The man sent to count everything Iris was losing had brought his own pencil sharpener.
It sat on the conference table the next morning, square and black and serious, beside two pencils lined up with the edge of Daniel’s notebook. Iris put her coffee down beside it.
“Are those difficult to find in the wild?”
He followed her gaze. “The ones here eat pencils.”
“They’ve been underfed since the stationery budget was cut.”
He looked at her over the rim of his glasses. She hadn’t noticed the glasses yesterday. Thin metal frames, low on his nose. They made him look irritatingly good at things.
“Do you need a pencil?” he asked.
“No. I need six weeks.”
“Then let’s see what you’ve got.”
She had stayed at the store until seven the night before, then spent two hours at her dining table comparing projected sale receipts against costs. The table had been set for two out of habit. She had put the second plate away, then eaten crackers and cheese standing at the counter, furious that one man’s absence could reorganize the use of furniture.
Now she spread her papers out between them. Not all of them were favorable. She had made herself include the heating costs and the return provisions, though she knew which case she wanted to win.
Daniel read without interruption. Once he went back three pages. Once he circled something. She had never had to resist the desire to snatch a pencil out of a stranger’s hand before.
Finally he said, “You haven’t included the cost of the extra Saturday security.”
“It’s on the following sheet.”
“That’s normal payroll.”
“The security company owes us a credit for the February shutdown. They’re applying it.”
“Confirmed?”
She showed him the email.
He checked it, then put the page back. “Good.”
She felt absurdly pleased and immediately disliked herself for it.
“May I see the stock offer?”
“I can show you the figures relevant to the sale.”
“Which might mean anything.”
He turned his laptop toward her. The offer was less than she had feared. She read it twice.
“That’s for everything?”
“For the eligible retail stock. Fixtures are separate.”
“They’ll make that back on the winter coats alone.”
“Not after transport, storage and the cost of selling them.”
“Still.”
“Still,” he agreed.
They sat in silence for a moment, looking at the money someone was offering for seventy-one years of selecting things people might want.
“Do you ever get used to it?” she asked.
“The discrepancy between what a thing means and what someone will pay?”
“Yes.”
“No. I get paid to calculate the second part.”
She looked at him. There was something unexpectedly gentle in the admission, though his tone had not changed.
“Then perhaps you ought to have a less accurate pencil.”
A small smile broke across his face. It changed him more than it should have. She had a sudden, unwelcome picture of him at breakfast, unshaven, smiling over some domestic foolishness. She looked down at the stock figures.
“I don’t think we can beat this by selling everything at seventy percent off,” he said.
“We don’t need to. The better brands will sell at thirty.”
“And the rest?”
She drew a line beneath a column. “We stop pretending everything deserves the same shelf.”
For the next twenty minutes they argued pleasantly about saucepans. By the end, she had stopped hearing her own voice as the sound of someone asking to be allowed to stay.
At half past ten, Hugh Ellis came in from the loading dock carrying a torn carton.
“Sorry. The west rail’s gone again.”
“Coats?” Iris asked.
“Party dresses. Not much dignity involved.”
“I’ll come.”
Daniel shut the laptop. “Can I see the space while we’re there?”
The west rail had detached from its bracket, depositing a row of occasion dresses in a heap the color of sugared almonds. An empty hanger swung from the surviving end. Iris knelt to rescue a mauve chiffon skirt before someone stepped on it.
“Don’t move that,” Hugh told Daniel, who had put his case down. “It bites.”
Daniel examined the broken fitting.
“The screw’s pulled out.”
“Yes, we admire the method. It’s done it twice.”
“Is there a maintenance kit?”
Hugh looked at Iris. She looked at Hugh.
“Cupboard behind the dock,” she said. “Red box. Not the red box with Christmas antlers in it.”
Hugh went off. Daniel held up the end of the rail while Iris and a young sales assistant named Priya transferred dresses onto a wheeled rack.
“That’s lovely on you,” Priya said, holding a pink satin gown against Iris.
“I think it’s lovely on the hanger.”
“That’s what everyone says before they try anything on.”
“Priya has been here four months,” Iris told Daniel. “We can’t stop her selling.”
“It’s an evening dress, not a character flaw,” Priya said, and rolled the rack away.
Daniel’s mouth twitched.
“What?” Iris asked.
“Nothing.”
“You agree with her.”
“I didn’t see the dress.”
“You were right here.”
“I was looking at the person holding it.”
There was a silence. Not a long one. Long enough for Iris to realize that she was kneeling on the carpet, holding a sleeve, staring up at him like a woman in a commercial for improved circulation.
He looked away first. “This bracket won’t hold another screw. It needs moving.”
“Then we’ll move it.”
Hugh returned with the tool kit. Daniel and Hugh fixed the bracket while Iris hung the last dresses. It was not difficult work, but Daniel took his jacket off to do it. His rolled shirtsleeves exposed brown forearms, a pale scar near one wrist, the small flex of muscle as he tightened the screw.
She went to find somewhere useful to put her eyes.
At noon, she took her sandwich into the old staff room and found Winnie there eating soup from a thermos.
“You’re not working Thursdays until the sale,” Iris said.
“It’s Thursday.”
“The sale hasn’t started.”
“The calendar seems to have gone ahead regardless.”
Winnie was seventy, small and brisk, with a silver plait she wore pinned around her head and a collection of shirts that could be seen from the parking garage. Today’s was orange with green parrots. She slid a chair out with her foot.
“Sit down. You look as if you’ve been rearranged.”
Iris sat.
They ate for a while. Through the wall came the low, rising whir of the elevator. A handwritten note above the sink asked whoever kept taking the teaspoons home to please have a word with themselves.
“Colin’s left,” Iris said.
Winnie set her spoon down.
“For Valerie. From his firm.”
“Oh, love.”
There it was. The tenderness she had been avoiding all morning. Iris looked at the little wet ring beneath Winnie’s thermos cup.
“I didn’t mean to say it here.”
“Where did you mean to say it?”
“I haven’t decided. Somewhere soundproof, preferably.”
Winnie reached across the table and laid a hand over hers. Iris let her.
“He wanted his bracelet back.”
“I hope you gave him something else.”
“I kept it.”
“Good.”
“I thought I’d be angrier.”
“You’ll find time.”
Iris laughed, then covered her mouth because her eyes had begun to leak with a casualness she found offensive. Winnie passed her a clean cloth handkerchief and didn’t ask her to explain anything.
After a minute, Iris said, “I don’t want you telling everyone.”
“I won’t.”
“Not because I’m ashamed.”
“You’re allowed to be private without preparing a defense.”
That undid another small part of her. She had worked here for so long that the staff room contained versions of herself she had forgotten: pregnant with Beth and nauseated by heated fish; thirty-nine, furious about an unfair schedule; forty-eight, celebrating a promotion with a supermarket cake. She had imagined these people as colleagues she took care of. It was uncomfortable to need them to be something else.
“There’s a bulk offer,” she said when she trusted her voice. “They might close in ten days.”
Winnie withdrew her hand.
“Does everybody know?”
“Not yet. I’m putting forward the case for the six-week sale.”
“By yourself?”
“Mr. Cho is checking it.”
“The one who fixed the rail?”
“Yes.”
“Daniel. He asked me where I kept the steam brush. Said his father used to swear by one.”
“You’re already on first-name terms?”
“Try it. Saves time.”
Winnie unscrewed the second cup on her thermos and poured Iris some soup. It tasted of carrots, ginger and enough black pepper to insist on being noticed.
“I don’t want to hold on to the wrong things,” Iris said.
Winnie looked around the room. The dented lockers. The ceiling stain shaped approximately like Florida. The Christmas tinsel trapped behind the clock.
“Then start with the right ones.”
After lunch, Iris called Arthur Mercer’s number. A recorded voice told her it was no longer in service. She checked the ledger for a second contact. There was an email address, written very carefully in block capitals. She sent a short note explaining that his suit was safe and the store closing, with her direct number for collection arrangements.
Then she called the catering firm that had been negotiating to employ her as an office manager.
The woman she needed was in a meeting. Iris left a message asking if an interview on Monday could be moved to the following week. Six weeks of store work did not guarantee anything after it; she knew better than to shut a door just because she might prefer another one.
At four, Daniel came back with the revised figures.
“I think this is defensible,” he said.
“That’s a magnificent compliment. I’ll tell the others.”
“Iris.”
It was the first time he had used her name. She looked at him.
“I think it’s a strong alternative. There are risks, but you’ve accounted for them. I’ll recommend they consider it.”
“Thank you.”
“And I think you should be there when we present it.”
The relief retreated a little. “Present it?”
“To the trustees and the heirs. Tomorrow morning, on a video call.”
“I’ve never done that.”
“You’ve explained this to me.”
“You’re one person.”
“Who disagreed about the saucepans.”
She could feel herself smiling. “You were wrong about the saucepans.”
“I was. You made a persuasive case.”
He began gathering his papers. She watched him align the edges against the table. Such a tidy man. Nothing in her life was tidy just now. She wondered whether that was why she liked the sight of him, or whether she simply liked his hands.
“You left your sharpener,” she said as he reached the door.
“I’ll be back.”
After work, she went home and cooked an omelet. She ate at the dining table with the overhead light on. The house made the ordinary noises of a building settling into evening.
Upstairs, she opened the dress box.
The silk was greener than she remembered, deep and clear, like a bottle held up to sunlight. She lifted it by its narrow straps and stood in front of the mirror.
Her body had changed since she bought it. Her waist was less interested in obeying a seam. She undressed anyway, stepped into the silk and reached awkwardly for the zipper.
It did up.
The straps still needed shortening. The neckline was unexpectedly lovely. For a moment she turned sideways, studying the full curve of her hip, then caught her own frown and faced the mirror squarely.
She wasn’t required to feel beautiful tonight. She might, however, stop treating the question as settled against her.
In the drawer beside the bed, the bracelet box caught the light.
She moved it into a lower drawer, beneath her winter scarves. Then she took out her sewing tin, found green thread and sat by the lamp with the dress across her knees.
Her phone rang at nine. Colin.
She watched his name until the screen went dark. A minute later, a message arrived.
Need to discuss the house. Can do Sunday.
She set the phone face down. The needle was threaded. The first strap needed half an inch, no more.
For tonight, she intended to finish one thing she actually wanted to wear.