Dolce raved about Vienna’s sales ability but said nothing about how beautifully I unpacked and pressed the new clothes. I felt like Cinderella sweeping up the ashes in the back room, while Vienna was my stepsister who got to go to the ball. Actually we all got to go to the ball, so Dolce offered to let us wear anything we wanted from the shop. I waited until we closed to try on dresses for the auction, but Vienna said she had an outfit already and dashed out at five o’clock. I glanced out the window to see if she was driving a new car or meeting her motorcycle-riding boyfriend. Neither turned out to be the case. She got into a yellow Lotus, a low-slung British racing car, driven by someone else. I was just about to ask if Dolce knew who the owner of the sports car was, but she locked the front door and seemed to have forgotten all about her new favorite salesgirl. Instead, she’d gone into her fairy-godmother mode, which was fine with me. It was worth being Cinderella if I got transformed and my story had a happy ending.
