I gaze over the wreckage of the Saab in front of us. “You’re right. It doesn’t look all that bad, but I’m still sorry I ruined your car.”
Nate comes alongside me and puts his arm around me and I shudder at his touch. I don’t know who he is anymore, but I do have an overwhelming urge to slap him silly. “I’m not. It sort of looks cool now. Like you might want to stay away from me on the road. I bet it helps with city lane changes.”
My cell phone trills, and I see Morgan’s cell number in the lit-up box. “Hey, Morgan, how’s the spa?”
“It’s me, Poppy. What did you do?” she accuses.
“What do you mean?” I look at Nate and swallow hard.
“Stuart Surrey came back here this morning to the spa. He gave Morgan a bouquet of orchids and then stuck his tongue down her throat! He then said you told him the feeling was mutual!”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Stuart Surrey, your creepy Englishman?”
“Yeah.” Not in agreement about the creepy part, but apparently it’s not up for discussion.
“He came here for Morgan, thrust some flowers in her face, started macking on her, and she slapped him—”
“She slapped him? Wait! He did what?!”
“Stuart said you told him Morgan had feelings for him.”
“I never said any such thing! Morgan can’t stand him!” I turn away from Nate, lest he see I’ve managed to screw something else up this weekend. “How is Morgan feeling?”
“She was better until Slimy showed up. What did you tell him, Lilly?”
I can hear Morgan in the background. And she doesn’t sound happier than when I left her sobbing and bereft. Oh my gosh, what did I do? “Poppy, let me talk to Morgan.”
“It’s Lilly,” I hear Poppy say to Morgan. “Do you want to talk to her?”
“Lilly?” Morgan squeals. “They took a picture of us…kissing,” she cries. “Oh, I am completely grossed out! Him and his huge, pink tongue. What on earth could you see in that jerk?”
I lean against the wall of my building, not comprehending any of this. “Who took a picture of you?”
“Some photographer. I’m sure it was probably set up by Stuart himself, the slimewad. We’ll be in tomorrow’s paper, with me linked to that letch. Hopefully, no one will find out about that fabric purchase, or they’ll be planning our wedding. What did you say when you drove home with him?”
“Well, I didn’t say, ‘Please come maul my best friend,’ if that’s what you’re thinking.” I start to check my mind. What could I have said? How could Stuart possibly get the idea that Morgan wanted him? I’m hearing Stuart’s gorgeous accent, the line I fell for hook, line, and sinker…When he whispered to me, he said he didn’t want to stay for dinner at the hotel, and he brushed his hand on my chin.
“What did he say, Lilly? Think!”
“He said dinner with the woman you’re trying to leave, and the woman your heart cries out for didn’t sound cozy,” I repeat verbatim. Hey, when a guy gives me poetry, I remember it. Then, I feel the breath rush from me as I listen to the words again. “Oh my goodness. He wasn’t talking about me.” I say this more for myself than Morgan. “When he called for the potluck. When he didn’t want to go to the dinner at the hotel. None of that was about me, was it? It was about getting close to you. That’s why he wanted to be my friend.”
I try to let this all sink in, try to make myself understand that just because I wanted this so badly, I wasn’t reading Stuart correctly. I run through the specifics in my mind: the toffee, the phone call, the drive home…it was all a way to get closer to Morgan. Rejection does not sound better with an English accent. Trust me on that one.
Nate comes beside me and takes my hand, and I crush his in my own. Even though I want to slap him, too, and the rest of mankind at the moment.
“Morgan, I thought…I’m so sorry.”
“I told you he was a creep, Lilly. What possible reason do I have to lie to you? I hate what your mother did, because you don’t trust anyone because of it! It’s just not right! We stand by you, no matter what, and yet every time you’re given the choice to trust us or yourself, you go with you! Even though you’ve been wrong about men every single time!”
I swallow hard. The last thing I need is a now-weeping Morgan yelling at me. I’m happy she’s aware enough to yell, but disturbed at how right she is. “What can I say? When I saw him preaching that sermon, and heard his English accent… and worst of all, when he stared right at me into my eyes. I felt it, Morgan! I felt it in my entire being. It was like he woke me up from this dead state I’ve been in, and he made me feel wanted.” Suddenly, it makes me question everything in my life. “Am I really a bad designer, and no one tells me? Do you guys whisper behind my back that I’m a design nightmare?”
“Your fashion instinct is impeccable. Your finance abilities, incredible. But your man-scouting skills are very, very rough. I think you’ve inhaled too much Lysol, and it has affected your how-to-find-a-mate brain cells.”
We both start to giggle. Somehow this makes me feel better.
Well, I guess now is certainly not the time to ask Morgan if she’ll dress up in a wedding gown for me and parade across a stage in front of San Francisco’s elite.
chapter 29
My loft is a whirlwind of activity when I step into what appears to be a downtown sweatshop. Thanks, God, for each and every one of them. When You say You’ll provide for all of our needs, You always have an interesting way of doing it—usually just in time too. Guess that’s to keep me leaning on You. Hannah and Cheryl, my former workmates from Sara Lang, are bent over machines, working on two gowns for the collection. Kim is managing things by blaring Green Day on a borrowed stereo system, which I can only assume is Nate’s, and watching one of her plastic surgery shows, muted. One has to give Kim credit; she’s got delegating down. As if I should talk.
As the surgeon on full-spectrum, plasma-screen HDTV slices into a patient in vibrant and graphic color, I see Kim smile. She apparently takes some sick pleasure in watching the suffering of vain women. Years at Sara Lang Couture will do that to a person.
“If it isn’t Dale Earnhart Jr.,” Kim says when she notices me.
“Cute, Kim.”
Hannah stops sewing. “You buying us dinner, Lilly?”
“It’s the least I can do. Thanks so much for coming, you guys.” I pick up the gowns, and I have to admire them. One is a canary-yellow crushed silk with a scooped neckline. And, okay, I’m hoping to get Morgan’s dad to lend me canary diamonds for the model. It gets his diamonds exposure, while setting off my gowns. A win-win for everyone, right?
The other is a romantic, pale tangerine gown with long, wispy sleeves. Its lines are so airy it will practically float with the model. I can’t wait to see it in action! Still yet to be made: a creamy-yellow mid-calf that fits snugly until a spray of tulle brings the skirt out at the knee; and finally, a crimson, spaghetti-strapped crepe wonder. I’ll be hand-embroidering the tangerine gown, but first and foremost is the wedding gown and its wearer. I have a week to make my best gown ever, and less than that to get Morgan to agree to wear it. And it wouldn’t hurt if her father would provide a big honkin’ diamond for her left hand.
“You know, I think Nate is an alien robot in disguise.” Kim looks away from the television.
“Do you?” Note, I don’t ask why. I’m hoping this will end the conversation.
“The guy does not possess a temper. He’s like the calm before the storm, but without the storm.”
“Profound.”
“You don’t think he’s one of those psychos who is just going to lose it one day, do you? The kind where his neighbors come on camera and say, ‘He was the nicest guy, would do anything for ya’?”
“Shouldn’t you have thought about that before you agreed to sleep in the same house? When you moved your stuff in, did you see his mother’s skeleton in the closet?”
“Very funny.”
&nbs
p; “Do you think these gowns are going to be okay, Kim? We really rushed them, and I wonder how creative I’ve been lately.”
“These gowns are beautiful, Lilly. The colors are right. I love how they’re spring colors for the fall. Everyone will be designing black for the season, and Sara will once again be the saving grace for those who want to stand out.”
“These feel like my very first gowns…the first that will bear my name.” I get giddy just thinking of it: Lilly Jacobs for Sara Lang. It’s really my dream coming true!
“Have you told Sara I’m coming yet?”
Shoot. I hadn’t thought of that. “I’m working it out.”
“Just so we’re straight, you’re not working it out where Sara has me hustled away in a police car, right?”
“I’ll fix it. Okay?”
Then my home phone rings. “Sara—I mean, Lilly Jacobs Design.”
“Hi, it’s Sandy.” Sandy is my hairdresser, and with my hair that’s no small relationship. She knows my cowlicks. She knows my texture. She is my Tom Ford. She takes the impossible and makes it workable. There is no making light of a good stylist.
“Hey, Sandy!”
“Lilly, did you happen to notice anything different about your straightening?”
Okay, now that she mentions it, it got a little curly in the rain…
“Why?” I ask, feeling the terror.
“Well, we got a bad batch of crème. The manufacturer recalled a lot number, and I noticed it’s the one we used on you. But it can’t be that bad. It didn’t burn your scalp or anything. We can always redo, right? Apparently, the neutralizer was missing an ingredient. It didn’t set properly.”
Time, I think while forcing down the panic. I do not have time to sit for five hours in a salon. “Actually, how long do you think it will keep? Until this weekend?”
“Well, I used the CHI iron on it, so I’d say at least until you wash it a couple times. Maybe two weeks?”
Mentally, I start counting. I’ve washed it well past my limit already. All those stupid spa trips! I had to get the essential oils off. The countdown starts. I could keep it in a hairnet and probably only shampoo it once before the big night, but then I think that no one wants to be dressed by a designer who neglects bathing. Personal hygiene is sort of important to the couture set. This is not going to work. “Sandy, when can you get me in? I’ve got to have my hair straightened by this Friday!”
I hear her flipping through pages. “Hmmm. I’m pretty booked up with Fashion Week coming up. The best I can do is a week from Tuesday. I can work you around other people, but it will probably take longer. Like maybe seven hours?”
My mind goes to the wedding gown. It’s going to take me days to sew, and I haven’t even designed it yet. I force the words out of my mouth. “It’s going to have to wait, Sandy.”
“I’ll send your money back until you reschedule. I’m really sorry about this, Lilly. I know what straightening means to you. Your hair just doesn’t take product like someone else’s.”
Ah, the old hair-like-steel excuse. I love that one. But it will take me the full week to get the wedding gown done. I can’t possibly spare five hours in a salon chair, even if it is free! I start to pace the loft. I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal. It’s only hair, but my hair is huge. I can use the CHI straightener and gallons of hair serum for the night. Oh sure, I’ll look a little greasy, but as long as I don’t drip on the clothes, it will be fine. I’m worried for nothing.
It’s curly hair or your career, Lilly! A hat! I’ll design a hat. “Sandy, you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t make it in before my big show with Sara. You’ll save me a spot the following week?”
“Sure! I’ll put you in for your normal Thursday morning appointment, all right?”
“Sure,” I say absently and hang up the phone. “Bad hair ruined my life! It’s a never-ending life sentence.” I crash on the futon next to Kim. “I got some bad stuff,” I say, tugging at my hair.
She starts to giggle. “Usually, when people say that, Lilly, it’s a translation for—‘I’ve overdosed on an illegal drug. Take me to the hospital.’”
I let my head fall in my hands. “You don’t understand, Kim. I know everyone thinks it’s my hair, big deal. It’s not like I have three hands or something, but when you don’t have a mother or a father, and your grandmother dresses you straight out of the Depression era, and your hair is so big no one wants to sit behind you or pick you for their team in P.E., it does something to you. It really does.”
Realistically, I know I should be over this. I know that my God is bigger than my hair, but when my hair is curly, I remember the taunts like they were an hour ago, and for a while, I live there again, unable to crawl out. I remember everyone laughing at me, and my little stick legs and my Nana’s answer: “You just tell them, Lilly, sticks and stones will break your bones, but names will never hurt you.”
But they do hurt. And they do make you believe it. There’s always the girl with the fashionable mother who took the time to clip her hair and make sure her tights matched, and that she had tights verses ankle socks. If Paula Hastings, fashion-ista of the fourth grade, had socks, they were the kind with little frills around them. They didn’t come from the boys’ section because they were cheaper.
I stand up from the sofa and realize this is getting me nowhere. I have the wedding gown of the year to design. It’s time Vera Wang had some competition. “It’s time I grew up!” I announce.
“Yes, it is…I guess.” Kim looks at me questioningly.
“I’m going to wash my hair!”
“Okay? And this concerns me, why?”
“No really. I mean, shampoo, rinse, repeat. The full treatment. I’m going all the way!”
“You go, girlfriend!” Hannah shouts.
“Order dinner. I’ll pick it up when I get out.”
Nate walks into the room without knocking. “What’s going on?”
“Lilly’s taking a shower!” Kim says.
“That’s big news.”
“Shut up, all of you.” I grab the fancy hairdryer Morgan bought me, and I put the diffuser on with a hefty click. “Shields up!” I grab the new product the hairdresser gave me. “Phasers set to stun.” And finally, I shove the hairdryer at my hip. “I’m going in!”
I head into the bathroom, with my mind as full as my hair soon will be. How will I get Morgan to agree to wearing a wedding gown within the next day or so? I’m just praying that the photo of her and Stuart does not appear in the paper. Then, I’ve got to work out the whole forgiveness factor—what with Kim stealing $20,000 from Sara and all. Sara Lang probably hasn’t forgiven her first-grade teacher for some minor infraction like not letting her sharpen her pencil right away, so this should be fun.
When I think about the most important aspect of the week though, designing a memorable gown, that doesn’t inspire fear. That, I look forward to. Thinking about a gown for Morgan has been foremost on my mind for a week. I know just how I want the fabric to lay, just how I want the bodice to hug her tiny waist, and just how I want the sleeves to reach her tiny, elegant hands.
I turn on the shower, but my phone rings again, so I turn it back off and go to the table to answer it. “Lilly Jacobs Design.”
“Yes, this is the Seven Seas Hotel on Van Ness.” (Translated: red light district of San Francisco.)
“Yes?” I say, knowing they must have the wrong number.
“We had a Tammy Jamison staying here, and she left this number on her registration card as her local number. It appears that her credit card has been turned down. Originally it was preapproved, but when she left, the credit card had been revoked.”
“I can’t help you,” I say, slamming the phone down. It rings again, and my stomach churns. “You’ve got the wrong number. This is Lilly Jacobs Design!” I shout, and hang up again.
This is who my mother is? The realization that her issues have nothing to do with me suddenly come
s raining down on me. I am not her. I am not abandoned. I am Lilly Jacobs, Stanford graduate, fashion designer, and card-carrying Spa Girl! Loved by friends—quirky as they may be—and her Nana, grouchy as she can be. I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten. I hear that scripture in my mind as if for the first time. I never missed a thing without that mother.
The phone trills again. “If you call here again, I’m calling the police!”
“Lilly? It’s Max. Am I safe, or is the San Quentin warden coming for me?”
I breathe out deeply. “Max, hi. I have big hair. I’m going to have big hair next Saturday.”
“I have a broken leg. I’m going to have a broken leg on Saturday. Anything else you want to lament?”
“My mother is a freak of nature from the non-maternal side of hell.”
“My mother is convinced that I need a nice Jewish girl to settle down with—and soon—or I will turn into a pumpkin.”
“I’m Italian. Christian. With big hair. Obviously, I can’t help you.”
“Close enough for government work.”
“I suppose you didn’t call to hear me whine?”
“No, but I like to hear you whine, Lilly. You do it with such flair.”
“You think?”
“Listen, I’m going to be late for the fashion show. Is it all right if I arrive a few minutes after the fact?”
I’ll admit, his question leaves me with a sting of rejection, even though I’m sure he has a logical and real excuse. I’m just not in the mood. “Sure. You arrive whenever. My Nana can ride with Nate.”
“Nate?”
“My upstairs neighbor. He paid for my sewing machine and the computers. I’ll see you if you get there, okay?”
I start to hang up the phone, when Max shouts, “Wait!”
“What?”
“I have something to do beforehand. I’ll be there. I promise. There won’t be a single after-party where I’m not there for pictures, all right? The Chronicle can announce our engagement the next day if it makes you happy.”
I giggle and feel better, pretty much. “We don’t have to take it that far. Thanks for calling, Max.”
She's All That Page 25
