“From what I could see, you handled yourself perfectly.”
“I screamed a lot and dived into the sea.”
“Exactly. By the way, we weren’t formally introduced. I’m Sam Carter,” he says, holding out a hand. “And you’re Angie James.”
“Yep.” I open the door wide, so he can see the girls, or more to the point, so they can see him. “And these are my roommates. Julia, Pia, Coco, and Madeleine.” I turn to them to explain. “He was working on the yacht. For the dude. Hal. The party guy—”
“Really!” Julia struts to the door. “Listen up, buddy. You tell your coke-addled cockmonkey boss—”
“He’s not my boss,” interrupts Sam. “He just chartered the yacht for a week. Like a rental. He’s gone, and the crew guy, Carlos, who was supplying the drugs for the—cockmonkey, did you say?—to get addled with, he’s gone, too.”
“This is the guy who followed me in the dinghy,” I say to them. “The boat boy.”
“Oh! Hi!” The girls are delighted. They loved that part of the story.
“Aren’t you gonna ask him in?” says Pia.
“You should totally come in,” agrees Julia.
Madeleine and Coco pipe up in unison. “Totally!”
I look around at them in surprise, then back at Sam. Oh. They’ve decided he’s hot. He does look pretty good, I guess. Tan and healthy and rested, a novelty at the end of an extra-long New York winter when everyone else looks like an anemic sneeze.
But I’m not interested in dudes right now. And I’m definitely not interested in him. I don’t like blond guys, I don’t like outdoorsy guys, and I never, ever like guys who saw me being treated like a … well, you know. In fact, I’d like to never see him again. Effective immediately.
“Sam has to go home.” The girls make disappointed noises, so I turn around to give them a “quit it” face. Then I turn back to Sam. “Thanks again, man. Sayonara—”
“May I trouble you to use your restroom?” Goddamn, is this the politest dude in the world? “I walked all the way here from the place I’m crashing in Fort Greene, it was farther than I thought, and—”
“Oh, my God, you must be freezing!” exclaims Julia, before I can say no. “Come on in!”
And boom, next thing I know, Sam’s coat is off, Coco’s handing him hot chocolate, Julia’s leading him into the living room, Pia’s grinning at the whole spectacle like it’s the Rookhaven puppet show, and even Madeleine, who I’ve never seen act gaga over a guy, is putting on some French Nouvelle Vague music.
“I was singing this song, last night, uh, I’ve been singing with this band? You should come see us.…” Madeleine is saying. She and Julia have sandwiched him down between them on the sofa. Real cozy.
“I’ve got to call Aidan.” Pia heads upstairs, leaving the single girls to their prey.
“So, um, Sam? You’re a sailor?” asks Coco, blushing pink. She’s hovering around the bookcase, trying to look busy.
“I am.” Sam seems remarkably unperturbed by all of this. “Some people call us boat boys.” He glances at me with a smirk. “We call ourselves crew.”
I roll my eyes. Some people. I heard someone call them boat boys once, how was I to know?
Coco is impressed. “And working on yachts is your, like, career?”
“Looks that way. Though I’m looking for a new job right now.”
“We’re having a party next Saturday,” Julia blurts out. “You should totally come.”
I stare at her. “We are?”
“Yes! The dinner party, remember? For…”
“For Pia’s twenty-third birthday!” says Coco quickly.
“Yes! It’s a surprise dinner party. Right, Angie?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Right. Because who doesn’t want a surprise dinner party.” The fact that I share the same birthday as Pia, and that it’s not for weeks, hasn’t crossed anyone’s mind.
“It’s going to be sick,” Julia adds. “And, and, and Madeleine’s gonna sing!”
“I am? I am!” says Madeleine.
“And um, and Coco’s gonna cook—Coco, what are you going to cook?”
We all turn to Coco, who is pink under the pressure of having to lie on the spot. “… Food?”
“Right, Coco’s cooking food and I’m making this awesome punch.”
“Sure,” says Sam. “Sounds great. I’m crashing at my buddy’s house, but he’s away right now. Is it okay if I come alone?”
“You’re new here? Oh, my God! Then you have to come!”
Please, God, don’t let Julia hump his leg.
“I’d love to. What time should I be here?”
“Oh, seven-thirty. No! Eight. Yeah. Eight o’clock.”
“Sweet,” I say. “Can’t wait. A dinner party. Right on. Well, Sam, thanks for stopping by—”
“Guess I should get going.” Sam stands up, to the obvious disappointment of everyone else.
“And thank you, again, so much, for bringing back my stuff,” I say, opening the front door for him as he puts on his coat. Then something occurs to me. “How did you know where I live?”
“Easy,” he says. “I waited until that Stef guy was totally out of it, then I asked him. He would have told me anything.”
“Wow. Crafty.”
“Yeah. Weird thing, though. That same night, his phone and his wallet and passport fell overboard.” Sam puts his hat on, his gray eyes looking very serious. “He doesn’t remember what happened. He said he had them one minute, the next…” Sam mimes throwing something really far away.
“You didn’t.”
Sam grins and then turns and walks down the stoop. “It seemed like the right thing to do. See you Saturday.”
When I get back upstairs, I remember.
The three thousand dollars. That envelope of cash that, though I hate its existence and the quasi-mystery of its origins, would come in pretty handy right now for paying for rent and, you know, life.
I reach into the inside pocket of my fur/army coat.
It’s gone.
There’s nothing in there but a little note, folded up.
Go fuck yourself, Angie.
Stef.
CHAPTER 14
Thirty-one days before I turn twenty-three.
I’m in a Starbucks on Seventh Avenue, just off Thirty-seventh. The throbbing heart of the Fashion District of New York City. Not that you’d know it by the streetscape: it’s pretty fucking depressing, especially on a rainy March day like today. A lot of cheap bead shops. Everything is happening off the street, in the offices upstairs. That’s where the production facilities and showrooms are for most big designers.
I’m (sort of) reading today’s issue of WWD, the fashion industry newspaper, and (mostly) looking out the window.
My plan is to sit here, make my coffee last as long as possible, and look like I work in fashion.
Maybe a fashion person will come to Starbucks and we’ll start talking about my semi-ironic Hello Kitty umbrella and that will lead to a job. Maybe I’ll be reading about someone in WWD and look up and, boom, there they’ll be and I’ll be like “wow!” and they’ll be like “aw shucks” and that will lead to a job. Maybe I’ll meet someone, and they’ll know someone, and they’ll know someone, and that will lead to a job. You know the six degrees of separation, the theory that you’re only six people away from anyone else in the whole world? It’s just like that: I’m six degrees away from getting a job.
Where did this crazy hopefulness come from? Rookhaven, I guess, particularly Julia and Pia. They’re so fucking can-do and optimistic, it’s worn away my natural cynicism.
A young guy in a fedora, carrying a huge white umbrella, wheels seven dressmaker’s dress forms tied together past on the street—you know, the headless, limbless soft mannequins that you pin dresses to—and my heart jumps. I wonder where he’s going! I bet he’s wheeling them somewhere for a designer. Maybe Anna Sui or Michael Kors is going to be touching those dress forms in, like, five seconds. My grandmo
ther had one of those dress forms. She called it Elsie.
Suddenly, the rope breaks, and the dress forms spill out from the plastic sheet covering them, careening all over the sidewalk. I can see him panicking, so I jump up, grab my stuff, and run outside.
“I’ll help you!” I say.
“Thank you!”
Most stayed under the plastic sheet and are damage-free, but one dress form rolled straight off the sidewalk into a huge black puddle. As I pull it out, fumbling with my Hello Kitty umbrella and my bag at the same time, I notice a shard of glass has somehow embedded itself in the side, and the wire frame at the bottom is bent.
“Oh noooooo!” The fedora guy is freaking out.
“Drowned and then stabbed,” I say. “Fashion kills, huh?”
“Shitballs! What am I gonna do? She’s destroyed!”
“She’s fine!” I say. “You could spray and soak the mud off. Good as new!”
He’s really freaking out. “Don’t touch her! She’s revolting!”
“It’s just a little mud!”
“No! She’s only fit for the garbage now. My boss is going to kill me! Fuck it, I’ll throw her in the Dumpster.”
He reaches out, but I snatch the dress form away from him. “No, don’t, I’ll take her!”
“You will?” he says, smiling and tilting his head to one side. “Who are you? And what do you do?”
“Angie James,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m a fashion designer.”
That’s the first time I’ve ever said those words. They feel good coming off my tongue. Even though, strictly speaking, I don’t think they’re true. Yet.
“Philly Meyer,” he replies. “I’m a milliner and DJ, but I’m interning right now for Sarah Drake.”
“Nice,” I respond, smiling. Sarah Drake! I know about her. She was a protégé of Narciso Rodriguez and then they had some sort of huge bust-up. She just started her own label creating one-off pieces that are more like avant-garde art than fashion.
“Yeah. She’s a stickler for time, so I have to run.”
Before I can say anything, he turns and herds the six remaining dress forms around the corner.
Quickly I write his name down. Philly Meyer. Wow. One degree of separation from Sarah Drake, two degrees from Narciso Rodriguez. I’m so going to Facebook him later.
I turn and look at the dress form. She’s pretty high-end: the kind you can make bigger or smaller, thinner or fatter, so you can fit whatever you’re making to any specific size. She’s covered in a rough cream canvas—though now, of course, it’s stained with filthy New York puddle water, and the gash in her side is fairly unsightly, too.
But I can fix her. Underneath all the stains, she’s still good.
I walk back into Starbucks, wheeling the dress form as I go, and as I’m lining up for another coffee I notice the woman in front of me.
Candie Stokes.
She was a stylist, got lucky with an Oscar winner a few years ago, and now runs a website called What to Wear Now. It’s one of those fashion blogs that somehow rode the first blog success wave and just got bigger and bigger. Last time I checked, she was working with Neiman Marcus and Piperlime to create some über-fashion-blog empire. She looks a little tan-and-smoke-addled, and she’s the size of, like, an elf, but damn! She’s a fashion person! I knew my plan would work!
Okay. So what do I say?
Let’s just go with the old reliable.
“Candie Stokes!” I am too nervous to sound anything but hyper. “I’m a huge fan!”
She turns, sees my muddy dress form, and instantly smiles. Heavy makeup and four-inch heels. “I don’t think we’ve—”
“Angie James. I’m a fashion designer.” It’s getting easier and easier to say that. “I’m also an illustrator and photographer.” Where did that come from? Well, it’s true. Kind of. I draw. I take photos. Sometimes.
Candie’s smile disappears. “Really. Ever been paid to design clothes?”
“Um, no.”
“Ever been paid for an illustration?”
“… No.”
“And your photography? Ever been paid for that?”
I can hardly get the word out. “No.”
Candie’s eyes flick up and down. I’m wearing jeans, white studded Converse, layered sweaters, my fur/army coat, and an old trapper hat. My face is smeared with yesterday’s eyeliner, because I forgot to take it off and left the house without bothering to do anything about it, and my hair is dirty and gathered in a topknot. I thought I looked kind of punk and tough, but now I wonder if I look like someone you see drinking cans of beer outside a train station.
“What, exactly, do you design?”
“Um, I’m just starting out. I want to work in fashion though, and I, um, I would love to talk to you sometime.” I try to sound professional and enthusiastic, like Pia would. I grab my Moleskine sketchbook. “You can see my ideas—”
“No,” she says decisively, picking up her coffee.
“Could we maybe swap numbers, or I could Facebook you—”
“No.” She walks away, then pauses, and comes back, lowering her sunglasses, her bloodshot eyes staring hard at me. “You ever see that movie Working Girl? Melanie Griffith? Before your time, I bet. Well, there’s a line in it. ‘Sometimes I sing and dance around the house in my underwear. Doesn’t make me Madonna. Never will.’ Think about it.”
She puts her sunglasses back on and walks away.
“Bitch,” I say under my breath, in an attempt to master the panicky fear inside me. She treated me like I was nothing. Like I was totally worthless.
I’m never going to get a job.
I turn and face the barista, just as he hands over my black coffee.
He smiles, whispering loudly, “I’m launching a Navajo-inspired jewelry line in the fall! You should check out my blog! We could collaborate on something!”
Suddenly I just want to go home.
I wheel my dress form out of Starbucks. She looks as dejected as I feel. I’m going to call her Drakey. As a reminder to myself that the Sarah Drakes of the world probably didn’t get their first job hanging out in Starbucks.
I walk toward the subway along Seventh, along the Fashion Walk of Fame. Do you know it? It’s like that Hollywood thing, only instead of dead movie stars, each star honors American design legends. From Mainbocher to Diane von Furstenberg to Donna Karan to Norma Kamali. They’ve all walked this exact sidewalk. They all started out with nothing more than a love for fashion and a desire to create clothes, just like me. And they all made their lives happen.
Just like I can’t.
CHAPTER 15
“SURPRISE!”
“Pia’s not here yet. More to the point, Sam’s not here yet.”
“I’m practicing, and I’m, I’m—Oh, gotta go. Nervous pee.”
I’m sitting on the sofa reading an old issue of W—because I can’t afford the new one right now—while Jules and Coco snipe at each other in an affectionate sisterly way and put the last touches on the dining table for Pia’s so-called surprise dinner party.
Pia’s birthday is the same day as mine, and it’s not for ages. Our mothers met in the maternity ward, for Pete’s sake; they became friends so we became friends. But I’m glad everyone’s forgotten. I don’t want a big deal about a birthday that I always thought would be a huge milestone of adulthood and is turning out to be a reminder that I’m failing my twenties.
Madeleine screams from upstairs. “The freaking hot water is gone again!”
“Give it twenty minutes!” Julia shouts back.
“I don’t have twenty minutes!”
Coco skips back into the room. Her face is unusually flushed.
“Are you okay?” I say to her.
“I’m great!” she exclaims. “I’m so excited. I asked this guy Ethan I met at my friend from work’s birthday drinks? He’s her roommate’s friend from college’s coworker? He’s nice! He’s said yes.”
“Have you been drinking already?” I
look at her closely.
“I pregamed!” She stands up and does a twirl. “WOO!”
I think the pressure of throwing a party is getting to all of us, but we’ve managed to prepare perfectly. Coco has been cooking individual chicken pot pies all day. I picked up some cheeses from Stinky. Pia bought Brooklyn Blackout from Steve’s Ice Cream. Madeleine has been cleaning all day, including vacuuming the inside corners of the sofa and Q-tipping the fridge. Julia bought a bunch of early hydrangeas, her favorite flower, to put on the side table in the front hall. And we’ve invited one “date” each, to make it seem “totally normal.”
“Like a trash-or-treasure party!” Julia said. “Bring a dude you haven’t ever been involved with, and he might be perfect for someone else!”
Coco defied Julia’s trash-or-treasure rules and invited this Ethan guy she’s crushing on, Madeleine asked Heff, a guitar player from the band she sings with, and Jules asked Lev, some coworker from the bank. I literally could not think of a single man to bring that I haven’t ever been involved with. (How depressing is that?) So I just decided my contribution is Sam. Whoever wants him can take him.
Julia is frantically polishing the wineglasses. “These things are refuckingvolting! How do you clean ancient glass? This one has lipstick marks from, like, before I was born.”
“Baking soda and vinegar!” says Coco, running out of the room again. “Soak and scrub!”
“That seems like a lot of work.” Julia puts the glass down.
I look over at her for the first time tonight. “What the what are you wearing? Those pants are wrong on, like, eight levels. Were you drunk when you bought them?”
“No! I was fifteen. Fuck! What should I wear then, fucking fashion guru of awesomeness? I hate all my clothes.”
“Come on. I’ll find you something.”
Julia stomps behind me, up to my room. God, she’s tense. She must really like Sam. Is he genuinely that good-looking?
I open my closet and frown as I skim the racks. “Let’s see, you’re bigger than me in the boob department—”
“And the ass department—”
“This is killer.” I pull out a little black dress that I got from the Brooklyn Flea. “Black tights, borrow these shoes. And take your hair out of that damn ponytail.”
Love and Chaos: A Brooklyn Girls Novel Page 8
