Fashionably Late

by Beth Kendrick

  “Not if you don’t want to get sued. Good afternoon!” Click. Dial tone.

  “You bitch!” I screamed at the phone. “You can’t do this to me!”

  But she already had. When I returned to Aimee’s apartment, I broke out my copy of the contract and finally found the microscopic-fonted footnote stipulating that if they fired me, I was entitled to my full commission, but if I quit, they retained the rights to my work, they could do whatever they wanted with the patterns, and I was entitled to diddly squat.

  “I’m ruined!” I wailed, burying my face in my hands. “Ruined!”

  “But the upside is, at least you know you have real talent, right?” Aimee offered. “So much talent that people go out of their way to steal it.”

  “Wow. Validation from a lying, cheating, pattern-stealing sociopath. Suddenly life is worth living again.”

  She patted my shoulder. “All is not lost. I mean, I get that this sucks hugely, but just because they stole your designs doesn’t mean they can monopolize your talent.”

  “I worked on some of those pieces for years! Do you know how long it’ll take me to build a whole new portfolio?”

  “Well, chica”—she dragged on her cigarette—“that’s why God invented day jobs.”

  I started banging my head against the table. “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You must.”

  “Lowly grunt work here I come, right back where I started from…” I picked up the phone and made my second ego-crushing call of the day.

  “Look who’s come crawling back.”

  I dug the toe of my Rodolphe Menudier wedge into the plush white carpet at Miriam Russo’s boutique. “Indeed I have.”

  Miriam’s perfect platinum pageboy hardly moved when she nodded. “They all come back, and do you know why?”

  Because they’d rather die than call Connor Sullivan and ask for their hostessing jobs back? “No.”

  “Because I know everything and everyone worth knowing.”

  I folded my hands in front of me, the very picture of penitence. “Then I’m very lucky you agreed to meet with me again.”

  “Yes, you are. Now…” She paused to savor her moment of ultimate power. “Do you have anything you’d like to say to me?”

  I sighed. “I should have put the zipper in the corset.”

  She arched one eyebrow. “You’re saying it, but you don’t mean it.”

  “Oh, I mean it.” I gritted my teeth. “But it’s a moot point anyway since I can’t even make the damn things anymore.”

  She stopped tormenting me and got serious. “And why not?”

  “Because I got mixed up with the stylist from hell and now—”

  “Fiona Fitzgerald?”

  My head snapped up. “How did you know?”

  “Everyone knows about Fiona. Tell me you didn’t sign anything.”

  “Um.”

  “Oh no. What did she get?”

  “The corset, all my best shirts and skirts, my sister’s wedding gown…”

  “So essentially, you’re coming to me with no new designs?”

  “Actually…” I whipped out the sketch I’d worked on all night. “I’m working on a new piece, Parking Lot Pants, I’m calling them. I haven’t had time to whip up a sample yet—”

  “But you don’t have anything approaching a collection?”

  “Not anymore, no.”

  She slid her glasses down her tiny misshapen nose. “Then why are you here?”

  “I need a job. I’ll do anything. Steam the stock, clean the carpets, make coffee—”

  “Fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Why not? I like a woman who can admit it when she’s made a mistake. Besides, my last assistant just quit in a huff. None of them last long.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Don’t get uppity on your first day,” she warned, but I could see a hint of a smile on her lips. “Very well, you’re hired. As of right now, I’m your new mentor. I’m brusque, I’m demanding, and I’m going to hurt your feelings all day every day. But at least I won’t steal your designs. Are we agreed?”

  “Yes.” I threw in a salute for good measure.

  “You can start by getting me a cup of coffee. I like it strong, black, and scalding hot. McDonald’s lawsuit hot. Once you master the coffee machine, I might trust you to steam the new Nanette Lepore shipment. Until then, watch and learn from the very best—me.”

  26

  Over the next two weeks, I learned many great truths. Firstly, that I was broke. And not just by Los Angeles standards—none of that “I can’t pay the electric bill because I just had to have the new Rene Caovilla slingbacks” claptrap—but by middle-class Phoenix standards. By shantytown standards, okay? At this point, Old Navy flip-flops were beyond my reach, forget Rene Caovilla. But, if I was very lucky and very economical and very willing to eat ramen and mac and cheese, I might be able to scrape together next month’s rent.

  The second great truth was that I missed Connor. A lot. I wondered how his broken ankle was healing, if the gash on his forearm would leave a permanent scar. I wondered if he was wondering about me. Countless times I dialed the first few digits of his phone number, only to abort the call. What could we say to each other that hadn’t already been said?

  Most of my great truths, however, came straight from Miriam Russo, Fount of Fashion Wisdom.

  “Here is the secret to running a design business in this city: Los Angeles women are some of the most tragic fashion victims. Bear that in mind, and the clientele will come in and come back in droves.”

  “Fashion victims?” I cast my mind back to all the gorgeous models and actresses who’d swept through Rhapsody in the latest designs from Narciso Rodriguez, Catherine Malandrino, and Tracy Reese.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Oh, I am not disagreeing with you. Definitely not.”

  “Good. Then I’ll let you live.”

  “But most of the women I’ve seen here look pretty fabulous. I mean, if you want to see fashion victims for real, go to Arizona sometime. I myself have assembled an entire wardrobe from thrift stores and the clearance rack at Macy’s, so I’m in no position to criticize anyone else.”

  “Arizona,” she scoffed. “Macy’s. Please. You’re missing my point. The women you know in Phoenix, are they married to fantastically wealthy movie producers and plastic surgeons?”

  “No.”

  “Is their primary goal in life to fit into Chanel’s sample size and make other women writhe with envy?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, how could they possibly be expected to compete with my clientele? Women in the real world are too busy trying to pay the bills and raise their children to spend all day accessorizing. Take you, for example. It’s all too apparent that you have a banal, suburban background to go with your banal, suburban name, but you still manage to pull together something with a little panache.”

  I looked down at my black peasant skirt and white, off-the-shoulder, Sophia-Loren-circa-1965 top. “Thank you. Got the whole outfit for under twenty bucks at a flea market in Paradise Valley.”

  “There you go. It’s not about money, it’s about fashion sense. You’ll see,” she promised. “You’ll see when women start asking to buy the dress along with the matching shoes and the matching handbag and the color-coordinated jewelry. Lately, it’s like lemmings throwing themselves off the cliff of Von Dutch.”

  “Or the Ugg abyss?”

  “Exactly. The Aussies will never forgive us for that one. If you want your label to last, you can’t oversell your product. Oversaturate the market and you’re through. Call it the Burberry Effect.”

  By Friday, I had mastered the latte, the cappuccino, and the grainy hypercaffeinated sludge that Miriam needed twelve times per day “in order to behave in anything approaching a civilized manner.” On Saturday morning, I fluttered around like a geisha and made apologetic noise
s while a temperamental pop star berated me because the store didn’t have the newest True Religion jeans in her size (okay, actually, we did have them in her size—a 28—but she insisted that she wore a 25 and no one dared contradict her). I let her scream herself hoarse, then sprinted down the block to the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf to fetch her the special dulce de leche ice-blended coffee she demanded, an errand for which I was neither thanked nor paid back.

  So by Sunday afternoon, I was relieved when Miriam announced that a very high-profile client was dropping by with her stylist for a private shopping session that afternoon.

  “You’re dismissed for the rest of the day,” she informed me, yanking the sunshades down over the front windows. “We can’t have you eavesdropping on her cell phone conversations and then tattling to the tabloids.”

  “I would never do that,” I protested.

  “You don’t seem the type,” she agreed, locking the doors. “But some celebrities want their privacy, and I give it to them.” She paused to slug down yet another cup of coffee. “And until I know for a fact that you’re not going to be running at the mouth at the first offer of money, I’m going to have to give you the boot. Now beat it. Rachelle Robinson and Fiona Fitzgerald are going to be here any minute.”

  I gaped at her. “You’re going to work with them?”

  “Don’t bother with the righteous outrage routine. First rule of business in this town: If they have money, you work with them.” Her eyes glittered. “Besides, how else am I going to find out all the dirty details of their new fashion line?”

  “Here’s the lowdown: it’s going to be called Raggs by Rachelle—that’s Raggs with two g’s, I kid you not—and it’s gonna crash and burn as soon as it hits stores,” Miriam reported on Monday. “Be thankful your name’s not attached anymore.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Bad fabric, poor cutting, horrendous execution. If they weren’t such duplicitous harpies I’d actually feel sorry for them.”

  “You never feel sorry for anyone,” I reminded her.

  “I know. That tells you exactly how bad it is.”

  “I’d gloat, except…my corset.”

  “Your corset’s gone over to the dark side, along with all your other best pieces. They’re never coming back. Mourn them and move on. And get me a new cup of coffee while you’re at it.”

  I rushed to do her bidding (it was in everyone’s best interest to keep her on a steady IV drip of caffeine), then harassed her until she agreed to look at the Parking Lot Pants sample I’d whipped up. I’d tailored them to fit me, but when I put them on and paraded around, she looked unimpressed.

  “I don’t know.” She started flipping through a fashion magazine that had just arrived with the mail.

  “But look at the cute ribbon detailing on the knees,” I pointed out. “These are perfect for summer parties!”

  “They’re not exactly slimming, though, are they?”

  I flushed and sucked in my stomach. “Yeah, but that’s only because I have short legs. If someone like Nicole Kidman were to put these on—”

  “Most of my customers aren’t Nicole Kidman. We can’t all be five-foot-ten redheads with zero-percent body fat. You need a piece that’s different from all the mundane crap already out there. You need an eye-popping, attention-grabbing couture original that positively demands to be photographed and written up.”

  “I hate to quibble, but the last time I came up with a piece like that it ended up a POW of Team Rachelle.”

  “Then don’t be in such a hurry next time. Don’t hand your most valuable designs over to someone you barely know.” She turned back to her magazine. “Go home tonight, get to work on something really fresh and fun, sew the hell out of it, get it on a red carpet, and then we’ll talk.”

  “Get it on the red carpet,” I scoffed. “Right. Like it’s so easy.”

  “It is easy if you know how to network,” she replied. “Especially with awards season coming up. But don’t waste your time worrying about that right now. First, you need to create something really spectacular.”

  And wham, inspiration struck like a skillet to the skull. “Spectacular? I can do that. As for networking, well, let’s just hope Jennifer Garner looks good in gray.”

  27

  I stayed late at the boutique the next Sunday, baggy-eyed from sleep deprivation but charged with the creative buzz that came with frenetic, all-night sewing sessions. My new piece was by far the best I’d ever done—better than Claire’s wedding gown and Rachelle’s corset put together. Though my energy had lagged as the day wore on (two shrill fashionistas nearly drew blood over the last coral pink Goldenbleu handbag and I’d had to intervene, nearly losing a finger in the process), my spirits were soaring. I was excited to be sewing again, excited to be pouring my passion into something new.

  As I made sure all the displays were orderly and the clothes were lined up according to size, I allowed myself to linger over the lustrous new silks and feather-light cashmeres. Here I was, chasing the dream. I had desire, I had drive; in fact, the only thing that could improve this day was—

  “You know what would look great here? A big pile of Becca Davis originals.”

  I turned around and there was Connor Sullivan with a grin on his face, a bulky cast on his left foot, and a bundle of shopping bags in each hand.

  I froze. “What are you doing here?”

  “You’re still speaking to me.” He nodded. “I’ll consider that a sign of encouragement.”

  I continued to stare at him, dumbfounded.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not here to stalk you. No clandestine building leases, no flowery spiel about how I’ve seen the error of my ways and I’m a changed man.”

  “Then…why are you here?”

  “I’m here because even though I’m the same stubborn guy I’ve always been, I’ve made a few improvements.”

  I was in pain just looking at the thick blue brace encasing his foot. “How’s your ankle?”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute.” He lifted the shopping bags. “First I have something to show you.”

  I peered inside the big brown bags and started to laugh.

  “Is this supposed to be a joke?”

  He shook his head, trying to look earnest. “The salesman said they’re the best. Top of the line. The Rolls-Royce of bed sheets.”

  “Because obviously, you’re so picky about your linens.”

  “You got that straight—give me a high thread count or give me death.”

  The sheets were a simple snowy white. And there were a lot of them. “You really stocked up, didn’t you?”

  “Oh yeah.” He ticked off his purchases on his fingers. “Fitted sheets, top sheets, pillowcases, and something called a duvet. I’m not even sure what a duvet is, but the salesman assured me I can’t live without it.”

  “Egyptian cotton?”

  “I don’t know what ethnicity they are, but I can tell you this: they’re all whole.”

  I gave him a lopsided smile. “And somewhere out there, Meena is weeping.”

  He grabbed my hand. “This isn’t about Meena. It’s about you. I’m winning you back, you see.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah.” He studied my face. “How’s it going so far?”

  “Surprisingly well, considering your big romantic gesture originated in the domestic department of Bloomingdale’s.”

  “I was hoping to pick up a few bonus points in the sentimental category.”

  “Impressive,” I acknowledged. “Very impressive.”

  “So look.” He flung out his arms. “I’m growing. I’m changing. I have a duvet.”

  My heart pinballed around my chest. It would be so easy to just let him pull me back into his embrace and damn the consequences till tomorrow. But…“Connor, come on. I get the symbolism—so subtle, by the way—but how do a bunch of sheets really change anything?”

  His grin widened. “The sheets are just supposed to melt the ice. This is what c
hanges things: my parachute failed.”

  “I know.”

  “And then my emergency chute didn’t work the way it was supposed to.”

  “I heard.”

  “Basically, I was sure I was going to die.”

  “I see.”

  “And while I was sure I was going to die, I got to thinking about you. How I’d feel if I never got to see you again. How I’d feel if you insisted on throwing yourself out of a tiny plane with a faulty parachute.”

  “And?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t like it.”

  “But what about all your ranting in the ER about how you’re your own man and no woman will tame you?”

  “Here’s the thing about near-death experiences: there’s a forty-eight-hour period after them where you feel invincible. Once I’d had a few days to come down off the high, I kind of saw your point.”

  “So why didn’t you call me?”

  “I just…I don’t know. But then Claire told me to stop being so wussy about dating. She said if I can handle parachute failures, I can handle the risk of you rejecting me.”

  “She’s a smart girl. And you’ll notice I’m not rejecting you.”

  “Can we try this again? If I promise to stop doing some of the stuff that makes me a bad candidate for life insurance?”

  “But I don’t want you getting all angry and resentful in a few months. I don’t want to be the controlling, killjoy girlfriend. Are you sure this is what you really want?”

  “I’m sure. Becca, I want you more than I want to break a new bone every year.”

  “Aw.” I went up on tiptoe to give him a kiss.

  He kissed me back, then said, “Yeah, I figure I’ve already got enough stories to tell our grandchildren.”

  “Grandchildren?” I blanched. “Aren’t you moving a little fast?”

  “You know me, baby, I live fast.”

  “If that’s the opening to another horrendous pickup line, I’m leaving,” I warned.

  “By all means.” He picked up his bags and held the door for me. “I’ll come with you.”

  We ambled off into the smoggy L.A. sunset, broken bones, baggage, and all. And the salesman had been telling the truth—those high-thread-count sheets were worth every penny.