“Because I work here.”
“That is a better answer.”
Monica saw Blair’s embarrassment become irritation.
Human beings often became angriest just after realizing they had made a smaller mistake, because admitting the smaller mistake threatened whatever larger assumption had produced it.
Blair folded her hands.
“If you are interested in purchasing a bag, I would be happy to show you current pieces.”
“I’m interested in this one.”
“It isn’t for sale.”
“I know.”
“Then I’m not sure what you want.”
Monica looked at the cream display card.
“I want you to check the archive number.”
Blair stared.
“What?”
“The archive number.”
“There is no number displayed.”
“I know.”
Blair’s expression shifted again.
“How do you know it has one?”
“Because they all do.”
Silence.
Monica pointed toward the underside of the bag.
“Inside the left gusset there should be a small stitched inventory tab.”
Blair glanced at the handbag.
Then back.
“We do not open archive pieces on the floor.”
“Then ask someone who can.”
“Why?”
Monica looked at her.
“Because I’m asking you to verify whether that bag is B-4178.”
The color in Blair’s face changed almost imperceptibly.
Not recognition of the number.
Recognition that Monica knew something she was not expected to know.
“Where did you get that number?”
Monica said nothing.
Blair tried again.
“Is this related to a resale authentication?”
“No.”
“Insurance?”
“No.”
“Are you with a publication?”
“No.”
The associate’s eyes narrowed.
“Then who exactly are you?”
Monica heard the question differently now.
Not name.
Category.
She smiled without warmth.
“My name is Monica Ellis.”
Nothing.
As expected.
Blair nodded as though the answer proved very little.
“Ms. Ellis, if you have an archival inquiry, those normally go through corporate.”
“They did.”
Blair stopped.
Monica continued.
“I was told to come here at ten.”
The associate looked toward the clock.
10:07.
“Who told you?”
“Elena Brooks.”
That name registered.
The boutique’s North American archive director.
Blair’s posture changed.
Only slightly.
“Ms. Brooks isn’t based here.”
“No.”
“She’s in Paris this week.”
“Yes.”
“Then—”
“She arranged the appointment with your store director.”
Blair’s expression became cautious.
“Ms. Graham?”
“Yes.”
“Camille Graham?”
“Yes.”
Monica smiled faintly.
“How many store directors do you have?”
Blair ignored that.
She glanced toward the administrative hallway beyond the main salon.
“Ms. Graham is in a meeting.”
“I know.”
“You were asked to wait?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
Blair stared.
Monica turned back toward the handbag.
“Specifically here.”
That was when Camille Graham appeared in the doorway.
Tall.
Forty-six.
Dark charcoal suit, gray silk blouse, black heels, hair pulled into a low ponytail.
She had the focused expression of someone walking quickly because a problem had reached her before she reached the problem.
“Ms. Ellis.”
Blair turned.
Camille crossed the marble floor.
“I am so sorry.”
Monica looked toward her.
“For being seven minutes late?”
“For several things, apparently.”
Blair’s face changed.
Camille stopped beside them.
She looked first at Monica.
Then Blair.
Then the brown handbag.