Mrs. Halb is one of those women who is so friendly and gracious, you’d never believe her husband is a millionaire. She’d come by once or twice, with a daughter or two in tow, but when she entered the store one Sunday shortly after Chanukah with five daughters trailing behind her, I felt my heart rate speed up.

“Atara!” Mrs. Helb said warmly, giving me a big smile. “We just love your store. Let me ask you, is your spring collection in yet?”

Spring? It was snowing outside. I tried to keep a straight face.

“Actually, it’s going to be another month or two,” I said, apologetically.

Mrs. Halb’s face fell. “So long?” she asked, shaking her head. “I like to get ahead. I was hoping to get the girls some of their Yom Tov wardrobe here already. You know what it’s like at the hotels, such pressure. You need a new outfit every day. No — every meal!”

I made a sympathetic noise, but inside, my heart was racing. This was the ultimate recognition. If the Halbs bought my new spring line, everyone who saw and admired them would do the same.

“Wow,” I managed. “Uh, do you want to sign up for text updates, to hear when our new stock arrives…?”

Mrs. Halb leaned forward, and I inhaled a wave of Tom Ford perfume. “Listen, Atara, I want to ask you a favor. I have five girls, and they all need new stuff for Yom Tov. Will you just text me as soon as the new stock arrives, even out of opening hours? We’ll come in anytime.”

I was taken aback. My first instinct was to tell her that she’d get the text update like all our customers. But then I thought again. The Halb daughters… all five of them. At full price. A Yom Tov wardrobe. A new outfit for each meal.

It would definitely be worthwhile working overtime for that.

“I’ll text you,” I promised her.

For the rest of the week, I was on a high. Not because of the sale I hoped to make — that too — but really, simply because the Halbs themselves wanted to shop for Tiara clothing. They wanted to wear my clothing line, my brand, my carefully selected styles. I’d finally made it.

The spring collection was even better than I’d imagined. I leaned into the florals and prints and ran my hands over the smooth fabrics, imagining which pieces would look best in the display window. Two of my workers were unpacking beside me, ooh-ing and aah-ing over various items.

“Looove this dress,” gushed Sarah, holding out a white shirt dress with a belt.

I gave her a distracted smile, trying to figure out when to invite the Halbs to come over.

“What do you want me to do with these sets?” Miri asked, holding up a lavender and cream linen two-piece.

“Those?” I thought a moment. “You know what? Can you girls do me a favor? Take out one sample of each item, a smaller size, and display them nicely — here in the back room. And then…” I took a deep breath. “I’ll be paying overtime if either of you would come back for two hours this evening. I’m doing a… presale. Private. For a few customers.” I felt awkward saying it, but Sarah and Miri just gave each other knowing looks and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” Miri said.

“I don’t think I can make it tonight, but Dalia probably won’t mind,” Sarah said. “I’ll ask her.”

At 9 p.m. promptly, Mrs. Halb rang the bell. I had the lights off in the main room, but led them through to the staff-only area at the back, where Miri and Dalia were waiting.

“I hope you don’t mind, I brought my sisters along,” Mrs. Halb said, gesturing behind her. I recognized the other women: Shainy Lederman and Chassi Kahn. Another two of the wealthiest families in town. With their daughters…

I was starting to get dizzy.

“No problem at all,” I said, struggling to keep my tone even.

We ended up closing the “private presale” close to midnight. And after that, Miri, Dalia, and I still had to set out the new collection in the store for its grand debut in the morning. As I straightened skirts and ran a critical eye over the display, I wondered if anyone would notice the reduced stock of certain sizes (why was every single Halb, Lederman, and Kahn daughter so super thin?!) and hoped no one would ask uncomfortable questions.

Then I thought of the sales we’d made tonight; more than I sometimes made in a month. All those dresses, skirts, elegant and casual tops, and “that gorgeous jacket I just couldn’t leave behind!” Thousands of dollars. Thousands. With a single swipe of the credit card.

It was mind-boggling. It was amazing.

Because it wasn’t just the sales, I soon found out. It was the name. The brand recognition — “oh, I saw your stuff, Chava Halb’s daughters were wearing it!” Everyone knew what the Halbs, the Ledermans, and the Kahns were wearing. Everyone knew where they shopped and which brands they favored. And having them wear Tiara clothing was the ultimate compliment — and the ultimate advertisement.

After Pesach, when I usually settle in for a quiet season, I found the store busier than ever. And best of all, it hadn’t cost me a penny in marketing. Just the opposite; the new customers had happily paid full price for every last one of their purchases.

I should really send Chava Halb a gift, I mused at the end of one particularly busy day.

By the time summer rolls around, Chava and I are texting like old friends.

Succos stuff arriving soon?

Not just yet!! You’ll be the first to know, dw 😊

You’re the best xxx

And then: Seriously my daughters love ur stuff. They want to go to u first.

It was a good thing she couldn’t see me blush.

This time, I dedicated two evenings to the presale, and mobilized three of my most discreet salesgirls. Mrs. Halb was delighted, and promised to pass the message on to her sisters.

And would u mind if I bring a few others too, all VERY serious buyers, not just browsing.

I couldn’t refuse the favor. After all, she was doing the bigger favor for me, by propelling my store to popularity.

The second time around, I knew what to expect. I opened up the stock in the back room for two nights, for about two dozen women and girls, made the smoothest and most lucrative sales I’ve ever made in so few hours, and then released the new season’s stock to the main store, for everyone else. Again, I felt a pang of discomfort that certain styles were no longer available in every size — but I shrugged it off. These were the styles that would sell out within the first day or two in any case.

Sales were good, business was booming, but when I surveyed the leftover merchandise a few weeks before our spring-summer shipment was scheduled to arrive, I wasn’t happy. We had way too much left.

Sure, we’d sell a lot of it in the clearance sales, but that was just reducing the losses somewhat. I had to figure out a better system to make sure we weren’t left with this huge amount of overstock at the end of the year.

“Limited editions are the way to go,” my sister-in-law Bryna told me. She ran a popular clothing store in another city. “People come, they buy right away, they know you only have a few of each piece. It also gives your brand a name, like you’re more elite. People want to make sure to get in there while stock lasts.”

Consumer pressure. That was the key to everything, apparently.

Meanwhile, I had to deal with getting rid of what I had now… we were back to sale season.

I hate end-of-season sales. So much noise, so much mess. So many people asking for this color, in that size, no matter how many times I repeat that I have no stock beside what’s out on display.

In the middle of the hullabaloo, of course, Chava Halb texted me. When can my girls and I come over for summer shopping?

I frowned, and refreshed my email. No updates from the shipping company, yikes. Everything was off schedule these days because of the supply chain crisis, but I couldn’t afford to have the Halbs (and their cousins and their friends) going elsewhere.

Shipment won’t arrive for a couple weeks. But I have stun stuff for you, you’ll see! I replied.

She responded with a double thumbs-up. Whew. I hadn’t realized how much I was relying on Chava’s group; they’d really changed everything for me. Brand ambassadors. Why had I never thought of it before?

We were down to 70 percent off on the winter stock when my shipment arrived — smack in the middle of the day. A burly delivery guy loaded boxes onto a hand truck and edged his way into the store.

“Back room, right here,” I directed him, trying to keep my voice firm and shield the boxes from what felt like hundreds of ogling eyes.

“Does this mean you’ll be debuting the spring collection this week?” Gita Schultz asked.

“As soon as we can,” I said vaguely, scrolling through my phone to find Chava Halb’s number.

The store is chaos — questions and complaints and discarded clothing everywhere. Where were all my workers?

“Dalia, can you man the checkout? Sarah, Leah, can you be available for customers? Miri, will you check what’s going on in the dressing rooms, start hanging clothing up…”

I fired off instructions as I made my way into the blissful quiet of the back room. With the door firmly closed behind me, I slit a couple of boxes open and gave a quick once-over, breathing in the fresh newness of the clothing. Ahh. Beginning of season, that was my time.

But I had to figure out what to do about the Halbs. The shipment had come so late, if I wanted anyone’s Pesach business, I had to have it on the shelves tomorrow. There was no choice, I’d have to tell them to come now.

I fired off a text. The shipment arrived. Don’t have much time because it was delayed. Bring your girls now??

I hoped it would be okay, letting the Halbs and the others in while there were still customers in the store. But it was only a short time until closing, and we needed to move fast.

Chava, her sisters, and their daughters arrived within minutes. Honestly, they must have had chauffeurs on standby for just such an eventuality.

“My friend Noa is coming soon, remember her from last time?” Chava said. “And Leah Baila too, she’ll join in an hour or so.”

“No problem.” I beckoned Sarah over. “Can you show the Halbs through to the back? Just make it unobtrusive. I don’t want other customers to notice.”

The store was a big place, and I figured with all the commotion, the Halb girls could slip into the back room without anyone noticing. But when I turned around, I saw Henny Minkoff waiting for me, a curious look on her face. She was holding two items, both from the $50 rack.

“Listen, Atara, I need something for my daughter,” she said, lowering her voice confidentially. “You know Ruchie? My eldest? She’s a difficult size, very tall and broad-shouldered, but not fat, totally not. Anyway, she’s had, you know, a hard time with shidduchim. L’maiseh, something came up, but now the thing is, I need to get her something new, a few outfits, absolutely beautiful. And flattering.”

I glanced at the tops in her hand. One was a black knit sweater, the other a printed skirt that didn’t sell last summer. None of them would work for a date.

“There are some dresses left on that rack,” I offered, pointing to the front of the store.

Henny frowned. “No, no, I don’t want winter. I want the new stock — spring, summer, very with-it and fashionable, you know? The mechutanim — I mean, the boys’ parents — they’re very bessere mentschen type of people, they want to know how my daughter dresses… it’s very important that she makes the right impression.” She looked over at the back room again. “I’ll pay full price, whatever it costs. Just tell me, is the summer collection in yet?”

I took a deep breath. I knew Ruchie Minkoff. She was a quiet girl, a tad awkward, with large shoulders and gangly legs. It was hard to find flattering outfits with that kind of figure. Then I thought of Noa Lang, Chava Halb’s friend who’d be coming soon. Her daughters were heavyset too. But with first choice of everything in the store, they’d find some nice things. Didn’t Ruchie deserve that kind of opportunity also?

But… how could I let her through to the back of the store, to the Halb presale? It was a secret, for goodness’ sake. And these women and girls were doing me a favor by patronizing my store. Henny Minkoff was a lovely woman and all that, but she had never, ever, ever bought a single item that wasn’t 50 percent off. Ever.

I squelched the last thought — it wasn’t nice, and I really would love to do her the favor if I could. But I really couldn’t. If the unofficial presale became an open secret, it wouldn’t be a quiet, private sale for a few valued customers who in turn gave my store incredible promotion and standing — it would turn into a jungle.

“Come early tomorrow,” I advised Henny. “The summer collection will be on the shelves.”

Her eyes travelled to the back room. “Are you sure nothing’s available tonight?”

I swallowed. “Yes… it’s… I need to go through it all. My workers will be putting it out on the shelves after we close the store. We open at 9:30 a.m.”

Just then, Yael Halb came out of the dressing room, a lightweight mocha dress with lacey overlay slung over her arm. I took a deep breath, gave Henny a quick nod, and turned to motion Yael to the side.

“Listen, Yael, there’s a lot of customers here still, we’re closing in five minutes, but it’s gonna take time till everyone leaves. Please tell your mother I’ll come to the back in around a half hour, and meanwhile Dalia and Sarah will help you out. Okay?”

Yael nodded, and beat a hasty retreat. That was the Halbs — quiet, refined, the easiest and most satisfying customers. Perfectly content to wait, and then to swipe a fortune away for bags full of brand new, full price clothes.

I felt bad for Henny Minkoff and her daughter, I really did, but this is business. The customers who spend thousands of dollars a season deserve first pick, and the presale is my gift to them.

No, I decided, I hadn’t had a choice. But as I went to close the checkout counter and remind customers that the store was now closed, I felt Henny’s accusing eyes follow me, all the way.

If I could tell Henny one thing, it would be: I wish I could help, but giving priority to certain customers is simply good business sense.

Henny

The price of kids’ clothing in our community is ridiculous.

But then again, you’re not paying for their clothing, you’re paying for their social success. Their pride. Their emotional well-being. Because apparently, if you’re a teenage girl wearing a top that’s two seasons old, you’re doomed.

If I sound cynical, it’s because that’s how I feel, but this fashion stuff is important to my kids, and I’ve always made sure that they feel good about how they’re dressed. We’re a kollel family, with a budget to match, but we’ve always been careful to ensure that our children don’t feel deprived because of that.

So I learned to get creative. I compare prices on every item in every store, I use discount codes, and I haunt flash sales. And it works. Somehow, the kids have up-to-date clothing each season, and we don’t break the bank.

Over the years, I’ve gotten to know the stores in the area. Which ones run sales when, which ones have reasonable return policies. Most importantly, which ones generally have clothing that suits my kids, who are all very tall and broad-shouldered.

I went into Atara’s store from time to time. Her stuff was expensive, so I’d only go in when she was running a sale, and the stock could be sporadic. When I looked for skirts for my four older girls, I’d usually have to disappoint at least one of them. But her stuff was always beautiful and good quality, so I kept trying.

I liked Atara herself, too. She was a really nice person (even if she did own one of the trendiest clothing stores in the area, the cynical voice in me piped up). She always tried to help me find something when I came in during her clearance sales. I didn’t usually find too much, but the few pieces I did buy there are some of the nicest outfits my girls own.

With clothing, you can get creative, shop around, hunt for a bargain. When it comes to shidduchim, apparently, there aren’t many ways around the money question.

“There must be some good boys out there who aren’t demanding exorbitant amounts of support,” I told Dovid desperately one night.

“Of course there are,” he said absently, sorting out bills into piles: urgent, less urgent, leave until next month. “Don’t worry, Henny, everything will work out.”

I pressed my lips together. Maybe some things could “just work out.” But Ruchie’s shidduchim… if we didn’t up our game, promise something substantial, she could just end up sitting and waiting for years.

“There are some boys who davka don’t want money,” Dovid reminded me.

“Well, where are they all then?” I retorted. Ruchie was already 22, her close friends were married and the trickle of calls seemed to be dwindling with each passing month.

“Hashem makes shidduchim,” Dovid said, swiping the first pile of bills off the table. “Can you take care of these, please? And don’t worry. The right one will come at the right time.”

I rolled my eyes. He just didn’t get it.

But then the Landau suggestion came up.

It sounded perfect. The boy was just what Ruchie was looking for, and the family was well-known and Torahdig. Best of all, their financial expectations were reasonable. Which isn’t to say we could afford it, but it was something we could hopefully swing, as opposed to the ridiculous figures we were quoted other times.

The first date was scheduled for a Wednesday, and the shadchan called to tip me off that the Landaus were “balabatish people, you know what I mean, clothing matters, impressions matter. The mother keeps asking me about how she dresses, it’s important to project the right image…”

I knew exactly what she meant. Ruchie couldn’t pull out her old, black first-date dress from three years ago, no way. We needed to stock up on a few beautiful outfits, enough for several dates. Yes, it would cost money, but we didn’t have a choice. And I was getting way ahead of myself, but I couldn’t help hoping she’d use them for sheva brachos, too.

Ruchie worked full-time, so I headed to Atara’s store alone, figuring I’d check if the new stock was in yet before dragging Ruchie out there to choose. There was no summer collection in sight when I came, but the winter mega clearance sale was on. I browsed while keeping half an eye out for Atara, so I could ask her when she expected to have the new season’s selection for sale.

I found a skirt for Miri and a top I hoped would fit one of the girls. Just as I was heading for the line at the checkout counter, a doorbell chimed and a delivery man began heaving boxes into the store.

Atara appeared on the scene, looking frazzled.

“If you don’t mind to just bring those through to the back…” she said to him as everyone looked on curiously. She looked uncomfortable with the scrutiny, looking from the boxes to her phone and back again.

“Your spring collection came in?” another customer asked.

Atara didn’t answer. “Sarah, Dalia, I need a couple of you in the back,” she said to two of the salesgirls.

“You’ll be putting out the new stock this week?” someone else asked. She looked vaguely familiar.

“As soon as we can,” Atara said with a vague smile.

I thought about approaching her to explain Ruchie’s situation and ask if there was any way we could purchase some of the new stock already. But the store was crowded and busy, and Atara looked totally frazzled.

I’ll wait, I figured. The store would be closing shortly, and people would leave, leaving me the chance to speak to Atara.

The doorbell chimed again. Zalman Halb’s wife came in, followed by a trail of daughters and cousins. There were Halbs, Kahns, and maybe another family that I didn’t know well. Wow, I hadn’t realized Atara was drawing such an elite crowd.

Then I frowned. Halbs didn’t need clearance sales. Halbs didn’t buy last year’s trends for next winter. What on earth were they doing here? They should be the first to come shop, not the last…

Oh.

Oh.

They were the first.

My suspicions were quickly confirmed when I saw the Halbs quietly, unobtrusively, disappear into the back, just where the delivery man had deposited the boxes upon boxes of brand-new summer season stock.

Frustration bloomed in my chest. I marched over to Atara, who was shepherding the last customers out.

“Is your summer collection here?” I asked, point-blank.

“Yes, and it will be on the shelves tomorrow morning,” she said tiredly. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one asking questions.

I lowered my voice. “Listen, I want to explain. I need something for my daughter, Ruchie.”

Atara knew Ruchie; she had a daughter the same age. Her daughter was married, I think she already had a baby. She should understand why I needed this so badly.

Atara nodded sympathetically. “Right, wow, I totally get that… so why don’t you come in first thing tomorrow? It’s going out on the shelves tonight. You can come 9:30 a.m., you’ll be the first ones here.”

She flashed me a wide, fake smile, but she didn’t meet my eyes.

And then one of the Halb girls stepped casually out of the dressing room, a stunning tan-colored dress slung over one arm.

A tan-colored summer dress.

I stared.

Atara raised an eyebrow, followed my gaze. She walked over to the girl with quick strides, patted her arm, and said something quietly. The girl nodded, turned around, and headed to the back of the store.

My breath caught in my throat. What a chutzpah. To insist that the summer collection wasn’t for sale, when certain customers — the ones with enough money, enough protektzia — got first dibs on the brand new collection.

I lingered near the back room until Atara came out again.

“Look, I know you have the summer stock in there, and that some customers are buying,” I said. “Can I just bring Ruchie over to have a look as well? We’re looking to buy, I’ll pay whatever it takes, we need a few gorgeous outfits and I’ll spend the money. It would be a huge favor for us.”

Atara was quiet. Then she shrugged and said, “Look, Henny, it’s all coming out in the store tomorrow. What’s going on now is… it’s a private arrangement with specific customers, that’s all.”

I was too angry to speak. Instead, I turned around and left the store.

Still, I was back with Ruchie at 9:15 the next morning. We both took off work; her first date was tonight and she really, really needed something flattering and fashionable to wear. When the doors opened, precisely at 9:30, we were the very first customers inside.

And yet… we weren’t the first at all. Because the soft floral dress with the tiered skirt that Ruchie immediately pulled out, was out of stock in her size. Same with an off-white set with gold applique. There were bigger ones and smaller, every other size, but not Ruchie’s.

Not a single one.

We found other stuff, a dress, two tops, a skirt that perfectly matched an old pair of shoes. But Ruchie looked deflated.

“I liked the white and gold so much better,” she said wistfully.

I looked at my daughter, who’d waited so long for this date, who so needed to look her best, and my heart broke.

We were the first ones in the store. The first ones! And we were willing to pay whatever ridiculous amount Atara wanted to charge for a thin summer dress, or whatever.

But Ruchie’s size was out of stock. On day one. Before any other customers had even arrived for the day.

I knew exactly why.

If I could tell Atara one thing, it would be: I’m willing to pay whatever it takes so my daughter can feel beautiful. How can you say the clothing isn’t for sale when you’re offering it to certain customers?

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 900)