She told me I should take myself to a flea market instead. She said I was wasting her valuable time. She asked whether I planned to pay out of my pension in installments, or if my granddaughters had all chipped in for me. Then she suggested I must have some rich old admirer funding my shopping. And finally, she added that wrinkles on the neck were unattractive, so I had no business wearing a dress with a low neckline.
Linda’s face drained of color. Her fingers tightened around the folder she was holding until her knuckles went pale.
“Brittany,” she said, her voice low but razor-clear. “Is that true?”
“She’s twisting everything!” the salesgirl shrieked. “I was only joking a little! This place has a relaxed vibe, doesn’t it? I talk to customers like that all the time, and nobody gets offended!”
“A joke about a pension and a sugar daddy?” Linda pressed her lips into a hard, thin line. “Brittany, we have already spoken about the way you address customers. You have received three written warnings in the last six months. This is completely unacceptable.”
“Oh, come on!” Brittany waved it off. “She bought the dress, didn’t she? She paid seven hundred fifty dollars for it! So everything worked out fine, right?”
“Fine?” I reached into my purse and took out my ID and the ownership papers. I opened them and laid them on the counter in front of Linda. “Please look these over carefully.”
The manager picked up the documents. She unfolded the certificate of ownership and began to read. The little color left in her face vanished. She looked at me, then back at the papers, then at me again.
“My God,” she whispered. “Diane. Please forgive me. I didn’t recognize you right away. You… you’ve changed so much. I mean, you look younger. More casual. Different.”
Brittany’s eyes went wide.
“What? Who is she?”
“This is Diane,” Linda said slowly, as though every word had to be forced out. “She owns this boutique and the entire building. She bought everything a month ago for about two hundred thousand dollars. The building, the business, the inventory—everything. And you just called her a grandmother. Then you implied she had a sugar daddy.”
Silence fell.
Brittany stood there with her mouth half open. Her face turned white, then red, then white again. She backed toward the wall and grabbed the counter with one hand, as if her knees had suddenly stopped working.
“I… I didn’t know,” she stammered. “I didn’t see… I’m sorry, I thought…”
“You thought it was acceptable to be rude to older women,” I finished for her. “Because in your mind, they don’t deserve respect. Because you assume they have no money. Because they are old. Because, according to you, they belong in a flea market, not in a boutique.”
“No! That’s not what I meant!” Brittany clutched her head. “I just… I didn’t think! It was a joke!”
“A joke,” I repeated. “So humiliating another person is funny to you. I see. Linda, how much does Brittany earn here?”
“About seven hundred fifteen dollars a month,” the manager answered quietly.
“For doing what, exactly?”
“Customer service. Consultations, sales, processing purchases.”
“And how does she handle customers? Well?”
Linda said nothing for a moment. Then she lowered her eyes.
“No,” she admitted. “Honestly, no. We’ve had complaints. Several over the past year. People said Brittany was rude, arrogant, dismissive. There were times customers left without buying anything specifically because of the way she treated them.”
“Why wasn’t she fired before now?”
“I wanted to,” Linda said with a sigh. “But I was afraid of being short-staffed. It’s difficult to find someone experienced and reliable in our field. I kept hoping Brittany would improve. I gave her warnings. I had conversations with her.”
“She did not improve,” I said. “Which means it is time to stop hoping and start acting. Brittany, you’re fired. Effective today. You’ll receive your final pay, and then you may leave.”
The salesgirl grabbed the edge of the counter and began to protest.