Fashionably Late

by Beth Kendrick

  “Or she may just have a temper that would do Shannen Doherty proud.”

  “Another distinct possibility.” He rocked back on his heels. “She left while I was at work one night, and she packed exactly half of the contents of the house. She took the salt shaker and left the pepper shaker. Took the lamps and left the shades. Swiped all the spoons and left the forks.”

  “Who got the knives?” I couldn’t help myself.

  “I got the butter knives, she made off with the fancy German steak jobs. Which means that she’s out there somewhere, still armed with a whole drawerful of razor-sharp steel.” He seemed haunted by the image.

  “And she took half the quilt?”

  “Sheets, towels, dishcloths…all massacred. As I said, she was making a point.”

  “And the point was…?”

  “I’m guessing it was, ‘Fuck you, Connor Sullivan.’ ”

  “But if you weren’t married and you weren’t engaged, why would she feel entitled to half of all your earthly possessions?”

  He shrugged. “Rationality was never her strong suit.”

  “Okay. Now for the big question. Didn’t you break up with her, like, months ago?”

  He nodded.

  “So why are you still living with a butchered comforter?”

  “I guess I just haven’t gotten around to replacing it.”

  I shook my head. “Not buying that. Try again.”

  “It’s true,” he protested. “I managed to replace the silverware and the towels and the TV so far.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, of course the TV.”

  “But somehow I keep forgetting to pick up some new sheets.”

  “Really.” I leaned against the doorframe.

  “Yep.”

  “You know, I suspect that something deeper than mere forgetfulness is going on here.” I hesitated a few moments, trying to decide if I really wanted to hear the answer to my next question. “Is it because you still miss her?”

  “No. God, no.” He looked horrified. “I miss many things about my life before we broke up—my stereo speaker, my signed first edition of Master and Commander, having cufflinks that actually match—but Meena herself is not one of them.”

  “So? Why not head out and treat yourself to a new set of linens? Go crazy, buy a whole blanket all for yourself?”

  He shoved both hands into his pockets. “Do we have to have this conversation?”

  “Okay, pretend you’re me for a second.” I put my hands on his shoulders and steered him back to the bedroom doorway. “Look at what I’m looking at and tell me you wouldn’t want an explanation from a potential boyfriend.”

  He looked alarmed. “ ‘Potential boyfriend?’ ”

  I brushed this off. “Okay, so not the point of this conversation.”

  “Hold on. Apparently, you’ve heard a lot of wild rumors flying around the restaurant, but some of them are true: I’m not the settling down type.”

  “Neither am I,” I countered. “I just broke off my engagement and I have no plans to get sucked into another one any time soon. No one’s looking to get serious.” I sharpened my gaze. “I find it interesting, however, that someone who claims to love risking life, limb, and financial ruin won’t take a chance and buy a new quilt.”

  He looked genuinely puzzled. “Buying a quilt isn’t risky.”

  “I know. So why…?”

  He shrugged and crossed his arms. “I don’t want to forget what happens when I make idiotic choices.”

  “So you spend week after week sleeping under a comforter that doesn’t cover your feet?”

  “Hey, I don’t want to come home one day and find my pepper shaker gone, too.” He pretended to wipe away a tear. “It’s all I have left.”

  “I’m serious.” I softened both my expression and my tone. “What are you afraid of?”

  This had definitely been the wrong thing to say. He shut down faster than a post office at 5:00 P.M. before Labor Day weekend, closed the bedroom door, and refused to talk about anything except crown molding and copper plumbing for the next forty-five minutes.

  When he dropped me off at Aimee’s, I tried to apologize for overstepping my bounds, but he waved this away.

  “You’re right; it’s ridiculous. I’ll probably go to Target this weekend and buy some manly, flannel blanket,” he said, obviously lying. “You still want to go hiking on Saturday?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  And before everything could get all high-strung and awkward, he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Which somehow progressed to kissing on the lips. He was a good kisser—warm and slow, with just the right amount of pressure. He was a gentleman about it, too, passionate without getting out of line. Not all of us could claim the same—it’s possible I might have groped him a little. I hadn’t felt this kind of searing physical desire in…well, ever, actually.

  So the man didn’t believe in overstocking the linen closet. So what? With chemistry like this, who needed comforters?

  “So whatever happened with Rachelle Robinson and her corset-thieving stylist? I’ve fallen behind on the family news now that I spend all my time toiling in the supply closet and trying to gussy up our new apartment-slash-prison cell.” Claire broke into a soulful rendition of Elvis Presley’s “In the Ghetto.”

  I stopped changing the thread color in the sewing machine from black to gray long enough to make a face. “Van Nuys is hardly the ghetto.”

  “Ha.” She collapsed onto Aimee’s blue sofa and heaved her feet up onto the scratched, espresso-stained coffee table. The afternoon sunlight streamed through sliding glass doors to the balcony, making her platinum-blonde hair look even blonder. “Come on; give me some good gossip to get my mind off my nasty, brutish, and cockroach-riddled life.”

  “Cockroaches?” I shuddered.

  “ ‘Palmetto bugs.’ That’s what the landlord called them when I demanded he call an exterminator.” She shuddered. “ ‘No need to be afraid of a few little bitty palmetto bugs.’ Palmetto bugs, my ass. We are talking roaches the size of my SUV. Which, according to my so-called husband, we’ll be giving back to the dealership this weekend before the repo man arrives…”

  I could tell that she was just warming up, so I half-listened and got on with my threading. I’d spent all afternoon at Ninth and Maple, L.A.’s fashion district, where I’d loaded up on cloth, thread, lace, and buttons, courtesy of my brand-new expense account.

  Since this new gig with Team Rachelle (as Fiona so nauseatingly insisted on calling it) might be my one and only shot to get my work out into the public, I was determined to create samples that were perfect in every way. (Not unlike Claire’s wedding, though hopefully with a better long-term outcome.) I’d bought huge sheets of cardboard so I could make industrial patterns for my very best designs, the ones I’d been fine-tuning for years. Once I managed to produce patterns for the regulated clothing sizes Fiona had given me, I could figure out how big I wanted the stitches to be and perforate the cardboard appropriately so that factory sewing machines could reproduce my work.

  Claire interrupted her philippic on marriage long enough to say, “Jeez, that’s a lot of thread, Becks. You anticipating a strike at the Singer corporation?”

  “No, I got a design job—”

  She put down her glass of orange juice. “You did?”

  “—so I need at least ten spools in each color, and different densities for working with cloth, Lycra, and leather.”

  “Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me the minute I walked in here?”

  I gave her a look. “I wanted to, but first we had to discuss the palmetto bug population in Van Nuys.”

  “This is so exciting! Soon you’ll be rich and then you can hire me on to decorate your offices and I’ll move back to Beverly Glen.” Her eyes lit up. “Who are you working with?”

  I flushed. “Remember Rachelle and her corset-thieving stylist?”

  “Becca.” Her feet came down from the coffee table. “You’re not.”
<
br />   “Oh, but I am.”

  “But what about the interview in the paper?”

  “Fiona explained everything on Monday. Rachelle’s quote about doing everything herself was taken out of context.”

  “Out of context?” She threw back the rest of her OJ like a shot of baby-friendly tequila. “Are you kidding me? That’s the oldest PR trick in the book. Page one: ‘No comment.’ Page two: ‘Taken out of context.’ ”

  I tried not to get defensive. “At the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter what Rachelle did or didn’t say. The point is, I have a job now, and my designs are going to be in major department stores across the U.S. And I’m getting paid.”

  “How much?” she demanded.

  “A lot more than I expected. I won’t see much until the line actually starts mass production, but in the meantime—”

  “In the meantime, they’re screwing you over and taking credit for your work!”

  “This isn’t about ego, it’s about exposure,” I informed her loftily.

  “It’s about desperation,” she corrected. “But believe me, I’ve been there. Exhibit A: the beer commercial where I’m wearing a skimpy wet maillot, high heels, and lipstick.”

  “So?” I surveyed the fabric and sewing equipment strewn all over the living room. “Try to be happy for me. I know it’s not my own boutique in Paris, but it’s a start.”

  She sighed. “I know. This is a tough town and a girl’s gotta get her foot in the door even if she gets frickin’ hobbled in the process. I just don’t want anybody taking advantage of my little sister.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I assured her, hoping with every last fiber of my being that this was true. “And I won’t get hobbled. I read the contract very carefully.” Although Fiona had been breathing down my neck the whole time, making pointed remarks about leaving for the airport.

  Claire didn’t say a word about my gross negligence in signing anything without a highly paid team of attorneys present. She just held out her glass for a refill and turned the subject back to herself. “Oh, and speaking of being hobbled? Andrew cancelled our basic cable. Not just HBO, which is grounds for divorce in and of itself, but basic cable. He says it’s an unnecessary expenditure along with…” She closed her eyes against the horror of it all. “My Z. Bigatti moisturizer.”

  At a hundred and ten dollars an ounce, I had to agree with him on the Z. Bigatti, but nobody asked me.

  “I had to use Neutrogena this morning. Bought it on sale at Walgreen’s. I cried the whole time.”

  “Can’t Amnesty International intervene?” I returned my focus to threading various needles, chiming in with “mm-hmm” or “an outrage!” at random intervals.

  She had just started in on the humiliation of having to shop at Trader Joe’s instead of Whole Foods when the doorbell rang. I buzzed up a delivery man, who arrived at the door bearing a green glass vase filled with purple irises.

  He squinted down at his clipboard. “You Becca Davis?”

  “That’s me.” I reached out to accept the pen he offered and signed where indicated while Claire grabbed the flowers. “Thanks.”

  By the time I closed the door behind him, Claire had snatched up the little white envelope taped to the rim of the vase. “Does my little Beck-Beck have an admirer?”

  I turned up my palm. “Hand it over.”

  “I wish I could, but it’s my duty as your L.A. chaperone to make sure you’re not getting mixed up with the wrong crowd.”

  “Claire! Give it!”

  Her smile gleamed with older-sibling sadism. “What if you’re accepting gifts from, oh, say, Russell Crowe? How will Mom and Dad ever forgive me?”

  “Russell Crowe is married!” I chased her around the display case, but she was surprisingly fleet of foot for a woman carrying twins.

  “I know, that’s what makes it so sordid! Or Tommy Lee, what if you were falling under his spell? No, we just can’t risk it.” She barricaded herself in the bathroom, slamming the white door in my face.

  “Dammit!” I pounded on the door. “Tampering with the mail is a federal offense!”

  “Luckily, I’m just tampering with FTD.”

  I heard the rustle of the envelope flap giving way, then a long pause.

  “Dear God.” She cleared her throat and prepared to orate. “ ‘Becca—I’ve got a thirst, and baby, you smell like my Gatorade.’ ”

  I collapsed in hysterical laughter.

  “That is disgusting.” She flung the door open, arms akimbo. “Seriously, how can you laugh? That’s the most offensive thing I’ve ever heard!”

  “Well, Tommy Lee reserves his very best material for me,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes.

  “It’s signed ‘Connor’.” Her eyes narrowed. “Connor, as in Connor Sullivan?”

  Oh boy. “Listen, I can explain…”

  “You’re dating your boss?”

  “I quit last week, remember?”

  “You’re dating Connor Sullivan, even after I warned you about him, and you let him talk to you like this? ‘You smell like my Gatorade’?”

  “Lighten up—it’s a joke. We have kind of a competition going…”

  “Oh, Becca, where did we fail you?”

  “You know, if you’d just give me one minute to explain, I think you’d see that you’re way overreacting.”

  “Ha. You’re too sweet and innocent to see that man for the…the rogue and the rake that he is—”

  Evidently she’d been reading Regency romance novels again.

  “—but I know for a fact that when a man starts comparing a woman to a sports drink, he’s not after her for her sparkling personality.” She stormed out of the bathroom, seized my cell phone, and commenced dialing. “Hello? Andrew? It’s me. No, no, everything’s fine with me, the problem is your sainted friend Connor. Would you like to know who he’s treating like a Sunset Strip streetwalker?”

  At least she was speaking to him again.

  17

  Hmm,” Fiona Fitzgerald said, running her fingers over the samples I brought to her office on Friday afternoon. “Hmm.”

  A small but vocal part of me kept insisting that she looked awfully fresh-faced and well-rested for a woman who’d spent the last four days flying across the international date line and back, but the rest of me rationalized that, with enough makeup, Ambien, and first-class pampering, anything was possible. She had to have gone to Australia as she’d told me, because if she hadn’t, that meant…

  I swallowed loudly as she examined the seam of a silk camisole and let out another long “hmm…”

  “Is ‘hmm’ good or bad?” I finally asked.

  She retrieved a pair of black-rimmed glasses from her desk drawer and put them on. “You’ve certainly made some interesting choices with this piece.”

  Oh crap. “I guess silk isn’t a very affordable material for a midpriced top? If you like, I can redo it with a cotton-rayon blend, maybe even—” I tried to be brave “—polyester.”

  She didn’t look up from the camisole. “I see.”

  “And, of course, we can use any color fabric. I just used basic black for the sample because I was toying with the idea of doing some turquoise ribbon accents on the neckline.”

  She finally glanced up. “Were you?”

  “Yes, but then I decided that I was better off keeping it simple so that the customer has the option of using it as a layer piece under the open-weave long-sleeved top.” I pointed to the whisper-light black mesh shirt I’d been experimenting with for the last two years. Anything that soft and sheer, with that many natural irregularities in the fabric, was a total bitch to seam and standardize. But I thought I’d done a good job.

  Apparently, I was alone in that opinion. “Try this again in a more practical fabric, and this time add the turquoise.” She handed the camisole back to me.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “As for this…” She tweezed up the mesh top between her thumb and forefinger and tossed it over to a table piled high
with fashion magazines and office memos. “Eh.”

  “But…” I tamped down the urge to go after the shirt and embrace it like an orphaned puppy. “I already did a manufacturing pattern for the small, medium, and large sizes you wanted. I even did extra small!”

  “I said ‘eh,’ ” she snapped. “What else do you have?”

  I handed over the denim jacket, drawstring “sweatpant” skirt I’d modeled after the one I’d worn on the fateful trip to Lilac Lakes with Kevin, plus a cotton sundress that I’d made by “remixing” the muslin panels of my sister’s bridal gown.

  She scrutinized these like a forensic scientist looking for traces of DNA evidence. “Eh, eh, and eh.”

  I tried to remain poker-faced.

  One corner of her mouth twitched as she picked up on my disappointment and anxiety. “Leave the patterns, darling, but I don’t think they’ll make it into production.”

  “What’s wrong with them?” I asked, determined to rally. “Tell me what you need and I swear I’ll do better.”

  “You will? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” Translation: absolutely not. These pieces represented my best, time-tested work.

  “Well, I hope so. Because otherwise…” She let my imagination and abject fear of failure fill in the blanks.

  Realizing that she probably thrived on designers’ fear like a tiger shark on big bloody chunks of chum, I blustered ahead with, “Tell me exactly what your vision is and I’ll make it happen.”

  “My vision?” Cue lilting laughter. “Darling, you’re the designer. You’re the one with the vision.”

  “Yes, but if you can be specific about what’s wrong with these pieces, at least I’ll have an idea of what not to do on the next go-round.”

  She exhaled, all loud and annoyed. “Fine. It’s just…I can’t see Rachelle wearing any of these pieces, can you?”

  I blinked. “Maybe not—especially if I recut with polyester—but I thought we were marketing to midwestern moms?”