“So?”

Another round of buzzing. Shevy started typing again.

“Your sister-in-law’s gown is more important than yours, huh?” I teased.

“Okay, okay, I’m turning it off.”

I lifted her arms and wove my tape measure between them.

“Hmm, Shevy?” Yocheved prodded.

“Uh, yeah,” Shevy said. “So look, I’m not a writer, let’s be clear about that. I’m not sure I have much to offer. Like, why is this a story? It’s a gown.”

“He’ll create a story, you’ll see. He can even prepare questions for you, to give you direction. Would that help?”

“I guess.”

“So you’ll do it?”

Shevy shrugged. “Maybe. Does my mother know about this?”

Yocheved stiffened. “Uh, I don’t think I mentioned it to her.”

“So I’ll discuss it with her and let you know.”

I marked down Shevy’s arm measurements in my notepad. Without looking up, I sensed Yocheved grimace.

After Shevy left, Yocheved went to her office to meet with her bookkeeper. There were no appointments scheduled for the rest of the day, and I was glad about that. Fittings often took longer than anticipated, and then the work got backlogged.

I went to the fabric room to get some materials. On my way back, I paused. Anuradha was sitting in the showroom, alone, on her bench in the corner. She was holding a piece of lace and seemed to be working for a change.

On impulse, I strode over to her.

“What’s this?” I asked.

She flung her braid back, sneered, and ignored my question.

I tried again. “Whose lace is this?”

Another facial pantomime. The woman was nuts.

My eyes landed on a sheet of grid paper, covered with an embroidery pattern. I picked it up, flipped it over and found the name.

Fulop.

Ah. So Yocheved had finally found work for this Indian. Fulop. Rich, but not rich-rich. Instead of spending 10k, they’d spend 15k, why not? Didn’t everyone in this community spend above their means? Those who could afford to spend a thousand on a gown spent three. And those who could afford to spend three spent ten. Idiotic society. Psikh.

Well, it was none of my business. I returned to the sewing room and settled down to work.

The hours rolled along to the thrum of sewing machines and chatter. Five o’clock, the sewing room started emptying out. I cleared my table, as though I, too, was getting ready to leave. Then, when I was finally alone, I went to clock out before returning to my machine to tackle my private work.

Only I wasn’t alone.

“Leaving now?”

Yocheved’s voice startled me. She was sitting at the reception desk, leaning back in her chair.

My limbs went cold. “Y-yes.”

She folded her arms and spun her seat. “You stay overtime a lot, Yelena, no?”

I blanched. “What? I didn’t — I mean, it’s five o’clock, I’m heading home.”

Yocheved’s face was alarmingly calm. “I know you stay overtime. Why don’t you ask to be compensated? Am I giving you more work than you can fit into your hours?”

My breath caught in my throat and my mind raced. How did she know? Mina? Did Mina tattle? It couldn’t be. Mina was a kind person. But then, this was her sister’s business, maybe she’d felt pressured. Or…

My stomach contracted. Olga. That rat. She’d promised she wouldn’t say anything, and I’d trusted her.

Yocheved’s eyes were fixed on my face. I straightened my back. “No, I don’t work overtime.”

“Aha.”

What did aha mean? Did she believe me? Of course not. I had to leave. But my stuff, I had incriminating bags under my table.

I could go back, pretend I’d left something behind. But then she’d see me walk out with those bags and ask more questions.

There was no choice, I had to leave the building. Yocheved was watching me, she suspected me. Swallowing, I muttered goodbye and turned to the door.

Tears pricked my eyes as I trudged through the reception area. It was over, the game was up. I couldn’t use Yocheved’s sewing room anymore. I’d have to call up all my clients, cancel all my jobs.

I’d tried — I’d bent over backwards — and I’d failed.

A scene popped into my vision. A beach; white sand, blue sky, blazing sun. Vacation, an escape. Get away from everything. Gowns, sewing machines, bills.

I blinked back more tears as I pushed open the front door and stepped outside. I’d get my bike, go home. Hide from the world.

I was reaching for the chain to unlock my bike when a hand grasped my shoulder.

I jolted.

It was Olga.

“What are you doing here?!”

“Just waiting for a taxi. What’s the matter?”

I blinked. “Nothing. Nothing.”

“By the way, Yelena…”

Was she going to confess? Apologize? I don’t need your apologies.

But what she said next took me by complete surprise. “I was thinking about our conversation. You know, that morning in the sewing room? You told me you don’t have a sewing machine?”

I nodded suspiciously.

“So I was thinking,” she continued, “I have a fully equipped sewing room at home. If it makes things easier for you, you’re welcome to use it.”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 664)