The Hat Girl...

One evening this week I was out walking when I tripped, causing my shoe to fly off and my foot to land in a puddle. I cursed my stupidity loudly and then proceeded to make this story up for the remainder of my rather damp journey home.

“Oh fiddlesticks!” She cried, looking downwards at her now sodden foot. A protruding cobblestone had turned her ankle, resulting in her precarious wobble into the offending puddle. It was now that she was once more upright and on two feet that she realised aghast that this small token of clumsiness had cost her the job. The discrepancy in colour between her stockings was far too noticeable to be able to continue her journey onwards. She would have to return home and change. Such a delay would undoubtedly cause her to miss the appointment she had made with Mrs Potts of Mrs Potts’ Fabric Emporium.

Her hat slid wetly to one side as if it too was disappointed in the current turn of events. Tearfully she prodded it back into place with the rusted hat pin. The hat summed up her life really – fraying around the edges and more than a little unsatisfactory. It was a shame that she couldn’t afford something a bit nicer, for she was blessed with a pretty face rendered even prettier when framed with the right hat. The current sodden mess atop her head, which had once believed itself to be a hat, fell askew once more.

Sighing despondently she looked across the street. The warm light and pretty colours of the shop window drew her closer. It was the milliner’s shop and they’d just completed a new display of the latest confections and fashions declared to be popular in Paris. Her eyes fixed longingly upon one creation, a cloche hat in vivid purple. It was of course entirely impractical as well as far too dear for the meagre wage which she had until a moment ago the opportunity of earning. Defeated she turned from the cheerful display and began to limp home, one foot squelching wetly and beginning to go numb from cold.

“Excuse me! Excuse me Miss! Please wait.” She heard with disinterested bemusement the sound of a man calling down the street, before realising with embarrassment that he was in fact calling her. She turned. Good heavens she thought to herself, feeling more than a little flustered by his approach, and wondering whether she’d woken up in a novel. He was tall with a sweep of dark hair and a beautifully tailored suit. He held out his umbrella, sheltering her from the worst of the rain.

“I’m terribly sorry for all this.” He began. “But I noticed you walk past and as soon as I saw your face I knew that you were exactly the girl I’ve been looking for.” Startled by his impropriety she drew back, a hint of fear widening her eyes. She darted small glances around her, but all the other pedestrians on the street were too engrossed in avoiding puddles and dripping eaves. “Oh good Lord!” He exclaimed, realising his mistake and having the grace to colour slightly. “No, never, not that.” He stumbled over his words in a rush of apologetic negation. “It’s more of a job proposal you see.” She did not see at all for he was not explaining himself well. He tried again. “I’m the owner of the milliner’s shop that you just passed by. I’m looking for a girl just like yourself. I was wondering whether you would consider applying.” She stared at him flabbergasted, quite certain in her own heart that he could not want a girl like herself.

“That’s very kind I’m sure. But I really don’t think -”

“Please say you’ll at least consider my proposal.” He interrupted desperately. “Every girl I’ve interviewed in the past week look like they’ve had a dead bird clinging to their heads. Whereas you...” He paused, seemingly uncertain whether it was entirely proper to say the next words. “...whereas you look quite perfect. Even in that frightfully unbecoming hat.” He added with a twinkle of humour.

She touched her hat self-consciously, but was unable to disguise the twitching of a smile, which indicated her ability to laugh at herself. There was something quite appealing about this young gentleman and his earnest looks. He made her feel like she would be doing him a great favour by accepting the job, rather than him rendering her a service. She hesitated despite the fact she knew there was only one answer she could give. The hesitation was born out of natural trepidation that so few and so small a group of words could change her life forever. Gathering every fibre of strength in her character she said with greater gumption than she really felt,

“Alright. I accept.”