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“Annie, what are you doing?” This was punctuated by the door bell jingling.
Annie and Mr. C both looked up. Sen was standing just inside the shop, one hand on their hip, the other holding the curl of a paper bag filled with what by the smell could only be croissants from Bread Not Bombs down the street.
Annie shrugged and turned back to her task. She was on one knee in front of Mr. C, a measuring tape held up along his leg, while Mr. C stood quite still, aside from looking in mild shock at Sen. “I got here early, while Mr. C was still reviewing the books, and he let sip that he’s going to a party this weekend in a suit he’s worn before.” She set the tape down and wrote a number on a pad of paper. “I knew then what I had to do.”
“…she’s very persuasive.” Mr. C shrugged, and Sen, after a moment, shrugged back. “I still don’t understand why that’s bad, though. It’s a perfectly good suit!”
“I’m sure it is, darling, but to imply that someone of your stature couldn’t afford a new suit for each engagement… well, it simply isn’t done.” Annie paused. “Unless you were implying that you were above such things. Do you want the people at the party to think you’re condescending to join them at their little soireé?”
“I think they probably wouldn’t like that. And given that there will be investors there—”
“See? If you don’t want them to think you impoverished, and you don’t want to offend them, then the only answer is a new suit.” She took another measurement from the other leg, looked up as if to ask a question, and then shook her head. “I’ll leave that for your regular tailor. You do have one, right?”
“The rack has suited me fine my whole life,” Mr. C said. “You don’t get where I am in business without being at least a little frugal.”
“You don’t get beyond where you are in business without spending a little money, dear,” Annie said. “There we go. You’re not wearing these shoes?”
“Of course not,” Mr. C said. “I actually have a new pair I was going to wear tonight.”
“Perfect,” Annie said, then paused. “You don’t happen to have them on you?”
“…they’re back at my penthouse.”
“I’ll have Buc come by later on to get photographs. We need to make sure the color and material match what we use for the suit. He really does have an eye for that sort of thing.”
“This is the friend you’re letting crash at your apartment?” Sen filled in, after Mr. C hesitated.
“Yes! He really is a good sort. Fell in with a bad crowd after he got out of the military, but he’s on the mend. I expect he’ll be back on his feet in another month or two.”
“You’re not coming over yourself?” Mr. C asked.
“I have a shift, Mr. C. Speaking of which, shouldn’t RD — ah.” A hot cup of coffee squeaked to a halt next to Annie, but Mr. C plucked it out of RD’s contraption before Annie had a chance to. “Didn’t hear you come in, dear.”
“You were busy, and I didn’t feel the need to announce myself.” RD shrugged from behind the counter. “Are you going to get your apron on? We open in five minutes.”
“Yes, yes, let me put my things away.” Annie stood up — in her platform heels she was almost Mr. C’s height — and brushed the dust off her knees. “Buc will be by in a few hours, and we’ll have you a suit in a day or two, don’t you worry.”
“I only started worrying when you got involved, Annie,” Mr. C said, and made for the door. “Pardon me, Sen.”
“It’s so strange how often people say that,” Annie mused, then turned on her heel and made for the back room.
Sen, still standing by the doorway with a bag of cooling croissants, looked over at RD. “Do you understand what just happened?”
RD shrugged. “I just make the coffee. Did I tell you about my new pet rat?”
Sen finally came over and set the bag down. “Is it an intentional pet?”
“He is a rescue. And his name is Bitey.”
Sen paused. “I think instead of meeting this one I’ll just let you describe him to me.”