“I do. I’m sorry, Kevin, but I do.”
For a moment, I felt sure he was going to break down and cry. Which would make me break down and cry because, no matter how different we had become, we’d shared five years of our lives and I couldn’t bear to hear him mourn the end alone.
But he didn’t cry. He took a deep breath and said, “Call me back when you’re ready to discuss this rationally.”
Mimicking his tone of supreme pragmatism, I said, “I am discussing this rationally.”
“You’ll change your mind. You always do.”
“No. We’re broken up.”
“We are not broken up. Listen, I don’t want to argue about this anymore. Call me tomorrow and we’ll figure everything out.”
My façade of rationality started to crumble. “Oh, no you don’t! I don’t need your permission! We are broken up! Do you hear me? Broken up!”
“No, you’ll come to your senses—”
Mercifully, miraculously, call waiting beeped and cut out the middle of his sentence.
“—so call me as soon as you get your head straightened out,” he finished.
“Okay. You know what? I have to go. Call waiting.”
I clicked over to the other line, figuring that whatever was waiting for me on line two had to be less of a trainwreck than what I was dealing with on line one. “Hello?”
“Becca? It’s Connor.”
I sat up a little straighter. “Hi.”
“I’m still at the restaurant, but I wanted to let you know—oh, damn, I just looked at the time. Did I wake you?”
“No.” I smiled. Imagine. A man who could lose track of time, who wasn’t afraid to start the day without every hour plotted out in advance. And who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty doing hot…sweaty…manual…labor…and then peel off his shirt, revealing chiseled six-pack abs…
Connor interrupted my reverie, reminding me that this was a business call, not a 1-900 hotline.
“Good. Listen, I wanted to let you know that I found a boutique owner who wants to look at your stuff. If you’re interested.”
“Oh my God. You’re serious? Who?” All lingering thoughts of six-pack abs evaporated.
“Miriam Russo. I think her store’s over on Robertson.”
I made a mental note to ask Claire about the Robertson retail climate. “That’s great! That’s amazing! That’s…how the hell did you do that?”
“Oh, you know.”
“I don’t know. Enlighten me.”
“When you’re in business out here, you make all kinds of contacts. And it turns out that one of my producer buddy’s publicist’s boyfriend’s personal trainer used to work with Miriam.”
“Ah.”
“She was in for dinner tonight and I talked you up. She gave me her card and said you should call her after the weekend.”
“Wow. What did you say to her?”
“Oh, you know, that you’re a genius who’s light-years ahead of your time, et cetera, et cetera. She said she’d be happy to give you ten minutes of her time. So what do you say?”
I took a flying leap off the bed and bounced around the room.
“Becca? You still there?”
“I’m here,” I said, a little winded. “But wait. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but, well…you’re taking an awfully big chance talking me up to a customer, aren’t you? I mean, you barely know me…What if I’m unreliable? What if my designs are horrible enough to scar both Dolce and Gabbana for life?”
“Three days in L.A. and already a cynic?”
“I guess so.” I took a few seconds to gather my nerve. Because I wanted to flirt with him, and here was my opening. Could I do it? I could. I should. As of two minutes ago, I was officially single. And the 1-900 fantasies were still fresh in my mind. That’s the only possible explanation for what happened next. I, Becca Davis, eternal good girl and shrinking violet, somehow managed to convince myself to say, doing my best Kathleen Turner impression, “Unless, of course, you have ulterior motives…”
I held my breath through a few agonizing seconds of silence. Then:
“No!” he practically yelled. “Oh God, I’m so sorry you’d even think that I’m hitting on you…”
I curled up into a fetal position on the bed as he blathered, “I know you’re engaged, I know you’re an employee. Believe me, I would never suggest anything of a romantic nature. If I inadvertently gave you the idea I was attracted to you, I apologize, because believe me, I am not!”
I covered the phone’s mouthpiece and started to whimper.
“Honestly, my interest in you is strictly professional and platonic. I never meant to imply I was attracted to you, God no, that couldn’t be further from the truth…” He carried on along these lines for another full minute, after which point I couldn’t believe I hadn’t literally died of humiliation.
“Okay,” I squeaked, when he finally stopped for air. “I have to go now. Thanks for everything. Bye.”
And with that, I turned off my cell phone and settled in for a long night of festering mortification.
But in the “glass is half-full” department, I wasn’t obsessing about Kevin anymore.
9
I stayed in bed as long as I possibly could on Saturday, toying with the idea of undergoing drastic facial reconstruction and moving to Orange County (“the dark side of the Orange Curtain,” as Claire called it), where no one would ever find me. And then maybe, someday in the distant future, after years of intensive counseling and a lobotomy, I could put this whole flirting fiasco behind me.
In the meantime, I could always just kill myself. But then Kevin would insist on speaking at my funeral about how I’d always been prone to irrational fits of passion. Ugh. Forget it.
I was single now, and there were adventures to be had. Not with Connor Sullivan, clearly, but adventures nonetheless. And I needed money to finance these adventures, along with groceries and gas. So I dragged myself to Rhapsody, where, to my immense relief, Connor wasn’t expected until later that afternoon. Rumor had it he’d gone kayaking in Marina del Rey.
“What happened to you?” Aimee asked when I slouched in, clad in a black sweater, black pants, and black shoes. “You’re an existential crisis in heels.”
“Don’t ask,” I muttered, dropping my bag on the tile floor. “We expecting a big crowd tonight?”
“Booked solid, as usual.” She put her hands on her hips and beamed. “But I have big news. News that is going to turn that frown upside down.”
“Please tell me those words did not just come out of your mouth.” I grimaced. “Next are you going to explain how ‘assume’ makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me’?”
“I’m going to kick your ass if you don’t wipe that puss off your face and stop killing my buzz.”
“Okay.” I braced both hands against the bar. “I’m ready. What’s up? Did you get an audition callback?”
“Nope.” She pursed her lips into a pouty moue. “All the casting people keep calling my agent and saying they like my auditions, but I’m just not right for the leading lady parts.”
“Well, what do they think you’re right for?”
“The woman casting the commercial I read for yesterday said I was more the ‘slutty best friend’ type. She said my boobs are too big for an ingenue. Can you believe that? Why didn’t she just slap me in the face? Then she said you have to be flat to be a heroine. So I said, ‘What about Angelina Jolie and Halle Berry?’ and she said, ‘What about Renee Zellweger and Kirsten Dunst?’ ”
“Sounds pretty arbitrary to me.”
“Exactly. Anyway. On to my news.” She flipped her hair over her shoulders, performed a little warm-up shimmy against the wall, then whipped off her jacket to reveal the corset I’d made for her. “Ta-da! Feast your eyes on the best advertisement you’ll ever have!”
“Ha-cha!” I finally cracked a smile. “That was a Thursday afternoon well spent.”
After the dinner rush on Wednesday
night, Aimee had asked what kind of clothes I made, so I’d shown her a sketch of a new corset-top design I’d been working and reworking in my studio (a.k.a. my bedroom). She thought it was sexy and promised to wear it to “all the places I go to see and be seen” if I’d make one for her. So I’d spent Thursday afternoon hunched over my sewing machine, trying to get the boning lined up properly and the lacing grommets spaced for minimum bunching. Given her fair skin and blue eyes, I’d chosen layers of turquoise silk satin and chiffon, with a vanilla-colored ribbon threaded through in back.
She’d paired it with a dark denim microminiskirt and retro eighties pointy-toed pumps, sort of Anna Kournikova meets biker bar.
“It’s laundry day, so I decided to trot out my new designer duds. What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to hire you to be the official Becca Davis fashion model when I scrape up enough cash to put a portfolio together.”
“I L-U-V looove this corset. I can’t believe you made it in…?” She shot me a questioning look.
“Five hours. Well, I’ve been tinkering with the design for months, and corsets are easy because they’re adjustable. Now, pants…those are hard. Especially for women.”
“Because everyone’s curves are different?”
“Particularly in the hip area.”
“Is that why it’s so frickin’ impossible to find a pair of jeans that fit?”
“Yep. Anything fitted or tapered, with a zipper, is much trickier to make. It’s actually quite mathematically complicated.”
“So basically, it’s my ass’s fault I’ll never be able to wear a pair of Sevens? I’m stuck with Levi’s for the rest of my life?” She turned around to address her booty. “Did you hear that? It’s all your fault!”
Without warning, Connor ambled into the midst of all this, looking disheveled in jeans and a navy pullover, his thick brown hair damp. He raised his eyebrows at Aimee’s ensemble and said, “What, you couldn’t afford the rest of the outfit?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be kayaking?” she retorted.
“I’m back. What’s with the Pretty Woman get-up?”
“Do you like it?” She batted her eyes at him.
I couldn’t even look him in the face. So I stared up at the ceiling, trying to act casual and praying the roof would collapse on my head.
He ignored both the eye batting and the ample display of cleavage swelling out of Aimee’s corset. “I’d like it better if you put a sweater over it. We do occasionally get minors in here.”
She gave me a conspiratorial glance and informed him, “Becca made it. Isn’t she talented? I’m her official spokesmodel.”
“And it goes against the spokesmodel code of ethics to wear sweaters?” He winked at me.
I nodded stiffly and busied myself with stacking menus. The hell? How dare he wink? Did he think a paltry little wink could somehow erase the horror of last night and restore our rapport?
Well, it could not. There would be no more flirting of any kind. From now on, I was gonna be all business, all the time.
“And, hey, I’ve got a new one for you. Heard it last night at the bar.” His dark eyes gleamed. “Your eyes are blue, like the ocean—”
“My eyes are brown,” I pointed out.
“—and baby, I’m lost at sea.”
I managed to keep my expression bland.
“No good?” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “Okay, how about: I believe it was Socrates who said, ‘Know thyself.’ Well, I already know myself, baby, how about I get to know you?”
Aimee looked horrified. “I don’t think you’re allowed to talk like that unless you’re wearing a polyester leisure suit and gold medallions.”
He smiled pityingly. “Don’t be jealous of my rico suave finesse.”
“Then don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” she countered.
See? He bantered with everyone. How stupid was I to think he’d actually meant anything by it? I was turning into one of those pathetic narcissists who thought every guy who said “hi” wanted to take me to Paris for the weekend.
“Becca?” Connor was staring at me. As was Aimee. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I shook my head. “I’m fine.”
“You look a little rattled,” he said.
“She’s crying inside because you won’t let me wear the culmination of her life’s work,” Aimee said.
In the end, he let her wear the corset provided she changed into a longer skirt. And at precisely 8:30 P.M., my human advertisement paid off.
“Becca! Becca!” Aimee flagged me down from across the dining room, sprinting over to the hostess stand as fast as her pointy pumps would carry her.
I finished taking a reservation and hung up the phone. “What?”
“That woman who just left”—she pointed to the retreating back of a woman with dark hair wearing well-cut jeans and a black leather jacket—“is a stylist. Rachelle Robinson’s stylist!”
Rachelle Robinson was Tinseltown’s red-carpet darling du jour. Tall, statuesque, and always impeccably dressed, she could have given Charlize Theron a lesson or two in glamour.
I watched the brunette escape out the door. “And I didn’t even get her card. Dammit!”
“No, you don’t understand. I got her card for you! She loved this corset and she wanted to know where I got it. Get ready: she wants you to make one for Rachelle Robinson.”
I grabbed her forearm. “Get out.”
“Oh, I’m out.” She pressed a pale pink business card into my hand. “She wants you to call her next week. She said something about needing it for a movie premiere!”
I thought about all those press cameras taking all those pictures, which would then be reprinted in all those fan magazines. And the big, bold caption underneath the photos would read: “Rachelle Robinson dazzles in a corset by Becca Davis.”
It took every last drop of self-control not to dial up the stylist this second and beg for a chance to lick her stiletto boots.
But then I remembered what Connor had said about placing a high value on my work. And how I should act like I was doing the fashion world a favor. So how to achieve the right balance of ambition, confidence, and gratitude?
I announced I was taking my break and headed back to the office to ask Mr. 1–900 himself.
“You look like a woman with exciting news,” Connor observed when I poked my head into the back room.
“I am.” I couldn’t stop grinning.
“Well, then”—he closed his computer file and gestured to an empty metal chair next to the desk—“spill.”
I took a seat and recapped my conversation with Aimee. “And so Rachelle Robinson might be photographed at a premiere wearing one of my pieces. I’d get my name in the papers and everything.”
“Hang on a second.” He held up both hands. “I reel in a boutique owner, and then Aimee comes up with an actual celebrity stylist? Damn! What trumps celebrity stylist? Magazine editor? Tommy Hilfiger himself?”
I laughed. “It’s not a competition.”
“Not a competition? Have you met Los Angeles men?”
“Sadly, I have. Where else would I get lines like, ‘Dollface, if you were words on a page, you’d be what they call fine print’?”
He looked ill. “Someone actually said that to you?”
According to Aimee, witness to the linguistic offense, the perpetrator was a fairly well-known entertainment reporter. “I cannot incriminate the clientele. And, in his defense, I’m pretty sure he was plastered at the time.”
“There’s not enough tequila in all of Mexico to excuse that kind of effrontery.”
“Says the man who resorted to ‘Socrates says, “Know thyself”’ not six hours ago.”
“I was kidding.”
“I know, I know. You’ve made that crystal clear.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t want you—you or your fiancé—to think that I would ever—”
“I get it.” My smile evaporated. “Anyway. My ques
tion is, what do I say when I call up this stylist? I really want this job, but I don’t want to sound too eager.”
“Right. Good.”
“And I don’t have a huge résumé or a lot of room to negotiate, so I’m willing to give her the corset for cost. How do I convey that without sounding desperate?”
He started shaking his head. “You don’t. Here’s what you say—”
“Hang on. Let me write this down so I don’t panic and cave when I’m actually having the conversation.” I leaned over to grab a pen and sketch pad from my bag. The purse strap caught on the leg of Connor’s chair, spilling glossy issues of Vogue, InStyle, and Lucky onto the floor.
“Whoa.” He looked a little daunted. “No wonder you’re always dragging around those huge purses. Did Claire assign you a style syllabus or something?”
I shook my head. “I read every fashion magazine I can get my grubby little hands on. Always have. To get ideas. Not to copy whole pieces, of course, but little details—lace trim, embroidery, the drape of a material—will grab my attention. I used to cover my entire bedroom wall in torn-out magazine pages. It drove my mom crazy, not to mention my ex-fiancé.”
He tilted his head. “Ex-fiancé?”
“Yeah. He was kind of a neat freak.” I waited to see if more questions would follow, but Connor just nodded thoughtfully.
So I supplied, “We broke up. Permanently.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “No need to discuss it if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“Okay. Fine.” I uncapped my pen and prepared to record Connor’s words of business wisdom. “Back to the stylist. I’m going to call her on Monday afternoon after I meet with the boutique owner.”
“Show her you’re interested and you can follow through,” he agreed. And then the interoffice speaker blared: “Connor, call on line one.”
“Sorry. Hang on,” he said to me, then leaned toward the speaker. “Is it important?”
“It’s Meena.”
“Tell her I’ll call her later.” He turned back to me, his expression grim. “I apologize for the interruption. That was just…”
“Your ex-girlfriend.”
He blinked. “How do you know her name?”
Fashionably Late Page 7
