Louise Lang arrived in front of 4357 Saint-Denis twelve minutes ahead of her own fear.

She remained motionless for a moment on the sidewalk, her bunch of keys in her right hand, her bag against her hip, her diary tucked under her arm. The street was not quite awake yet. A few cars passed with that Sunday-morning softness, the neighbouring shop windows reflected a pale light, and the first walkers of the district seemed to be searching the air for a reason to slow down.

Before her, the shopfront shone with a new brightness.

HEART OF FABRICS

The golden letters, painted the day before by a meticulous and somewhat talkative craftsman, still seemed to hesitate between a commercial sign and a declaration of love. Louise had long doubted the name. Too sweet? Too naïve? Too feminine? Too easily mocked by those who see in a garment only a price, a profit margin and an opportunity to appear?

Then, one morning, she had stopped doubting.

Heart of Fabrics.

That was exactly it. The heart, because she wanted to sell something other than ready-to-wear. The fabric, because there is in material a memory that hurried people do not suspect. Dresses keep something of the women who wear them. Jackets take on the bearing of the men who straighten them. Scarves know the secrets of necks. Even a simple lining can become a confession.

Louise smiled.

— Good. Here we go.

She introduced the key into the lock with the attentive slowness of someone trying to open a safe. In her mind, this gesture contained more than mechanics. She was not only opening a door. She was entering a possible version of herself.

The key turned.

The click was clean.

The password had just been accepted.

Inside, everything was ready. Or almost.

The racks occupied their places with strategic elegance. The long dresses, arranged by shade, fell like silent waterfalls. The short jackets, more insolent, waited on light wooden hangers. The blouses were arranged by families of mood: sensible, light, bold, professional, dangerous. Louise liked this secret classification. No one would ever see it in the inventory, but it allowed her to think of her boutique as a theatre.

Near the window, three mannequins were already wearing the pieces she had chosen for the opening.

The first, slightly turned toward the street, wore a cream ensemble, understated and almost aristocratic. The second, younger in appearance, displayed a midnight-blue dress whose cut seemed to have been designed for a woman who decides to stop apologising for existing. The third, set a little farther back, was dressed in a red dress with flowing sleeves.

Louise approached this last mannequin.

— You are going to frighten the timid, she murmured. That is very good.

She corrected the line of a sleeve. Reset a pin. Stepped back.

No. Not quite.

She returned. Moved the mannequin a few centimetres toward the light. This time, the dress caught the morning sun and used it as an accomplice.

— There.

She had never believed in things that succeed by chance. She believed in work. In lists. In calculations. In suppliers called back three times. In budgets checked to exhaustion. In details no one notices, but which prevent catastrophes from happening.

At thirty-nine, Louise possessed the mind of a businesswoman and the eye of an artist. The first allowed her to survive. The second kept her from betraying herself completely.

On the counter, her diary was open to the day’s page.

OFFICIAL OPENING — 10 A.M.

Below, she had drawn up a list:

Flowers in front of the window.

Scarf display.

Coffee / glasses / napkins.

Check till.

Call supplier no. 2.

Receive boxes.

Do not panic.

Do not kill Jean.

She reread the last line and smiled in spite of herself.

Jean Chauvet was supposed to arrive before ten o’clock. He had promised. Now, Jean’s promises possessed a particular quality: they were solid as long as they served his immediate interests.

Eight months earlier, he had been the one who had found her the capital needed to start Heart of Fabrics. He had presented the matter as an act of love, or rather as an act of trust. With Jean, the two words were interchangeable when he wanted to be kissed.

Louise was not fooled.

She knew that he believed in the boutique mainly because he believed in her as a profitable asset. She had often helped him out of bad financial situations, to spot flaws, assess risks, save appearances. Jean admired her intelligence when it served his affairs. He found it less charming when it served her freedom.

The telephone rang.

Louise started.

— Heart of Fabrics, good morning.

She took an almost childlike pleasure in pronouncing the name.

— Louise? It’s me.

Jean’s voice had that greasy assurance of men who forgive themselves before they have even done wrong.

— Good morning, Jean.

— You are already at the shop?

— Obviously. It is the opening.

— Yes, yes, I know. Precisely. I am going to be a little late.

Louise closed her eyes.

— How late?

— Not much. Perhaps an hour.

— Jean.

— I cannot do otherwise. William Lee called me back. There is a document to review. A possible signature. You understand, it is important.

— More important than the opening of my boutique?

A short silence followed. Jean hated questions that demanded an honest answer.

— Do not start the day like that, Louise. I helped you, didn’t I? I am with you.

— From a distance.

— I will be there. And besides, you do not need me to sell dresses. You are perfect in that role.

That role.

Louise looked at her racks. Her dresses. Her window. Her new till. Her handwritten labels.

— It is not a role, Jean.

— Do not be touchy. You know what I mean.

She knew very well. That was the problem.

— I have suppliers who may arrive any minute. Heavy boxes. A lot of boxes.

— Ask someone to help you.

— Who?

— Your friend, the fortune-teller.

— Marie-Soleil is not a fortune-teller. She is intuitive.

— That is what I said.

— No. That is not what you said.

Jean sighed. Louise knew that sigh. It meant: “I am too important for this nuance.”

— I will come as quickly as possible, he said. And relax. It will be a success. You have taste, you have flair, you have my support.

My support.

She felt in that phrase the little golden chain he liked to pass around her neck.

— See you later, Jean.

She hung up before he could add a strategic tenderness.

A few seconds later, the doorbell chimed.

Louise turned around quickly.

Marie-Soleil Myhrre entered the boutique as though she never crossed a threshold without first greeting the spirits of the room. She wore a full skirt, a turquoise shawl and several bracelets that clinked together with each of her gestures. At forty, she possessed a strange youthfulness, not in her face, but in her way of welcoming things. As if nothing could happen to her without immediately becoming an omen.

— I felt your stress from the street corner, she declared.

— Good morning to you too.

Marie-Soleil opened her arms.

Louise let herself be taken into them. The embrace did her good.

— He is late? asked Marie-Soleil.

— Who?

— The handsome vulture.

— Jean.

— That is what I said.

Louise laughed. That laughter untied something in her chest.

Marie-Soleil stepped back to look at the boutique.

Her expression changed. Her eyes moved over the racks, the mirrors, the three mannequins in the window, the scarves still to be arranged, the warm lamps, the counter, the pale walls, the elegant labels. She did not speak at once. That was rare. Louise was touched by it.

— Well? she asked.

Marie-Soleil placed a hand over her heart.

— It is alive.

— Alive?

— Yes. Not only beautiful. Alive. It looks as though the clothes are waiting for the women to whom they already belong.

Louise felt her eyes grow slightly moist. She turned her head away under the pretext of replacing a hanger.

— You always exaggerate.

— I specify differently.

— Can you specify the scarves differently? They are resisting me.

Marie-Soleil set her bag behind the counter.

— With pleasure. Scarves are civilised serpents. They must be coaxed.

She set to work with religious seriousness.

For nearly twenty minutes, the two women prepared the boutique without speaking much. Louise checked the till, the receipts, the payment terminal, the bags branded with the boutique’s name. Marie-Soleil arranged the scarves by colour, then by energy, which Louise accepted only because the result was magnificent.

At nine-thirty, the first problems arrived.

Not in human form.

In the form of boxes.

A delivery truck stopped abruptly in front of the boutique. Two men got out and opened the back of the vehicle. A mountain of cartons appeared.

Louise brought a hand to her forehead.

— This is not possible.

— What? asked Marie-Soleil.

— They were supposed to deliver half today, the other half tomorrow.

The deliveryman entered, his electronic tablet in hand.

— Madame Lang?

— Yes.

— Complete delivery.

— Precisely, it was not supposed to be complete.

— Me, I have complete.

— Can you not take part of it back?

He looked at her with compassion, as if she had just asked the moon to come back on Tuesday.

— Madame, I deliver. I do not philosophise.

Marie-Soleil murmured:

— A pity. He might have been interesting.

Soon the boxes invaded the entrance, then the space near the counter, then part of the central aisle. Louise signed, directed, moved, holding back her panic with rapid instructions.

— Not there. To the left. No, not on the scarves! Watch the red mannequin. More gently. Yes. No. No! Not in front of the fitting room.

When the deliverymen left, the boutique looked less like a shop ready to open than a warehouse attempting to disguise itself as a tea room.

Marie-Soleil observed the chaos.

— It is very promising.

— It is catastrophic.

— Catastrophes are promises that have not yet found their choreography.

— Marie.

— Yes?

— Less oracle. More arms.

They burst out laughing and began moving the boxes.

At nine-fifty, Claire entered from the neighbouring café with a tray of small glasses, two coffees and a plate of biscuits.

— I’ve come to see whether the great ladies of fashion are surviving the birth.

— Claire! exclaimed Louise. You are an angel.

— No, I am a waitress with varicose veins. It’s more useful.

She placed the tray on the counter and inspected the boutique.

— It is beautiful here. Truly beautiful. It looks as though it costs money just to breathe.

— I hope it will make people want to buy.

— It will make them want to be better dressed to come and look.

Pierrette poked her head through the door behind her.

— Claire! Monsieur Prahallis wants to know whether you plan to come back to work before his retirement.

— Tell him I am contributing to the local economy.

Pierrette entered in turn, wiped her hands on her apron and looked up at the boxes.

— Holy misery. Are you opening a boutique or moving a principality?

Louise briefly explained the complete delivery.

Pierrette nodded with that practical wisdom of women who have spent their lives watching other people’s plans overturned by a badly placed crate.

— Good. We will help you for ten minutes.

— You do not have to.

— Exactly. That is why it counts.

The four women set to work. In a few minutes, the chaos lost its arrogance. The most cumbersome boxes were pushed into the back room, the most urgent ones opened, the most seductive pieces hung immediately. An ivory-coloured short jacket made Claire give a small cry. A green blouse made Marie-Soleil sigh. Pierrette, for her part, adopted a plum-coloured scarf that she declared too beautiful to be left to a customer without judgment.

At exactly ten o’clock, Louise stood in front of the door.

The world had not changed. Rue Saint-Denis continued to breathe normally. Cars passed. People walked. The sky remained indifferent. Nothing, outwardly, signalled that Louise Lang’s dream had just reached its threshold.

She turned the little sign around.

OPEN

The bell chimed almost immediately.

The first customer entered.

A woman of about sixty, very upright, silver hair, pale blue coat. She looked at the boutique calmly, then at Louise.

— Is this new?

— Yes. We are opening today.

— You look nervous.

— A little.

— That is a good sign. People who are too sure of themselves often sell ugly things.

Louise smiled.

— Then welcome to Heart of Fabrics.

The woman moved slowly among the racks. She touched a sleeve, then a fabric, then a scarf. Her fingers read before her eyes. Louise recognised the gesture. A true customer. Not merely a stroller. A woman who knows that material speaks.

— That dress, she said, pointing to the blue one in the window. May I try it on?

Louise felt such great relief that it almost made her dizzy.

— Of course.

Marie-Soleil, near the counter, gave her a triumphant look. Claire and Pierrette, who had stayed under the pretext of helping a little longer, froze like two spectators at the theatre.

The blue dress left the mannequin.

It entered the fitting room.

A few minutes later, the customer came out.

The garment suited her wonderfully.

Not like a disguise. Like a correction of destiny.

— I will take it, she said simply.

Louise remained silent for half a second.

— Perfect. I will prepare that for you.

At the moment she entered the sale, her first real sale, she almost physically felt something open before her. Not a fortune. Not yet success. A door. A permission.

The customer paid, took her bag and stopped before leaving.

— You know, Madame Lang, a beautiful garment does not change a life. But it can sometimes give one the courage to take it back.

Louise looked at her, surprised.

— Thank you.

The woman went out.

Marie-Soleil leaned toward Louise.

— That one was not a customer.

— Oh no?

— She was a blessing in a blue coat.

Louise wanted to laugh, but her gaze lingered on the door.

On the other side of the street, a man had just stopped.

Pascal Pascal.

She recognised him at once. The hat. The feather. The cape. The look of a man who dresses to give his loneliness an excuse. He stood before the window, motionless, fascinated by the sign, then by the dresses, then by her.

Louise felt her body stiffen.

— What is he doing here? she murmured.

Marie-Soleil followed her gaze.

— Who?

— The man from the café.

— The one who stained your magical dress?

— Yes.

Pascal did not move. He was reading the sign as one reads a prophecy. Then he noticed, stuck to the neighbouring door, the little notice Louise had not yet removed.

APARTMENT FOR RENT

3½ — HEATED

ENQUIRE AT THE BOUTIQUE

Louise suddenly remembered that she had to telephone the building’s owner to ask him to remove that notice. The apartment above was vacant, but she hoped for a quiet tenant. An accountant. A nurse. Someone who walked softly.

Not a poet with a feather.

Outside, Pascal smiled.

A tiny smile, but Louise saw it.

That smile did not say: “What a coincidence.”

It said: “I am going to enter your story.”

The bell chimed.

Pascal had just opened the door.

— Good morning, he said, removing his hat with calculated slowness. I believe destiny forgot to close a window.

Louise stared at him.

— Here, Monsieur Pascal, we sell clothes. Not excuses.

— I came about the apartment.

Marie-Soleil opened her eyes wide.

Claire, who was finally preparing to return to the café, murmured:

— Oh no. Not that.

Pierrette crossed her arms with the expression of a woman who would not miss this scene for anything in the world.

Louise looked at Pascal, then at the notice, then at the inner staircase leading to the apartment above her boutique.

Her first opening day had barely begun.

Already, destiny was taking liberties.

END OF CHAPTER II