I noticed her the second time I came out of the fitting room.
The first time, she had been only a shape in the background, another shopper moving between racks. I had not paid attention. Harlow & Grey was quiet that morning, but it was not empty. There were two other women near the front, one holding a scarf up to her neck, another looking at handbags. There was a man sitting on a low chair near the window, waiting, holding a coat across his lap. In a store like that, you expect other people. You do not study them.
The second time, I felt her eyes on me before I saw her.
She was standing near the display table in the middle of the store, holding a sweater she did not seem to be looking at. She was perhaps in her early fifties, with short, neatly styled hair and a light coat draped over her arm. She had the polished look of someone who shopped at Harlow & Grey often, someone who knew the staff by name and expected to be recognized. She was looking directly at me.
I did not think much of it at first. People look at each other in stores. Sometimes it is curiosity. Sometimes it is comparison. Sometimes it is nothing at all. I gave her a brief, polite smile, the kind you give a stranger when your paths cross in a narrow aisle. She did not smile back.
I walked back to the rack where the blue dresses hung. I wanted to compare the two shades again. I held the first dress up to the light. I held the second beside it. I was trying to decide which blue was closer to the blue in Zoe’s photos. I was not aware of how closely I was being observed until Lily came over.
“Did you want to try the other size?” Lily asked.
“Yes, please,” I said. “If you have it.”
Lily nodded and went toward the stockroom. I turned back to the rack. The woman was still there. She had moved closer. She was now standing near the end of the same rack, pretending to look at a row of blouses. Her eyes kept returning to me.
I felt a small, uncomfortable prickle at the back of my neck. I told myself I was being silly. I am a doctor. I walk into hospital rooms where families are frightened and angry and grieving. I know how to read a room. I also know that fear can make you misread things. I tried to be reasonable with myself. Perhaps she thought she recognized me. Perhaps she was waiting for the same dress. Perhaps she was simply bored while her husband waited outside.
But she did not look away. She did not pick up a blouse. She did not move on to another rack. She stood there with her sweater still folded over her arm, watching me as if she were keeping track of something.
I moved toward the fitting rooms again. I carried the suit and the blue dress I had chosen. I passed her on the way. As I passed, she turned her head to follow me. I could feel it. I did not turn around.
Inside the fitting room, I tried to shake the feeling off. I changed into the suit again. I looked at myself in the mirror. I thought about my clinic schedule for Monday. I thought about a patient I needed to call back. I tried to focus on the clothes, but my mind kept returning to the woman outside.
When I came out again, she was standing near the fitting room corridor, talking quietly to another customer. I could not hear what she said. I saw her glance in my direction. I saw the other woman glance too. My stomach tightened.
I have learned over the years that suspicion has a particular weight. It does not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it is a look that lasts too long. Sometimes it is a whisper behind your back. Sometimes it is the way a room changes when you walk into it, as if the air has shifted by a degree. I felt that shift now.
I went to the front of the store to look at scarves. I wanted to put distance between myself and the woman. I wanted to prove to myself that I was imagining things. But when I glanced back, she was still watching. She had followed me, slowly, from rack to rack, never quite approaching, never quite leaving me alone.
I thought about leaving. I thought about putting the clothes back and walking out. But why should I? I had done nothing wrong. I was a woman shopping for her daughter’s dress and for a suit for herself. I had a receipt waiting for me at the register. I had no reason to hurry, and no reason to hide.
Still, I could not shake the feeling that I was being followed by someone who had already decided something about me.
Lily returned with the different size. She handed me the dress with a smile. I thanked her and went back to the fitting room. As I passed the woman again, I heard her say something under her breath. I did not catch the words. I caught the tone. It was not friendly.
I closed the fitting room door behind me. I leaned against it for a moment. I told myself to breathe. I told myself that in a few minutes I would be at the register, paying, leaving, going home to Zoe. I told myself that the woman’s stare did not matter.
I was wrong. It was about to matter a great deal.