by Avery Aster
One would think after having their father disown them, experiencing the career highs and lows I have, and battling breast cancer I wouldn’t get that stressed out—not anymore. After all, this is Death Star Galactica. Only fashion, not world peace. Regardless, I was indeed stressed.
Sì, it was the fourth worst day of my life. For sure.
I stood in front of my colleague’s desk, Lex Easton. The day before, she’d flown in from Manhattan to help me with the fashion show.
“This is…horrible.” Slouched over the keyboard, she glared at the local newspaper and shrieked for the umpteenth time, “Horrible!”
Oh, all right. I should be honest and state it wasn’t only Debauchery magazine which had slammed my latest work. No, my darlings! How about the Milano News, New York Times, London Herald, and Paris Tribune to boot. Pretty much every blog, newspaper, magazine, and TV station from New York to Timbuktu had ripped my latest creations to pieces. I’m ruined. Ruined, I tell you.
“Say something!” I shouted around the room at everyone, resting my eyes upon Taddy Brill.
Strikingly gorgeous. Think Rita Hayworth. Unusually tall. The woman radiates beauty even during moments of high client drama, such as this one. Figures. That’s why she works in public relations.
Taddy owns the PR firm the Girasoli Garment Company retains to promote our brands, Easton Essentials and Jemma Couture. In hopes of saving me from the catastrophe, she’d jetted in from New York after the Milan show tanked with her business partner, Blake Morgan. Miracles do happen, so per favore, God, I for sure need one.
“Give me a minute. I’m...thinking.”
She wouldn’t even make eye contact with me.
You know it’s bad when your own publicist can’t even stand the sight of you. I’d love to curl up into a ball right now, stuff my face with a fist full of Mint Milano cookies, and die. Just die, I tell you.
She hid behind her thick, wavy, gorgeous red hair, and picked at her long acrylic nails. I wanted to shake her like a piggybank but instead of coins falling out, I’d be loaded with ideas on how to fix my fashion line.
“Tsk. Tsk.” Blake, Taddy’s cohort, stood next to her. He kept making this annoying noise, shaming me with his beautiful lips as if I were a poodle who’d just taken a whiz on the carpeting. I was tempted to smack his cute face.
I couldn’t take it anymore. The silence was choking me, so I had to ask.
“Are you going to fire me?”
Air caught in my throat the second that question left my mouth. In fear my legs would buckle, I leaned against the edge of Lex’s desk and crossed my arms. I was either going to black out or vomit. Hopefully not pass out in my own vile. God, that would suck.
Girl, brace yourself.
While I waited for Lex’s reply, the room started to spin and my peripheral vision blurred. I could already hear her saying, “Fuck yes, you stupid cow.”
The woman has a major potty mouth, FYI.
Without notice, Lex inhaled so loudly, I thought her nostrils might snort up the ivory damask wallpaper decorating the office. Then she said, “If you weren’t my hubbies life-long friend, a woman I respected, and cared for as family…then yes, Jemma, I’d have no choice but to terminate your role as the lead designer on Jemma Couture.”
“On the very label I created?”
She nodded. “If Perry Ellis can fire Marc Jacobs for his grunge collection, we can definitely terminate you over Death Star Galactica.”
“Jil Sander has left her own line three times already,” Blake added.
“That’s by her own accord,” I clarified, wondering if she’d been pushed out of her own company. Sure, I’d heard of it happening in our industry. But to me? I mean really!
This was complete and utter malarkey. I called bullshit.
Jemma Couture had been a huge hit when it launched a few years back. It had all started on a scandal: a see-through, nude dress bedazzled in thousands of Swarovski crystals which Lex had worn the night she got caught screwing Prince Massimo by paparazzi. That dress and those images had launched her as a fashion icon and me as the designer who’d created it.
Gowns start at around ten thousand dollars. We’ve dressed the First Lady of the United States as well as Meryl, Julia, and many other starlets for the Academy Awards. Using only the best Italian fabrics was our trademark. That and sexy, revealing silhouettes. We were hot.
Were being the keyword there.
Frickin’ A.
“The one my husband and I funded.” Lex pulled her shiny blonde hair back behind her ear and cleared her throat. “You know in this fashion industry, one bad season may ruin a brand.”
“Then I’ll resign from the company—” Hot, wet tears streaked down my face. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Let’s not be drastic,” Blake interrupted and made his way over to me. “I may not have a vagina, but I know why women buy this brand.”
Spearheading many of the lifestyle accounts alongside Taddy, Blake was a branding guru. Aside from his wit and intelligence, he was rather famous amongst New York City’s society.
“Why?” Taddy and Lex asked simultaneously.
“Because they want to feel feminine and beautiful when wearing Jemma Couture. Tell us what exactly you were thinking with those military jumper pants?”
Insulted, I tried to stay strong and answered, “Those are raspberry mocha space gowns. Not pants. There’s a seam up the front.”
“Yes, Miss Thing, a seam which splits the bottom of the dress into a pair of pants. Hello.” His bright blue eyes rolled dramatically at my reply. He sassed on, reading me to fashion designer shame.
“Err…I guess I kind of went off on one of my creative tangents and lost track of the Jemma Couture consumer.”
Usually when I veered off course, the ending would come out fabulous. The previous year’s ostrich feathers with gold-plated caviar beading was a colossal hit, and Harper’s Bazaar had hailed it the gown of the century. But the military trooper dress, not so much.
“What was your inspiration for this collection?” The head of Brill, Inc. dipped her head in my direction.
“Star Wars is coming back to the big screen this year and I got excited about the outer space fantasy, so I ran with it. I wanted us to be edgy. You know…different. Hence Death Star Galactica.” I said the name of the season’s collection proudly. Dammit, I still had a sense of pride.
“Ohhh. The collection is different all right. Try ‘not wearable’. And having the models carry machine guns was over the top,” Lex stated.
“Those were laser guns,” I defended. “They shot confetti, adding a layer of surprise to the show.”
Everyone stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Hey now.” I sighed. “It’s not my fault when the guns went off the entire front row of attendees got scared and hit the floor, hiding under their seats.”
“Bitch, please. I peed my pants,” Blake added.
Lex covered her mouth, hiding what appeared to be a giggle. It so wasn’t a good time to laugh.
“This season isn’t you,” Taddy declared, throwing her hands in the air as she stood from the high-back chair. “Jemma Couture is a formal evening gown line, not active-wear. More importantly, I’m pissed at myself for not seeing the press samples and the collection before the show started. From here on out, Brill, Inc. will need to clear all garments before they hit the runway. You’ve lost the right for final approval.”
“Mi spiace.” Mortified, I apologized. “Truly, sorry.”
In reality, I never let anyone see my work before show time. Those were my rules. But would I mind designing by committee? I wasn’t so sure about that.
Taddy paced the room like a lion trapped in a cage. Swaying her hips, the heavily jeweled bangles on her arms jingled. The noise added with Blake’s ‘tsk-tsk’ and Lex’s sighs of ‘horrific’ was causing my attention-deficit disorder (ADD) to go wonky. The littlest sounds set me off.
Oh, God, I wish she�
�d just spill it. Otherwise, I might climb the walls.
“Signorina Brill, per favore, what should we do?” I begged her for an idea.
Brill, Inc. had built the media messages for Girasoli’s two brands: Easton Essentials, which was a line Lex had started, and my brand Jemma Couture, from day one. I may have created a bad collection that week, but I wasn’t stupid. We’d be nowhere if it wasn’t for Taddy and Blake getting our dresses onto the bodies of every mover and shaker in the world.
“I have a strategy to save your gorgeous bum. Totally out of the box. It’s going to require you to be a bit exposed and vulnerable.”
“Ugh…” Two words which were so not me. I chewed my bottom lip for a second before saying, “Sì, all right. Let’s hear it.”
“It’s clear you’ve lost your mojo. Your sexy, girly ways went out the window with those military space pants and laser guns.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed, unsure of where she was going with this.
“It’s normal for designers to take sabbaticals, traveling abroad to get inspired for their next collection.”
“My darlings, I can’t leave Rocco and Luigi behind for that long. They can be…how do you say in English…possessive.”
“When was the last time you had a romantic night of crazy monkey sex with them?” Blake asked, his manicured brow arched high.
Needing to stall to come up with an answer, I couldn’t remember when, so I asked for clarification. “Toe-curling?”
“Pussy-eating, clit-shaking, butt-fucking, fantastical fun,” Blake added.
“Hmmm…” Oh, dear. These New Yorkers can be crass at times. “I don’t recall. Maybe three months ago when we were on the Isola di Girasoli. We celebrated my second year of being cancer-free.”
When I’d first met Luigi and Rocco, we’d fare l'amore in the middle of the night, early morning, middle of the freaking day, and before bedtime. So, a few times a day.
Then lovemaking sorta went to twice a day, to once a day. A few times a week. Followed by once on Sundays. I couldn’t tell you the last time I had my pussy eaten, clit shaken, butt fucked, or anything fantastically fun happen between us.
Dannazione.
“I dunno…”
“Exactly.” Taddy turned to face me, her green eyes finally locked with mine. “No sex in your life equals bad fashion designs. This is easy to see how this happened.”
“It is?” I wasn’t following them.
“You have two lovers for a reason, honey. You used to be an insatiable woman.”
“Really?” Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I ran a hand over the back of my neck.
“You oozed sex.”
“I did?” With my hands, I rubbed a tense spot on my shoulder. I didn’t need sex. Christ, I just needed a day at the spa.
“You radiated pheromones which drove all men, and some women, wild.”
“Get the fudge outta here.” I giggled. For the first time in twenty-four hours, I’d laughed, and it felt good. The week’s fashion show nearly killed me. I folded my arms, realizing how lame I’d become, and tried to remember the old me. “I guess you’re right. I used to be a sex goddess.”
“Yes, Miss Thing. It sorta freaked me out.” Blake laughed, too.
Taddy shushed him. “Listen, I spoke with Vive on the plane ride over here. The rehab facility let her come to Europe just for the show. Then she went right back in for treatment at that detox farm. She is an honest journalist and wrote what she saw.”
Their bestie had been sobering up for a while. Personally, I cared for Vive more when she was tipsy. Her articles weren’t as vicious then. So I reminded them, “Signorina Farnworth said my collection was s-h-i-t.”
“I can’t disagree with her,” Lex grumbled.
“According to Vive, the press will give you a second chance. That is, of course, honey, if you ask for one. Ready for my idea?” Taddy’s hands folded under her chin, her high cheekbones appearing more pronounced. Perhaps she was sucking them in. “I propose you take a leave of absence from Jemma Couture and Girasoli Garment Company. Come back when you’re revived.”
“And what the hell will I do to revive myself?”
“Play tennis,” Blake suggested.
“Sports bore me.”
“Have sex.” Taddy placed her hands on my shoulders trying to reassure me. Giving me a tight squeeze, she continued, “Lots of hawt sex. Go on holiday with Luigi and that adorable Rocco. Get Massimo to give them the time off work. We’ll publicize your trip.”
“Genius. A sexual safari. I love this idea,” Lex complimented as she wrote something down.
“Each destination will be an erotic adventure which the three of you will experience together.” Taddy’s hold on my shoulders tightened. From the flushed hue on her face, I could tell she was thinking about Luigi, Rocco, and I getting it on across the globe.
Oh, brother.
“Honey, we’ll do a photo shoot of your men and you: having sugar kink play in the sex dungeons of Berlin, naked in the gardens of Moscow. Yes! This is your redemption with the press. Everyone knows you’re in a poly thingy. Sweet Jesus dick-a-licious, it’s in Vogue. Literally. Let’s play this up and get you back on the sex bike.”
Indeed, my ménage relationship was more than common knowledge. The ad slogan for Jemma Couture featured me in a grape-hued, silk organza gown with Rocco and Luigi on each arm dressed handsomely in tuxedos and stated, “You can have it all.”
Other tag lines we’d used over the years were, “Have your cake and eat it, too,” and my personal favorite, “Why stop at just one.” That could easily apply to the amount of men one keeps in their bed or the number of gowns one has in their closet.
What can I say, other than I’m a woman of excess? I adore stimulation. Blame it on my ADD.
“Peddle that sex bike, Miss Thing. Peddle fast. Peddle hard. Peddle as if there’s no tomorrow. Let’s go!” Blake cheered.
“Would Massimo agree to this?” I asked, glancing over at Lex. Her husband was a ruthless businessman. He wasn’t cheap but he always expected a return on his investment, and I hated to disappoint him. We’d grown up together. He trusted me to bring the best for the collection and I’d failed. Realizing what a disappointment this had turned into for everyone, I noticed a knot building in my throat.
“Let me talk to Masi. He’ll do anything to help you design a collection which sells. If that means giving Rocco and Luigi time off to go sex you up, then so be it.”
“A vacanza. I haven’t had one in ages.”
Sitting back, I dried my eyes with the cashmere sleeve from my sweater, the fabric scratching against my skin. Then it hit me.
Oh, no. I can’t.
I had a flashback to the last time Rocco, Luigi, and I were alone together for an extended weekend. Luigi had got down on one knee with Rocco at his side and asked for our hands in marriage.
I’m not the marrying kind. I don’t believe in happily ever after.
My parents fought as cats and dogs ‘til the day my madre dropped dead from the stress of it all. No, thank you.
And what if I got sick again? I couldn’t put the boys through that. It wasn’t right. I wanted no part in matrimony.
After I’d said no, Luigi had licked his wounds and dropped the topic. Regardless, it had sparked a sense of urgency in Rocco to start a family, as if babies were falling from the skies. He wouldn’t let up.
Over the weeks he’d said, a million times, “We should at least talk about starting a family. You know adoption.”
The whole idea of us on a holiday and them wanting to take our relationships to the next level—which I knew they’d do, because that was what they always did when we spent too much time together—sorta scared the bejesus out of me. Never mind the fact the boys had replaced my latest copies of Elle and Town & Country magazine at home with Bambino magazine and Brides.
Barf!
I honestly just wanted to have fun. Nothing serious. Nothing heavy. Life is too short for drama. The Bi
g C taught me that.
“What if I say no?”
Let’s get real here. A few months before, I’d learned I couldn’t go through with that much alone time with them or I’d go out of my mind. Luigi was so intense, and Rocco could be rather emotional. Between the two of them, I didn’t stand a chance when we hung out for an extended period of time.
“Why on Earth would you?”
“I don’t wanna go on some sexscapade with my boys. They’ll talk about marriage and babies.”
“So what?” Lex sneered through her tight lips. The woman had already popped out one baby and had one more on the way.
“Let me work in the office. Fix my designs. Prepare for next season.”
“Jemma, why are you afraid to be alone with them?”
“Things between Rocco, Luigi, and I are bueno right now. I want them to stay that way. For now. Forever.”
“Is that even possible?” Blake asked.
Poor guy had already gone through one divorce, but he’d found a new love along the way and was engaged to try again. In a way, I admired that about him, because he had hope for his future. I wasn’t hopeless, but I just didn’t queef glitter and rainbows like he and Lex did when it came to matrimony.
They glared at me for a minute before Blake muttered, “Grow up.” Or at least it sounded as though he’d said that. Maybe it was my paranoia talking.
True, I did need to be more mature when it came to my relationships. After the cancer, I’d just wanted to feel good again. I couldn’t promise anyone a future. I could only give what I had each day. Not the next. Why couldn’t more people just live in the present? Thinking ahead always overwhelmed me.
On that note, I shook my head.
They gaped at my refusal.
Speechless. The silence in the room hung above us as a gray cloud.
“Then, Jemma, you may either resign or be fired.” Lex pushed her chair back and crossed her legs. “Personally, I suggest running with Taddy’s brilliant publicity idea.”
Hell to the no.
“Okay then. In the same vein as Jil Sander, I also quit from my own company. Arrivederci, my darlings.” In a snit, I found my footing and stomped out of the room.
