?” She smiles in the mirror, then turns around. Her eyes widen as she gazes at something behind me. “What is that?”
I don’t even turn around to know what she means. My dresses are in that area. She picks up the train of her Elie Saab dress and hurries to them.
“These are beautiful,” she exclaims, touching the fabric of a burgundy one. My stomach feels lighter than it has in days, but immediately plummets when she glances at the tag and skeptically asks, “Nadine Hawthorne? Never heard of her.”
“Oh, that would be me,” I murmur.
“You design?”
“Yes.”
She pinches her nose. “I’d rather have something by an established designer. No offense, but I can’t show up at a charity gala wearing a no-name outfit, even though your dresses are pretty.”
I feel like someone punched me in the gut. Sure, I expected this to some degree, which is why I store many big-name designers. But having someone throw in my face that my work is less valuable because I’m not famous is still unpleasant. How can I be known if no one buys my designs? What came first, the chicken or the egg?
I plaster on a smile. “Should I pack the Elie Saab for you?”
“Yes, please do that. I’ll tell my friends about your store. It’s pretty.”
I feel a bit more encouraged as she leaves. If more people come, some will eventually buy my designs too. But that “eventually” will come after a long time. Pippa arrives before closing time on Tuesday to pick up the dresses for the girls. I leave her alone in the front while I bring the packages from the back room.
“How’s business?” she asks when I return.
“Not much happening.”
“Well, obviously. No one knows about your gorgeous dresses.”
“Exactly,” I say miserably. “A customer told me to my face that she likes my dresses, but she can’t buy them because she’s never heard of me.”
To my astonishment, her smile grows wider. “Things will change after Summer’s gallery, if you want them to.”
“How?” I ask suspiciously.
“I can invite some established fashion bloggers.”
“Pippa, I appreciate it, but—”
“You’re stubborn and think that my pulling some strings will give you an unfair advantage, and somehow undermine your efforts.”
“Something along those lines.” Not to mention I’m terrified at the prospect of fashion bloggers seeing my babies. What if they hate them? I suppose the downside of preparing twelve years for one dream is that when you’re finally living the dream, you’re afraid anything you do might ruin it.