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Seller of Soles
by:
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Chapter 1:- Enigma
“’The drug trafficking charges against Monty Flint were dropped yesterday due to lack of evidence’,” November Cole read aloud from the article displayed on her Mac.
Clickitty Clack, November’s shoe boutique, would open in half an hour. She had taken last night's deposits to the bank, prepped the register, and now sat with her organic soy latte at the computer reading the news to her employees.
She did this every morning. Her customers were always up on current events, so her employees were required to be the same. They had already discussed the recent recession, the latest political scandal, and a new sculpture exhibit opening at the Museum of Modern Art.
Rose, November’s closest friend and senior manager, balanced on a stepladder tying bits of gold satin to the new window display. Kimberly, their golden-haired teenage summer salesperson, checked in new shipments while trying on everything in her size. They both paused to hear the rest of the story.
“The reputed mob boss was released today and says he is happy to be with his wife, Karen, and their three children. Rumors that his organization intimidated witnesses and destroyed evidence were fiercely denied. 'I have a great respect for the law,' he told reporters. 'I have never broken the law and had no reason to hide anything or threaten anyone.' The San Francisco police had no comment.”
“Of course not,” Rose shook her head. Her chin-length black hair swished against her cheeks. “Flint made them look stupid and they’re furious.”
“It’s just like in The Godfather,” Kimberly said. “He gets others to do the dirty work and he keeps his hands clean. It would be so cool to have that much power.”
“Don’t romanticize the mob, Kim,” Rose said. “It's not like it is in the movies. And take those Louboutins off. I want them for the display and you're stretching the leather.”
Kimberly shrugged and began unbuckling the brown leather boots. "Any more news?" she asked.
"The usual," November said. "The market is worse than ever. Unemployment has reached eighteen percent here in California, one of the worst in the country. It's amazing that we're doing as well as we are, all things considered."
"Have sales dropped?" Rose asked.
"Of course," November frowned and tugged thoughtfully on the lock of red hair that refused to stay behind her shoulder. "But we'll survive. I think we can assume most of our customers are not among the eighteen percent. What's in your box, Kim?"
“The new Manolos,” Kimberly said, “and the special orders from Jimmy Choo are in the corner.”
“I’ll take the Jimmy Choos,” Rose said, putting the last touches on her display. She had placed the brown boots, red patent leather pumps, and gold flats on brown velvet hearts and finished it off with satin leaves in gold, red, orange, and brown. November left her computer to admire Rose's handiwork--she was sure it would be the prettiest display on Union Square.
Satisfied on this point, November scanned the sales floor. The hardwood floor was swept and polished, every display had been dusted and the shoes set in attractive positions. Above the displays hung large watercolors, expressing San Francisco landmarks with loving detail and eye-catching sparkle. Coit Tower rose above the new Proenza Schoulers. China Town spread across the Prada and Frye displays. The Golden Gate Bridge at sundown, the most enchanting of all, held the place of honor directly above the registers.
Customers often complimented November on her clever decision to give her shoe boutique a stylish, artistic air. November accepted their compliments, but always passed them on to the true genius behind the concept--Rose.
Rose worked as a sales manager to pay the bills, but was an artist by profession. She was struggling without a formal patron, but November was acting the part by displaying Rose’s work on the walls of her boutique. They had sold three this way so far.
“Are the Mortiers there?” November asked, her black stilettos clicking as she stepped back into the office. “Customers have been asking for them.”
“Yes,” Kimberly said, popping her head out of the stockroom. “Do you want me to set them up?”
“No,” November said quickly. “I’ll do it.”
She took the boxes from Kimberly. Rose bit back a smile and began phoning customers about their newly-arrived orders.
Kim was a sweet girl, and an excellent salesperson, but she had no eye for displays.
November set the Mortier shoes on their shelf in the back corner. They had sent sandals again, which were no longer in demand with autumn in full swing, and only twelve pairs. It was the same every month. Twelve pairs of shoes, all in size ten or eleven and each pair a different color. Larger sizes were difficult to sell, but November was not worried. Mortiers always sold.
She had never heard of the designer Jean Mortier until the rep came through the door six years earlier, displaying his work. One look and November was sold. The shoes were colorful and beautifully made, though often in styles too extreme for her personal taste.
Rose had objected at first, mainly due to the pricing Mortier insisted on. Two thousand dollars a pair was unusually steep, even for November’s shop, which only carried shoes from the top designers. Besides, Rose had argued, who had ever heard of Jean Mortier? His name was never mentioned in fashion magazines and Gayle Afton, their best salesperson and acknowledged authority on the fashion world, had never heard of him.
November, in love with the new designs, had overruled Rose's objections and Gayle's qualms. From then on, Clickitty Clack received Mortiers every month and, in spite of the high price tags, the shoes never stayed on the shelf more than two days.
November, seeing this happen month after month, requested more frequent shipments, but Mortier refused. They made a limited number of each style and she would have to make do with what they sent.
Occasionally, a single box of shoes would arrive with a customer's name on the package. These shoes, the rep told her over the phone, had been purchased elsewhere and the customer had requested to pick them up at her store.
Rose soon withdrew her objections, but Gayle, one of November's employees, had a few of her own. She was impressed by the quality and style of the Mortiers, and scanned the fashion ads for any mention of these best-selling shoes. She Googled Jean Mortier and called her fashion connections, but could find no evidence of him. When she discussed her concerns, November shook her head. As long as they sold, she argued, what did it matter?
November finished the Mortier display just as Rose unlocked the doors.
Two customers, who had been waiting impatiently, pushed their way into the store.
One, a slim lady dressed in Vera Wang, insisted she be allowed to try on every pair of Marc Jacobs heels in her size. November came forward smiling and glanced at the woman's feet. Her brain took in the shoes and spat out an instant, and accurate assessment.
Two-inch black pumps, size 8, and made of plastic meant to look like patent leather. Bought at Target, or maybe Payless, about six months ago, on sale.
Which means, November thought, she can't afford the real deal and is here to indulge her passion for high end footwear.
Many of her customers fell into this category and November was sympathetic, but it meant at least an hour of shuttling shoes from the back room and she didn't have the patience at the moment. "Rose would be delighted to help you."
Rose came forward smiling, but sent November a grimace when the woman wasn't looking.
The other customer, a tall man in a black overcoat, was less typical.
Generic brown leather lace-ups bought at Macy's or Nordstrom at least a year ago. Men's Size 12. Decent quality, but not outrageously expensive, and well-worn. Scuffed on the toes and scratched on the sides.
This was a man who shopped for himself, and was concerned with comfort rather than fashion. A single man, or unhappily married, with a decent job and an active lifestyle.
And November recognized his shoes. She had seen him before and knew exactly why he was there.
Sure enough, he walked directly to the Mortier display and grabbed a pair of bright yellow sandals.
“I’ll take these,” he told November.
"Did you want to check the size?" she asked.
"No," he said. "I know they will fit. And I don't need a bag. I'm in a hurry."
“Certainly, sir. Kimberly will help you at the counter,” November directed him.
A high-pitched, but musical voice interrupted with: “Kim's with a customer.”
The owner of the voice, a petite blond woman in her mid-forties, walked briskly across the sales floor and settled behind the counter with a large, red-lipped smile. She pulled her gold and pearl name-tag, reading 'Gayle' in bold, curvy letters, over her head and straightened the chain. “I’ll help you, sir. Let me get their box for you and--”
"I don't want the box," the man snapped. "I just want the shoes."
Gayle blinked. "Certainly. You must be in a terrible hurry. I suppose your wife broke a heel? I had to buy a new pair last week when that happened to me on the way to a party. My favorite pair too--gold Jimmy Choo's! I could have cried--"
"I don't want to talk about your broken shoe," the man said, his cheeks turning dark red. "I just want the shoes. Now."
"Sign this receipt and you're on your way," Gayle said, forcing a smile.
The man scribbled an illegible line across the paper and stomped out of the shop just as two ladies walked through the door at the same time gossiping happily. He bumped into one of them, knocking her off balance. Her friend caught her, but she dropped her black leather handbag and two large shopping bags. He didn't stop to apologize or help and before she had collected her scattered belongings, he was gone.
Kimberly ran forward to assist the ladies and cheered them with her sunny smile and a large selection of gorgeous shoes.
Rose's shoe-loving customer was in a corner sighing at the sight of her feet clad in smooth creamy leather. Rose kept an eye on her as she joined the other three gathered near the ice water behind the counter.
"Well!" Gayle patted her platinum french twist and glared after the man. "Did you ever? What a creep!"
"I don't know why people like that shop at a place like this," Rose agreed, wrinkling her nose. "And he's not the only one. I had a lady two days ago who tried on every shoe in her size--rude the whole time--and didn't buy a thing!"
"You can't escape them," November shrugged. "Funny thing is, he'll be back. You recognized him, didn't you? He comes every month for a pair of Mortiers."
Rose shrugged. "His wife must be a collector."
"I don't think he's married," November said thoughtfully. "If he is, he's not the type to spend a dime on her, let alone two-grand. I don't get him."
"I'm telling you, there's something about the Mortiers," Gayle said, nodding toward the display with narrowed eyes. "You know they bring out the worst in people."
"You mean they bring out the worst people," Rose said, exchanging amused glances with November.
Kimberly, walking by with a stack of boxes, laughed.
November grinned. "Well, until we see evidence that Mortiers are evil incarnate, let's get back to work. Kim has the floor and I think I'll join her. Rose, I think your lady is ready to put something on hold. Gayle, I've been thinking and I'd love it if you could call your contact in Paris and find out what's going on with New York Fashion Week this year. I want to know who's using what and when."
"You got it boss," Gayle saluted with two manicured nails. "But I'm right about those Mortiers. I'd bet my entire collection on it."
As she spoke, three more customers pushed through the doors and business picked up again. Within the next hour, three of the twelve Mortiers were gone.
Copyright © 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Laura Lyle
“’The drug trafficking charges against Monty Flint were dropped yesterday due to lack of evidence’,” November Cole read aloud from the article displayed on her Mac.
Clickitty Clack, November’s shoe boutique, would open in half an hour. She had taken last night's deposits to the bank, prepped the register, and now sat with her organic soy latte at the computer reading the news to her employees.
She did this every morning. Her customers were always up on current events, so her employees were required to be the same. They had already discussed the recent recession, the latest political scandal, and a new sculpture exhibit opening at the Museum of Modern Art.
Rose, November’s closest friend and senior manager, balanced on a stepladder tying bits of gold satin to the new window display. Kimberly, their golden-haired teenage summer salesperson, checked in new shipments while trying on everything in her size. They both paused to hear the rest of the story.
“The reputed mob boss was released today and says he is happy to be with his wife, Karen, and their three children. Rumors that his organization intimidated witnesses and destroyed evidence were fiercely denied. 'I have a great respect for the law,' he told reporters. 'I have never broken the law and had no reason to hide anything or threaten anyone.' The San Francisco police had no comment.”
“Of course not,” Rose shook her head. Her chin-length black hair swished against her cheeks. “Flint made them look stupid and they’re furious.”
“It’s just like in The Godfather,” Kimberly said. “He gets others to do the dirty work and he keeps his hands clean. It would be so cool to have that much power.”
“Don’t romanticize the mob, Kim,” Rose said. “It's not like it is in the movies. And take those Louboutins off. I want them for the display and you're stretching the leather.”
Kimberly shrugged and began unbuckling the brown leather boots. "Any more news?" she asked.
"The usual," November said. "The market is worse than ever. Unemployment has reached eighteen percent here in California, one of the worst in the country. It's amazing that we're doing as well as we are, all things considered."
"Have sales dropped?" Rose asked.
"Of course," November frowned and tugged thoughtfully on the lock of red hair that refused to stay behind her shoulder. "But we'll survive. I think we can assume most of our customers are not among the eighteen percent. What's in your box, Kim?"
“The new Manolos,” Kimberly said, “and the special orders from Jimmy Choo are in the corner.”
“I’ll take the Jimmy Choos,” Rose said, putting the last touches on her display. She had placed the brown boots, red patent leather pumps, and gold flats on brown velvet hearts and finished it off with satin leaves in gold, red, orange, and brown. November left her computer to admire Rose's handiwork--she was sure it would be the prettiest display on Union Square.
Satisfied on this point, November scanned the sales floor. The hardwood floor was swept and polished, every display had been dusted and the shoes set in attractive positions. Above the displays hung large watercolors, expressing San Francisco landmarks with loving detail and eye-catching sparkle. Coit Tower rose above the new Proenza Schoulers. China Town spread across the Prada and Frye displays. The Golden Gate Bridge at sundown, the most enchanting of all, held the place of honor directly above the registers.
Customers often complimented November on her clever decision to give her shoe boutique a stylish, artistic air. November accepted their compliments, but always passed them on to the true genius behind the concept--Rose.
Rose worked as a sales manager to pay the bills, but was an artist by profession. She was struggling without a formal patron, but November was acting the part by displaying Rose’s work on the walls of her boutique. They had sold three this way so far.
“Are the Mortiers there?” November asked, her black stilettos clicking as she stepped back into the office. “Customers have been asking for them.”
“Yes,” Kimberly said, popping her head out of the stockroom. “Do you want me to set them up?”
“No,” November said quickly. “I’ll do it.”
She took the boxes from Kimberly. Rose bit back a smile and began phoning customers about their newly-arrived orders.
Kim was a sweet girl, and an excellent salesperson, but she had no eye for displays.
November set the Mortier shoes on their shelf in the back corner. They had sent sandals again, which were no longer in demand with autumn in full swing, and only twelve pairs. It was the same every month. Twelve pairs of shoes, all in size ten or eleven and each pair a different color. Larger sizes were difficult to sell, but November was not worried. Mortiers always sold.
She had never heard of the designer Jean Mortier until the rep came through the door six years earlier, displaying his work. One look and November was sold. The shoes were colorful and beautifully made, though often in styles too extreme for her personal taste.
Rose had objected at first, mainly due to the pricing Mortier insisted on. Two thousand dollars a pair was unusually steep, even for November’s shop, which only carried shoes from the top designers. Besides, Rose had argued, who had ever heard of Jean Mortier? His name was never mentioned in fashion magazines and Gayle Afton, their best salesperson and acknowledged authority on the fashion world, had never heard of him.
November, in love with the new designs, had overruled Rose's objections and Gayle's qualms. From then on, Clickitty Clack received Mortiers every month and, in spite of the high price tags, the shoes never stayed on the shelf more than two days.
November, seeing this happen month after month, requested more frequent shipments, but Mortier refused. They made a limited number of each style and she would have to make do with what they sent.
Occasionally, a single box of shoes would arrive with a customer's name on the package. These shoes, the rep told her over the phone, had been purchased elsewhere and the customer had requested to pick them up at her store.
Rose soon withdrew her objections, but Gayle, one of November's employees, had a few of her own. She was impressed by the quality and style of the Mortiers, and scanned the fashion ads for any mention of these best-selling shoes. She Googled Jean Mortier and called her fashion connections, but could find no evidence of him. When she discussed her concerns, November shook her head. As long as they sold, she argued, what did it matter?
November finished the Mortier display just as Rose unlocked the doors.
Two customers, who had been waiting impatiently, pushed their way into the store.
One, a slim lady dressed in Vera Wang, insisted she be allowed to try on every pair of Marc Jacobs heels in her size. November came forward smiling and glanced at the woman's feet. Her brain took in the shoes and spat out an instant, and accurate assessment.
Two-inch black pumps, size 8, and made of plastic meant to look like patent leather. Bought at Target, or maybe Payless, about six months ago, on sale.
Which means, November thought, she can't afford the real deal and is here to indulge her passion for high end footwear.
Many of her customers fell into this category and November was sympathetic, but it meant at least an hour of shuttling shoes from the back room and she didn't have the patience at the moment. "Rose would be delighted to help you."
Rose came forward smiling, but sent November a grimace when the woman wasn't looking.
The other customer, a tall man in a black overcoat, was less typical.
Generic brown leather lace-ups bought at Macy's or Nordstrom at least a year ago. Men's Size 12. Decent quality, but not outrageously expensive, and well-worn. Scuffed on the toes and scratched on the sides.
This was a man who shopped for himself, and was concerned with comfort rather than fashion. A single man, or unhappily married, with a decent job and an active lifestyle.
And November recognized his shoes. She had seen him before and knew exactly why he was there.
Sure enough, he walked directly to the Mortier display and grabbed a pair of bright yellow sandals.
“I’ll take these,” he told November.
"Did you want to check the size?" she asked.
"No," he said. "I know they will fit. And I don't need a bag. I'm in a hurry."
“Certainly, sir. Kimberly will help you at the counter,” November directed him.
A high-pitched, but musical voice interrupted with: “Kim's with a customer.”
The owner of the voice, a petite blond woman in her mid-forties, walked briskly across the sales floor and settled behind the counter with a large, red-lipped smile. She pulled her gold and pearl name-tag, reading 'Gayle' in bold, curvy letters, over her head and straightened the chain. “I’ll help you, sir. Let me get their box for you and--”
"I don't want the box," the man snapped. "I just want the shoes."
Gayle blinked. "Certainly. You must be in a terrible hurry. I suppose your wife broke a heel? I had to buy a new pair last week when that happened to me on the way to a party. My favorite pair too--gold Jimmy Choo's! I could have cried--"
"I don't want to talk about your broken shoe," the man said, his cheeks turning dark red. "I just want the shoes. Now."
"Sign this receipt and you're on your way," Gayle said, forcing a smile.
The man scribbled an illegible line across the paper and stomped out of the shop just as two ladies walked through the door at the same time gossiping happily. He bumped into one of them, knocking her off balance. Her friend caught her, but she dropped her black leather handbag and two large shopping bags. He didn't stop to apologize or help and before she had collected her scattered belongings, he was gone.
Kimberly ran forward to assist the ladies and cheered them with her sunny smile and a large selection of gorgeous shoes.
Rose's shoe-loving customer was in a corner sighing at the sight of her feet clad in smooth creamy leather. Rose kept an eye on her as she joined the other three gathered near the ice water behind the counter.
"Well!" Gayle patted her platinum french twist and glared after the man. "Did you ever? What a creep!"
"I don't know why people like that shop at a place like this," Rose agreed, wrinkling her nose. "And he's not the only one. I had a lady two days ago who tried on every shoe in her size--rude the whole time--and didn't buy a thing!"
"You can't escape them," November shrugged. "Funny thing is, he'll be back. You recognized him, didn't you? He comes every month for a pair of Mortiers."
Rose shrugged. "His wife must be a collector."
"I don't think he's married," November said thoughtfully. "If he is, he's not the type to spend a dime on her, let alone two-grand. I don't get him."
"I'm telling you, there's something about the Mortiers," Gayle said, nodding toward the display with narrowed eyes. "You know they bring out the worst in people."
"You mean they bring out the worst people," Rose said, exchanging amused glances with November.
Kimberly, walking by with a stack of boxes, laughed.
November grinned. "Well, until we see evidence that Mortiers are evil incarnate, let's get back to work. Kim has the floor and I think I'll join her. Rose, I think your lady is ready to put something on hold. Gayle, I've been thinking and I'd love it if you could call your contact in Paris and find out what's going on with New York Fashion Week this year. I want to know who's using what and when."
"You got it boss," Gayle saluted with two manicured nails. "But I'm right about those Mortiers. I'd bet my entire collection on it."
As she spoke, three more customers pushed through the doors and business picked up again. Within the next hour, three of the twelve Mortiers were gone.
Copyright © 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Laura Lyle
