Here a tall, ferocious woman who carries all humanity’s misogyny on her shoulders will come down from her perch on top of the store, winding down the staircase whence the customers dare not go, like a corporate Cinderella whose step sisters have all gone dancing for the night. Behind closed doors she will have tucked her shirt, buttoned her collar to the top, made sure her nipples weren’t protruding, that they had not pierced the impenetrable fabric of her nude-coloured bra, that her pants were not accidentally sprayed with pineapple juice from helping the new stocking team that morning. She was the one who chose the music that played throughout the store, which was more power than any other employee could possibly dream of. Requests? Maybe, but total control? Never.