The Invisible Girl. Laura RubyЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter 7 What Not to Wear

      SICK WITH APPREHENSION, GURL TOOK the long walk uptown to Harvey’s, wishing that she could melt into the sidewalk. She tried to see some way out of her predicament, but what? Mrs Terwiliger had hidden the cat. And even if Gurl knew where to find her, she didn’t know how to get her away or where to take her. She felt as helpless and useless as when Digger was knocking on her head.

      But, despite the sick feeling in her gut, she did as Mrs Terwiliger had told her to; Gurl entered Harvey’s an hour before closing, pretending to browse among the $100 belts and $250 ties. Her normally straight, long hair was curled in stiff but frizzy corkscrews and she was wearing clothes that Mrs Terwiliger had given her: a lacy yellow dress, a limegreen velvet jacket, tights and white vinyl boots. She also carried an overlarge vinyl tote bag. Gurl thought the outfit made her look like a reject from the Radio City Music Hall’s annual Christmas show, but Mrs Terwiliger had insisted that the hair and clothes would allow Gurl to fit in with Harvey’s wealthy clientele until she could slip into the changing room and disappear. If this is what rich people wear, Gurl thought, then I’d rather be an orphan.

      Instead of helping her blend in, however, the outfit made Gurl stick out like a frog among peacocks. Other girls her age—and Gurl couldn’t believe there were other girls her age with a need for $250 dollar ties—wore everything but yellow dresses, lime green velvet jackets, tights and vinyl boots. These girls eyed Gurl over the racks, smirking and snickering.

      Totally humiliated—and totally itchy under all that lace and nylon—Gurl meandered back to the changing rooms with the intention of hiding until closing time. But the rooms were locked. All of them. For the plan to work, she would have to act as if she really intended to buy something.

      She milled around for ten minutes before pulling several sherbet-coloured designer dresses from the racks. Finally, she walked over to a saleswoman who was stacking $1,000 cashmere sweaters on a shelf. She took a deep breath to calm herself; she had lived her whole life in an orphanage and had only rarely talked to strangers. “Um…excuse me?” she asked the woman timidly. “Can I try these on?”

      The woman—silver haired, silver eyehadowed, silver suited and thin as a greyhound—turned and gasped, dropping all the sweaters to the floor.

      “I’m sorry,” Gurl stammered, “I just wanted—”

      “Jules,” whispered the woman, staring. And then she shouted, “Jules! Get over here! Now!”

      A man with short dark hair, tiny rectangular glasses and purple leather trousers flew out from the back room. “What are you caterwauling about, Bea? Oh. My. God.” He too stared at Gurl, his jaw hanging open.

      Gurl had no idea what they were so upset about. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your work, but I need to try—”

      “Bea,” said the man, Jules, tipping his head at Gurl meaningfully. “I think she represents the Lullaby League.” His voice was deep and yet sort of raspy-squeaky, as if he had borrowed it from an old woman with a bad smoking habit. “Or maybe,” he continued, “she represents the Lollypop Guild.” Gurl thought she detected a British accent, but then again, a lot of people in the city had British accents, though most of them weren’t British.

      Bea looked down her sharp nose at Gurl and then at the dresses she held. “She’s obviously in the theatre.”

      “Please tell us you’re in the theatre,” said Jules, clasping his hands together as if in prayer.

      “No,” said Gurl miserably. “I just wanted to try these on. Uh…I need something for…uh…my cousin’s wedding.”

      “Your cousin’s wedding,” said Bea, her lips curling. Her eyes slid down Gurl’s green jacket.

      Gurl’s palms began to sweat. These people didn’t believe her. Maybe it was the huge tote bag, she thought. Maybe they suspected she was there to steal something. They would throw Gurl out and Mrs Terwiliger would send Noodle away. Gurl couldn’t bear the thought of it. “Please,” said Gurl. “The wedding’s this weekend and my…my…grandmother will kill me if I don’t get a dress. I just need some help with a changing room.”

      “You need more help than that, young lady,” Bea said. She pursed her lips, took the dresses from Gurl’s hand and returned them to the rack. She pointed to Gurl’s jacket. “Where did you get that outfit?”

      “Uh…my grandmother bought it for me.”

      “Well, she should be brought up on charges,” Jules barked.

      Gurl didn’t disagree.

      “Do you understand what we’re saying?” asked Bea.

      Gurl burned with embarrassment and horror under the disapproving stares of the two salespeople. “I think so.”

      “Do your other clothes look like this?” said Bea in a grave tone of voice that one might normally use when discussing funeral arrangements.

      “And what,” said Jules, “is going on with your hair?”

      Bea tried to fan herself with one of the cashmere sweaters. “Is that green eyeshadow you’re wearing?”

      “Your fingernails are all broken!” said Jules. “Were you buried alive somewhere? Were you forced to dig yourself out with your bare hands? Should we call the police?”

      Bea collapsed in the pile of sweaters. “I think I need to sit down.”

      “This is no time for hysterics, Bea,” said Jules. “Is Paulo still upstairs in the salon?”

      “Yes, I think so.”

      “Tell him that he has one more client today.”

      Gurl’s eyes widened. “Oh, please, no. I just came in to buy a dress for—”

      Despite his disgust with Gurl’s outfit, Jules’s eyes were warm and kind. He took both Gurl’s hands in his own. “Darling, don’t look so upset,” he said. “We like you; we just hate your clothes. What’s your name?”

      “Gurl.”

      “Gurl?” said Jules. “How…obvious.” He turned back to Bea. “Take her to Paulo. I’ll round up some respectable clothing and set up changing room five.”

      With those orders given, Jules buzzed around, pulling items off the racks, while Bea pushed Gurl towards the staircase at the back of the store. Intent on their tasks, none of the staff responded to Gurl’s feeble protests. Paulo, the head stylist for Harvey’s salon, fainted at the sight of Gurl’s hair and had to be revived with smelling salts while Gurl was being shampooed with beer and honey. An Asian woman who smelled of lilies daubed at Gurl’s face with cucumber lotion, scowling at the eyeshadow that came away on the cloth.

      After two bracing cups of green tea, Paulo was ready to work. He hovered like a hummingbird about Gurl’s head, scissors snapping so fast and furiously that they were a silvery blur. When he was through with the cut, Gurl’s hair was gelled, blow-dried, sprayed, fluffed and gelled again. The Asian woman—“Call me Miss Coco,” she said—brushed blusher on Gurl’s cheeks and gloss on her lips. Another woman came and