Los Angeles, 1954

Two minutes until my break was over. That was just enough time to slip into this grimy bathroom with the flickering light that Pearl refused to fix—probably because I was the only one who used it regularly, and I also refused to fix it. 

I dug into my pocket past the loose bills and change still wrapped in the receipt from my purchase. The gold bullet fit snug in my hand, almost like it conformed to my palm. With a twist, the lush and vibrant pigment of cherry red popped in and out of the light. 

One minute left, now or never—or a couple of hours until I got home. But I had to see it now, try it out before I marched back to the store and got a refund. A deep breath in, and I glided the crimson over my lips. 

My hands were a trembling mess. I’d done this so many times for Lou; I guess doing it on myself was a different skill set. One more inhale, and I lined my bottom lip, then leaned over the sink that also needed some type of work I wouldn’t dare try. That bulb was one more flare away from giving out on me, but that velvety sheen on my lips was undeniably…me. 

I wasn’t sure if this color would suit me, but the girl at the drugstore said that any woman would look fab in it—and how lucky my girlfriend was for me to buy it for her—but after swallowing down a slew of insults, I graciously handed over the money and got out of there. 

My last few seconds in the mirror passed in a blink. A knock on the other side of the door brought me back to reality, one where I couldn’t keep this on my lips. 

“Come on, Darzsa, we have customers,” I heard Ellie snap through the door.

“Be right there.” I couldn’t get a second’s peace around here. I scrubbed my mouth and flushed the tissues down the toilet that I prayed to God wouldn’t overflow.

I shoved the lipstick deep into my pocket, tore up the receipt, and chucked it. Back to work. 

***

The rest of the afternoon went by slower than usual, given how many times the bell chimed. People came in and out looking for that get-up that would guarantee their foot in the door at one of the big studios in town. Let this waist in, hem that dress, replace a button—I was over it. Alterations cost a little extra, and I was up to my neck in slips with measurements scribbled on them. 

The Thready Bee wasn’t entirely known for its customer service or efficiency, but Pearl Beauregard pulled enough strings in town; too many people owed her favors. And I was one of them. I didn’t owe her, but my dear friend Lou was impossible to deal with when he had one too many—and who knew Pearl had her hands in so many businesses? A few broken chairs and bottles at some juke joint, and now I was wasting away in this dump on his behalf. 

The only consolation was that I got the experience I needed to get closer to those bright lights. Someone worth a damn could walk out with one of my designs that I snuck onto these bogus threads, and all it took was the ratings to spike. 

I hid from a woman who couldn’t decide if she wanted a hoop skirt far too youthful for her and stuck a needle in a pin cushion when one of those very people waltzed in—his ego preceding every step.

“What are you doing back here?” Mathieu picked up one of the cowboy hats from the display and placed it on his head. “How does it look?”

“Working,” I said. “And it makes your shoulders look small.” He looked great in it, but he didn’t need the hat for that.

Mathieu returned the hat and made sure no one was around before he swept his finger over the pattern on my sweater vest. “You busy right now?”

“Why, are you going to buy something for a change?” 

“Not exactly.” Mathieu glanced at one of the dressing rooms behind me. “I bought these pants the other day, and they’re a little too loose here, and I was hoping you could give me a second opinion.” 

I snatched my hand away and spotted Ellie hanging up coats and Barb checking out a customer. “Why didn’t you ask one of the girls to do it?” They would pick the prime time to do their jobs. “You passed by them.”

“I know, but they’re not as good as you.” Mathieu wound the measuring tape hanging from my neck around his fingers. “And you know every inch of me already.”

“What an honor.” I headed to the furthest set of curtains and closed them after Mathieu stepped into the small space and sat on the bench. “Unless you have another pair of pants, you need to stand up.”

Mathieu took advantage of the few inches he had over me, a little too close given our already cramped circumstances. I politely ignored the sweet tobacco on his breath and the sweeter perfume soaked into his shirt collar. I hated when he came over straight from the studio. 

 

“She smells nice,” I mentioned, stretching out my tape, though we both knew the number. Thirty-six inches—thirty-eight when he had late nights preparing for a scene. 

“Ah, don’t be like—no need for that. Some of these older ladies want a little more than a tip of the hat.” Mathieu lifted my chin. “Anything extra is only for you.”

How sweet of him. I dodged the mirror behind him and sucked in my cheeks to stave off the reddish tint they had to be turning. He’d only be a little less charming if he had a rose stuck between his teeth. I untucked his shirt and assessed these pants that weren’t too loose, but I checked out of habit or idiocy. Probably both.

“What are you up for today?” Might as well insert some normalcy into whatever this semi-regular routine of ours was.

“I have speech lessons later.”

“Oh, is that why you sound like that?” I tugged his waistband. Perfect fit.

“I hate it, but I gotta—have to since they’re offering. Besides, it’ll pay off when I’m accepting awards in one of your suits. Then you’ll be right there, front and center.”

The only thing I hated more than the stale scent on his collar was when he talked like this. It meant a whole bunch of nothing if neither of us couldn’t even get a balcony seat at the Pantages. The odds were already stacked against us, even with the illusion of opportunity in Hollywood. But Mathieu made it sound so real when we both had nothing, and at times, all we had was each other.

Mathieu glanced at his watch and said he had to return for his evening lessons. I straightened up the dressing room, thankful Mathieu wasn’t in one of his more audacious moods or that I didn’t have to be locked in that smelly bathroom. 

“I’ll see you later, baby doll.” Mathieu kissed me before I drew open the curtains. “Did you bite your lip?”

“What if I’m busy later?” I knew I didn’t get all of it off. I covered my mouth and stepped back into my little corner of hell for the next few hours.

“Let me know when I call you, then.” Mathieu winked and was out of the door before I came up with a reply. 

I went back to rearranging the clothes on the racks and watching Ellie and Barb pretend not to flirt with each other until I hid in the back and sketched some designs. I hoped to see these same dresses, pants, and skirts in a flick or TV show one day. My dream I worked toward with Mathieu. The very thing that kept me sane dealing with those three every day. 

Our shift ended, and I packed up, beating the girls out of the door. When I got home, I pretended not to wait for the phone to ring through making dinner or preparing for the next day. I even tried to forget about that perfume. 

His one and only. That’s always what Mathieu reminded me of whenever I was too hard on him or saw past all those lessons. And despite all that and after all these years, I believed him.