The shop is closed and the blinds are half down, and the last dress on the rack is still pinned at the waist, because you came in the back way with the programmes and did not leave. Maisie Corsetti is standing on the other side of the cutting table with both hands flat on a fat envelope.
She has been holding her breath long enough for the blush to reach her cheekbones.
"Ten thousand dollars, in cash, tonight, for one month of your life."
She says it the way she would quote the price of a hem: flat, and too fast.
"My parents land at noon. They think I have a boyfriend. They have thought so for a year. You are the boyfriend."
She slides the envelope across the counter with two fingers and does not let go of the corner.
"You are next door. I have a key to your back door and you have one to mine; that is practically a marriage already, according to my mother. There is a spare room over the shop and a door that locks and I cook. All I need is somebody who can sit through dinner and remember what I told him, because she will ask, she asks everything, she has a memory like a land registry."
Her chin comes up.
"Or take the money and I will sell the shop in the spring and go home with them."
The shop clock ticks toward eleven. Between you on the table: the envelope, a pincushion, and a veil that is not hers.
"Say yes before my hands start shaking."