First customers

Margot starts you on inventory tagging—a simple enough task that involves small adhesive labels, a pricing gun, and a stack of new arrivals that need logging into the system. The theory from the book helps: you understand why the silk charmeuse blouses are priced higher than the cotton voile ones, why the Italian wool in the structured jackets commands a premium. But the physical mechanics of retail—the way you hold a garment to check the tag without stretching the fabric, the angle at which you fold a silk scarf for display—those are things Margot has to show you.

"Support the weight from the center, not the corners," she says, demonstrating with a cashmere wrap. "Silk and cashmere remember how they've been handled. Treat them like they're alive."

You practice. Your folds are clumsy at first—too tight, leaving creases—but by the third scarf, your hands find a rhythm.

The first hour passes in quiet concentration. No customers. The shop is still, sunlight streaming through the tall windows, dust motes floating in the beams. You tag, fold, arrange. Margot works on the computer behind the counter, occasionally calling out corrections.

"Is it always this quiet?" you ask eventually, straightening a rack of linen trousers.

"Mornings are slow. The regulars come after lunch. But weekends pick up—Saturday especially." She glances at you over her reading glasses. "You'll see."

At eleven, the bell chimes.

Three girls push through the door in a cluster—late teens, maybe seventeen or eighteen. The first is tall with a sharp bob of black hair and an oversized vintage blazer thrown over a cropped tank top. The second is shorter, curvy, with box braids piled high and gold hoops that catch the light. The third hangs back slightly—wiry, freckled, red-haired, wearing an oversized cardigan that looks deliberately thrifted.

They move through the shop with purpose, fingers trailing along racks, pulling pieces out to examine construction. The tall one flips a blouse inside out to check the seams.

They're checking the seams. They know what they're looking at.

"Anything new in the spring rotation?" the tall one asks, not looking up from a dove-grey wrap dress she's holding against herself.

Margot catches your eye from behind the counter. A slight nod. Your turn.

You step forward, and something clicks into place—the empathy training, the years of reading body language, the instinct for finding the conversational entry point.

"We got three new pieces Tuesday. The wrap dress you're holding is one—Italian viscose, bias cut, so it'll move with you instead of against you." You pause. "The seam work is hand-finished on the hem."

The tall girl looks up. Her eyes narrow—not suspicious, but assessing. "You're new."

"First day."

"I'm Priya." She extends a hand, then gestures to her companions. "That's Janelle, and the one hiding behind the cardigan fort is Wren."

"Riley."

Janelle drifts over, running her fingers along a rack of silk blouses. "These are gorgeous. The color saturation on this burgundy is insane."

"It's a dupioni silk," you say, and the words from Margot's book flow naturally. "The irregular slubs in the weave catch light differently than regular silk—gives it that texture."

Wren peeks out from her cardigan. "You actually know about fabric? Most shop assistants just say 'it's nice.'"

"I'm studying," you admit with a grin. "Tell me what you think of this one instead."

The next twenty minutes dissolve into easy conversation—Priya debating whether the wrap dress works with her proportions, Janelle pulling pieces and building outfits on the mannequin near the window, Wren quietly offering opinions that turn out to be sharper and more informed than anyone else's. You find yourself laughing, suggesting pairings, asking what they're dressing for.

From behind the counter, Margot watches with her arms crossed, a faint smile on her lips.