Vivian felt awful for these ladies and didn’t mind listening to their sad stories because that’s all they really wanted. For someone to listen, not necessarily to fix the problem. If they were heard by somebody, they walked away from the counter feeling a little lighter than before, including Vivian herself. And that was a part of her job that she was beginning to like.

  But there was still a great deal of work to be done regarding Vivian’s habit of sharing whatever that was on her mind.

  “The mademoiselle said you look gorgeous, not enormous,” Mme. Tremblay apologetically said once to a customer, followed by a stern look at Vivian, who rolled her eyes again for being scolded for her authenticity.

  “You keep comments like these up, and you will be kicked out of here so fast, I will choke on your dust,” Mme. Tremblay said while wagging her finger inches away from Vivian’s nose.

  Vivian shook her head because she knew Madame Tremblay was right. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Think before you speak!” Madame Tremblay said while shaking her head.

  Thankfully, she learned over time what to share with the customers, remembering they had the final word in all that she was working for.

  * * *

  Another roadblock that was encountered was the fact that Mme. Tremblay also wanted to sell Revlon cosmetics. How was she going to compete with a twenty-year department store veteran, even with her sloppy appearance and her territorial attitude?

  “With patience. Kindness. And more patience.”

  Vivian looked up at her mentor, Mr. Sand, and smiled.

  “Just be the lovely, adorable, oh-so-knowledgeable, Vogue-addicted sixteen-year-old lady that you are. Nobody can compete with that.” Then he paused, looked around, and said, “Don’t let her …”

  “… get to you,” Vivian answered.

  Vivian smiled and thought how similar Mr. Sand was to her Uncle Irving, who never married and always brought a male friend to family functions. She loved how he always agreed and chuckled while she openly gave her feedback on what her family members thought was a stylish thing to wear.

  “Oh, my goodness, those words did not leave your lips!” Mr. Sand would say.

  “Oh, yes they did!” Vivian shared and laughed.

  “Serves her right for wearing that!”

  Although no one talked about it, she knew that Uncle Irving was homosexual. She guessed that Mr. Sand was too, which took the pressure off any threat that he would one day pinch her behind or, worse, make her do things that she had not the faintest desire to do with him. It was a stress-free mentorship, which Vivian was grateful for.

  Mr. Sand hummed as he dressed a mannequin in a pink silk pencil skirt; “I don’t know how the average woman will wear this. So not forgiving. At all.”

  “The appropriate undergarment will make it more flattering,” Vivian said.

  “There are a thousand and one ways to ask for a glass of water, and you got it, my dear!” Mr. Sand replied proudly.

  Vivian looked confused.

  “Darling, we’ve had this conversation already. I don’t need to repeat myself.”

  Vivian looked down at the floor, and discreetly looked up, while she waited for a response.

  “Relax—you’re improving.”

  Vivian never felt prouder, although it did take her a while to get to this point.

  * * *

  After hours of observing Sunderland’s staff, their customers, and listening to the tips from Mme. Tremblay, one day, it all just clicked. At the corner of Vivian’s eye, she could see a woman looking at her. Vivian slowly turned her head to greet her. This time, before she spoke, she reminded herself to choose her words carefully, as if she were at a brunch buffet, looking for the good stuff to put on her plate. I’ll have a scoop of kindness, a double serving of patience, and no negative remarks, please—as I have eliminated that behavior from my Superior Saleswoman Diet.

  “Hello there,” Vivian said.

  “Hi,” the woman responded.

  Vivian quickly scanned her appearance and knew in her gut that this woman did not fit into the category of typical war-affected women, but she was taught not to assume anything. One thing was for sure, she was wearing a scarf that made her skin crawl. Vivian wondered who in their right mind would choose such a color and pattern. Nevertheless, Vivian carried on with her duties, which included knowing that her taste for the scarf did not need to be shared with this potential customer. With all her might, she erased the snot-colored scarf that made her look seasick from her vision and focused on one positive characteristic that lay before her, and retaining focus on that was the best lesson she learned to date.

  “My, I do admire your trousers!” Vivian warmly said.

  “Oh, you think so? My husband doesn’t like me wearing pants outside the house.”

  “Well, he has good taste. But I must admit, I love the new look of pants on a woman.”

  “Me too!” the woman giggled. “It’s so liberating.”

  “I know,” Vivian said while she waved her hands and smiled.

  “You’re young to be working! How old are you?”

  “I’ll be seventeen next month.”

  “Age, shmage—she is a whiz when it comes to fashion!” Mr. Sand interrupted.

  “Oh, Mr. Sand, please,” Vivian giggled.

  “I love your lipstick!” the woman remarked.

  “Oh, thank you, it’s so moisturizing on my lips. It feels wonderful! You know what? Why don’t you come with me, and I will show you the collection I’m representing.”

  The two women went off to the Revlon counter, where Vivian not only sold the woman a lipstick but also taught her how to apply it and take care of it, and showed her tricks to make the tube last as long as possible. The two of them had a grand ole time, laughing about makeup and life itself, while customers nearby stopped what they were doing to eavesdrop.

  Of course, when it was time to pay for the lipstick, the woman also bought a pressed powder, a moisturizer, and a mascara.

  “You must set the lipstick before you apply! It will last much longer, and you will end up saving money as you will use less,” Vivian advised, feeling giddy with pride as the interaction with the woman was going so well. Rewarding for the fine work, she reached into her wallet to pay for her purchase.

  After the customer left, with a bag that was filled to the brim, Mme. Tremblay and Mr. Sand came over to congratulate their protégé.

  “You have arrived,” Mr. Sand announced, and Mme. Tremblay nodded with agreement as she put her arm around her and gave a gentle squeeze, while Vivian breathed a sigh of relief, feeling proud, but exhausted. “Sales work is hard stuff!” she announced, as the three of them laughed together.

  Scenarios like these were repeated every day between 11:00 and 2:00 p.m., the lunch hour window, with different women from all around Montreal, and the sales were coming in like wildfire—in the middle of a war!

  Pretty soon, word got around, and the Revlon counter became so crowded that Mr. Charles Revson, the company president of Revlon, called Sunderland’s from New York to speak to Vivian herself to congratulate her. Mme. Tremblay couldn’t believe it. Neither could the management team at Sunderland’s. Or Elaine.

  “Don’t let her go,” Mr. Sand observed and whispered to the owner of Sunderland’s.

  Just before school began on the following Monday in September, Elaine asked her to stay on part time while she finished her final year of high school.

  And she agreed.

  Vivian worked all day on Saturdays and on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school and during school breaks. After graduation, in the summer of 1943, Vivian became a full-time employee at Sunderland’s.

  “What about Vogue?” Vivian’s father mentioned one evening at the dinner table.

  “I want more than that,” Vivian said triumphantly.

  “What about McGill?” Her mother chirped in, for the umpteenth time that month.

  “Please stop reminding me about McGill. I don’t need McGill. Everything I need to know is at the store. It’s called the school of hard knocks, and I’m learning as I go,” Vivian said as if she were zipping the bag that contained all her painful memories as a child in school. Making them stay in there for good.

  “Does that mean you will want to settle down one day, marry, and have a family?” Miriam asked.

  “Don’t push it, Mother.”

  Vivian: Dressing the Part—1945

  Since her first day back in 1942, Vivian’s alarm clock would ring at the ghastly hour of 6 a.m. five days a week. Her eyes would open quite easily, thanks to her mandatory eight-hour-a-night sleep schedule.

  “Sleep is part of my beauty regime!” she would say to any beau who dared to take her out on the eve of a workday. “I must be in bed, asleep by ten.”

  After she stretched, yawned, and pulled on her cotton strip hair curlers, she swung her legs over her bed and placed her pedicured feet into her bedroom slippers, which were purposely placed inches away from her bed each night. On her way to the bathroom, she picked up her basket of skincare to take with her, as she wouldn’t dare leave her coveted products for her mother and sister to get their hands on. What she put on her face every day was pure gold and was to be enjoyed with her hard-earned work. But how could she afford such luxury, on her salary?

  Oh, the power of schmoozing. Each month, sales representatives from the cosmetic companies that Sunderland’s worked with would visit the store to train the sales staff and find out what the customers were saying. And every so often, Vivian would sit down with each representative on her lunch time and present an accurate analysis, along with direct quotes from customers. Of course, a plate of cookies from the department store lunch counter would always be on the table, which sweetened the meeting.

  “Oooh—these cookies—they are delicious! So light and buttery—my how they melt in your mouth! And they give me such a happy feeling… ,” the sales representatives would say.

  “Yes, they are special—and pair so well with the coffee,” Vivian would say, as she bit into her little piece of heaven. Schmoozing over coffee and cookies, along with my detailed reports, was a sure win, Vivian would think to herself. Working at Sunderland’s was a dream come true, but she wanted more. Even though she wasn’t sure what “more” was, she knew in her heart that it had to be big and exciting. “Now on to what this lady said about the Elizabeth Arden face cream.”

  And after the final report, more feedback for the following month’s visit was offered by Vivian, and without hesitation, the sales representatives nodded their head and said, “Yes, please!” And then Vivian added, “If I could test them out myself, I would give even more accurate reports.”

  Like clockwork, a complimentary supply of skin care, perfume, and cosmetics were shipped in a separate box, addressed for Vivian, one week after the visit.

  One month, a Marcelle skin care regime was on the menu, along with a special treat from the very famous Elizabeth Arden.

  The moment Vivian arrived home after work, she couldn’t wait until bedtime to test the products. As she dumped her purse on the floor, she ran to her bathroom, placed the brand new bottles and jars on the edge of her sink, and admired the pretty packaging. “Hello you, Elizabeth Arden Eight-Hour cream,” she serenaded. After she read the instructions with an eagle eye, she pulled her hair back with a soft headband and began to administer the contents of each, respectively, onto her face. To say that this activity sparked joy would be an understatement.

  Afterward, Vivian admired the glow from her skin in the bathroom mirror, of course with a knock at the door from her mother. “What the heck are you doing in there?”

  * * *

  Of course, wardrobe complications arose during the winter months.

  How would you be able to put on a winter coat over a bulky sweater? Is there a matching scarf? How will the hair be wrapped in a hat so as not to ruin the curls? What about winter boots? Are they elegant enough to wear in the store by bringing an old dish towel to clean the salt and slush off them, or does a separate pair of shoes need to be brought with them? All these questions needed to be solved before Vivian lay down to sleep each night. And they were.

  Next came the makeup. After the face cream du jour dissolved into Vivian’s face, she carefully put on her stockings—a task that didn’t seem difficult but actually was. In order not to create a tear, fingernails needed to be kept far away from the nylon as possible—even though they were millimeters away from the pads of the fingers themselves. Yes, it took Vivian a few weeks to figure that all out, but after the third week of her job, she finally got the hang of it and could pull on her stockings in a flash. Then, a light powder was pressed all around her face, followed by at least three minutes of focused concentration to fill in her brows that had been plucked religiously since her teens so that she could follow the eyebrow trends of the day. Next, a little rouge was smudged onto her cheeks for some color and then, the icing on the cake, the lipstick.

  In the 1940s, it was known around the world, due to the war effort, that every face cream and pantyhose was a pure luxury that only the wealthy could afford. Petroleum jelly was quite popular to soothe a woman’s dry skin as well as painting their legs with gravy extras and drawing a line up the back of the leg to look like real stockings. Vivian was grateful that she didn’t have to resort to those choices.

  But lipstick was saved up for by many women as it could make one’s whole appearance turn 180 degrees, no matter what kind of day they were having.

  Vivian had a picture of Bette Davis taped to her bedroom mirror, as she believed that she was the ultimate glamorous movie star. Her lips were the perfect example of the Hunter’s Bow. After studying the shape of Ms. Davis’s lips from the picture, she brought her attention to her own lips, where she corrected her discrepancy with the magic of her lip liner pencil. Then she would take her lipstick and fill in the gap; that would be as easy as drawing with crayons when she was a little girl. But way more fun, as far as she was concerned.

  As soon as the last button was fastened on her blouse or sweater, Vivian would grab her large satchel and greet the rest of her family, who were beginning to have breakfast. As she opened her bag, she would place the sandwich that was prepared the evening before by her mother, a piece of fruit and a blueberry muffin, a hairbrush, and a coin for coffee. Vivian couldn’t wait for that cup of coffee before her shift began each morning. It cost about 5 cents, which added up throughout the week, but to her, it was the ultimate treat, as there was something about sitting quietly and peacefully at the Sunderland’s coffee shop before the customers arrived.

  Shopgirl life became a welcome routine that Vivian embraced. She loved showing up for work each day—spending eight hours in a beautiful store, surrounded by beautiful things. Now, that was Vivian’s idea of a swinging good time.

  Most importantly, helping customers find what they were looking for gave Vivian such a rush of excitement. Helping them find what they didn’t know they needed felt like a ride on a roller coaster. When this happened, a faint “eeek” would escape from her lips. Yes, almost the same amount of joy as putting on that Elizabeth Arden Face Cream.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” a customer would ask after the “eeeek.”

  “Oh, not to worry, that’s just my excitement of helping you find that Max Factor pancake shade—that looks just darling on you. Hey, did you know that this powder was originally for Hollywood movie stars in the 1930s?”

  “No!” the customer responded with wide eyes.

  “Oh yes … until all the movie stars began stealing it from the makeup trailer to take home with them. Can’t look good enough for those Hollywood parties, journalists and photographers, right?” Vivian said as a matter-of-factly, as if she was best friends with the Hollywood producers.

  Back stories on all the juicy gossip that lived behind the products always lured the customers into her grasp, even the difficult ones, which at times led to an extra ring a ding ding on the cash register. “Hey, do you think you have a lipstick that would pair—like Grace Kelly wears?” the customer would ask, and that would make Vivian almost faint from excitement.

  Vivian: Parents No Longer

  However, not all days were as happy and as joyful as these.

  One evening, Vivian was out with a new beau and lost track of time. Again. This caused her to only sleep for a few hours before she had to rise for work. “Damn, passionate drive-in movies take me off my game!” Vivian would mutter to herself as she wiggled out of her skirt while getting ready for bed. “Ah … but it was worth it,” she would whisper to herself.

  “Did he propose?” her mother yelled from her bedroom.

  “No, mother—it was just a date,” Vivian cringed as she answered.

  “Shmuck.”

  “Mother—it is not my be-all end-all to get married!” Vivian yelled back.

  Silence. This meant that her parents were silently praying that she would change her mind.

  * * *

  “Storing bean bags in your eyes for the winter, Ms. Vivian?” Mr. Sand would tease.

  “Oh, shut up,” Vivian would tease back and say, referring to that late rendezvous that ended a little too late, “It was worth every minute!”

  “I’ll bet!” Mme. Tremblay would add. “And by the way, where are the cold creams?” Mme. Tremblay would ask Vivian, as she would respond by staring blankly into her eyes, which meant she had no idea.

  “I asked you to bring up the shipment from the basement yesterday,” Mme. Tremblay responded looking like a kettle about to blow it’s top.

  “I-I was with a c-customer,” Vivian stuttered.

  “Sure, you were,” Mme. Tremblay paused as she stared at Vivian, deciding what to do with her. Not the basement. Not the basement. Please not the basement, Vivian would silently pray.