At Mr. Cartwright's Command

by Ash, Ingrid

  “Will you hurry up and zip it already!”

  “I'm trying; it's not going.”

  “Ugh, it's because you're doing it wrong!”

  How can I be doing it wrong? There's only one way to zip up a dress. I tug my hardest, but it doesn't budge. “Sorry but it... doesn't seem to fit.”

  “Like hell it doesn't,” she shouts. I take a step back—I know she's crazy but now she's erratic too. Who knows what she's capable of. “This is your doing! It's you again trying to sabotage my wedding!”

  Suddenly I understand the meaning of the word Bridezilla.

  I try to remain calm. “I'm not sure how you think I could do that. I didn't shrink your dress,” I reply with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

  “You've already turned my fiance against me. You ruined my cake tasting. You're ruining my dress fitting. What are you planning next, Tamara? Hmm? Crashing the ceremony? Setting the church on fire?”

  Okay, she has officially lost her goddamn mind.

  I hold up my hands to placate her. “First, you're not even getting married in a church, you're getting married outside,” I say. “Secondly, I'm just trying to do my job. Why would I try and sabotage your wedding if it would mean getting myself fired? Think about it.”

  She pauses, contemplating it for a moment. “Because you want him. You want Mr. Cartwright all to yourself and you won't stop until you get him.”

  “I don't want Mr. Cartwright.” Even I'm surprised by my own gusto when I say it.

  “Like hell you don't. And you're not going to get him. He'd never pick you, not over his inheritance.”

  “I know that,” I say. The sad part is, he'd never pick either of us over his inheritance. And I think Veronica knows that.

  “And don't forget it,” she adds. She unzips her gown and lets it fall to the ground. “Now go fetch the next dress, we have a lot of work left to do.”

  *

  Who knew trying on dresses would be such an ordeal? An all day, 8-hour ordeal is something I did not expect, even with the excessive number of gowns she has me haul. Nor did I expect her to try on every last one of them, and some twice. You'd think she would've found 'the one' long before the end of the day.

  The rest of the day is pretty much silent. There's a heavy tension between us – it's not entirely comfortable but I'll take it over her insulting me constantly. We fall into a pattern – I grab a gown or two, bring it into her changing area and help her get in. When she starts admiring herself and twirling in the mirror it's my clue to start moving new dresses in and old ones out. “Keep that one,” she says a couple of times. I'm not exactly sure how she wants me to “keep them”, but I start separating the dresses she likes from the ones that she doesn't.

  After I help her into the last gown I head back out to start the daunting task of packing up the remaining gowns. Much to my surprise, Rosa is already out there and helping.

  I only have a few completed when Veronica marches back into the room. “Make sure the gowns I chose make it to the studio tomorrow before 8am, that's call time for the photo shoot.”

  Photo shoot? What photo shoot? “I'm not exactly following you?”

  “My Vanity Fair shoot? It's tomorrow. That's the purpose of this entire fitting.”

  What? I shake my head out of confusion. “Wait, so you're not going to pick any of these dresses for your actual wedding day?”

  “Are you mad?” she says with a patronizing laugh. “Do you honestly think I'd wear an off the rack dress to my own wedding?”

  “As opposed to what?” I ask.

  “Oh God, do you know anything? I'm having gowns custom made for the ceremony and reception. I wouldn't be caught dead in any dresses that have already been warn by some random pedestrian.”

  You have to be kidding me. Speechless, I rest my forehead in my hand. Did I really just put in a whole days work, carting dresses across town and helping her try them on, just to find out she's not even going to wear one for the wedding?”

  “Does Connor know this?” I ask. She must have lied to him. There are a million better ways I could have spent today working at the shop.

  She folds her arms tightly across her chest. “Tamara, I thought we had an understanding.”

  “I know what I'm talking about. None of this info was on the itinerary.”

  “Maybe you should check it again,” she says.

  “Maybe I should,” I mumble as I grab my bag and dig out the planner. I scan with my eyes and index finger until I find....damn it. The word photo shoot is right there, scheduled tomorrow at 9am. Great, now Veronica will be right and I'll never hear the end of it.

  “Well?”

  “To be fair, I had no idea it was a photo shoot for you.”

  She peps up a little. “So I was right, basically.”

  “You were right,” I groan. It almost physically hurts for me to say it.

  “Don't question me from now on, okay Tamara?”

  CHAPTER 14

  If 9am is when the gowns are expected on set the next morning, then they'll be there at 7:45am. That's what I planned on and that's what I do. No more mistakes from here on out – there's no way I'm getting chewed out by Veronica again.

  Only three more weeks of this shit and I'm home free.

  I arrive at the studio bright an early, as planned. The place is pretty desolate but there are a few cars parked outside, so I know someone is here and I'm pretty sure one of them is Veronica.

  I’m not exactly thrilled about having to drag all of these gowns in by myself, but at least it's a much smaller selection than yesterday. I load the first rack up with as many gowns as I can pull on my own. Once it's ready I take the rack in through the double doors, which lead into a dimly lit corridor. I quickly realize that I have no idea where I'm going with this. At the end of the hall I notice a light coming out of one of the rooms. I make my way towards it, hearing the low hum of voices as I draw closer.

  I peep my head in before announcing myself—Veronica is there, seated in front of bright lights with what looks to be her glam squad around here. One guy is doing her hair and he other is working on her makeup. She notices me almost instantly. She looks surprised to see me and glances down at her watch.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks abruptly.

  “I'm supposed to be here? I have all of your gowns; I was wondering where you wanted me to leave them.”

  She darts up from the chair and marches up to the door frame, glancing behind me and all around me suspiciously

  “Where's Mr. Cartwright?” she asks with an accusatory glare.

  “Um, I don't know? I just got here.” And I didn't expect him to show up for this, anyways.

  “He said he would be here at 7am and it's almost 8am!”

  Does she expect me to keep tabs on her fiance too now? “Maybe he just decided not to come?”

  Veronica looks insulted. “That's wishful thinking on your part, Tamara. I thought we agreed yesterday that you wouldn't cause anymore trouble?”

  She sure has mastered the art of jumping to conclusions, now hasn't she? “I don't personally care whether he comes or not.”

  “Good,” she replies, “if and when you see him make sure you send him directly to me, understood?”

  I plaster a fake smile across my face. “Absolutely.”

  She waves her hand at me dismissively. “Go take those to the dressing room at the end of the hall. It's the last door on the right. And hurry.”

  Just three more weeks. Just three more weeks. Just three more...damn it.

  With a groan I pull the rack back the other way, down the hall, and into the room she described. It's a heck of a lot more spacious than the prep room, which is a good thing since there are two more racks to go.

  I leave the first set of gowns near the far corner of the room and stop to catch my breath before heading out and retrieving the next. I repeat the process, until all three racks are unloaded. I couldn't be more happy when it's done.

  “Need some help?
”

  I jump at the sound of an unexpected voice coming from behind me. When I spin around I find Mr. Cartwright leaning against the door frame, glaring at me coldly.

  “You're a little late for that,” I reply.

  There's a scowl on his face and he's staring me down. He steps inside the room, moving his hand to the knob and closing the door shut. He locks it behind him and steps towards the middle of the room, blocking the path between me and the door.

  “Veronica has been looking for you. She told me to send you to her as soon as you got here.”

  “Hmm, well she's not the one I want to talk to,” he says pointedly.

  “I have work to do.”

  “I'm sure you do.”

  “So can you move?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “No, I can't do that.”

  I shift my hips impatiently. “I don't have time for your bullshit right now.”

  “Bullshit?” he says, raising his eyebrows as he moves closer towards me. “Maybe you should watch your mouth, I'm your client, in case you've forgotten.”

  Technically he's right about that. But I'm not here to let him make me feel guilty, let alone apologize. “Right, so let's just try to stay away from each other then,” I mumble as I attempt to step around him, but he side steps and ends up blocking my path once again.

  “You fucking humiliated me in public,” he hisses. His voice is so low and so tinged with hostility that I'm taken aback. Mr. Cartwright can be an asshole but for the first time I'm nearly scared of him.

  “How did I humiliate you?” I ask.

  “You know what happened, you were there at the tasting.”

  Are we really still on this? “In case you forgot, it was your fiance who threw cake on you, not me.”

  “Believe me, I've had words with her about this too. You just stood there, watching and laughing. And then you left. You left me alone.”

  I'm about to argue back, tell him he deserved it because frankly, he did. But then I see something flicker in his eyes. It's beyond anger it's... hurt? My heart nearly jumps out of my chest when I realize it. This has nothing to do with the tasting, or the cake. And it has everything to do with me.

  “Let's just drop it and move on, okay?” I reply, my voice wavering.

  “I think you owe me an apology first.”

  Wow. I have to restrain myself from laughing in his face. “I don't owe you a thing.”

  “Really?” he says, stepping closer towards me. “I think you owe me just about everything.”

  “You see that? That attitude, where you treat me like I'm a charity case, is exactly why I left you,” I spit out, “And I'm not sorry for leaving you.”

  He looks slightly shocked. He studies my face like he's trying to decipher a code.

  “And you still think you can control everyone and everything with money, don't you?” I continue in his baffled silence.

  He tilts his chin up and says, “Everyone has a price, even you.”

  I shake my head. “Not everyone is for sale just because you are, Mr. Cartwright.” It's a low blow that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but damn does it feel good to say it.

  His brows lower, his jaw suddenly tightens as he glowers at me. He opens his mouth to speak but I don't wait around to hear what he has to say. “I have work to do,” I say as I rudely brush past him. “That's a thing some of us have to do.”

  “Tamara,” he calls out, following after me. “Tamara, listen to me.”

  “There's nothing else to discuss. And I don't want to lose my job too. So if you would please just let me get back to work.”

  He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Look. This isn't who I am. I'm not some asshole who lashes out at someone I care about.”

  I let out a bark of laughter and reply, “Oh, really?”

  “Really. I've done and said nasty, awful things to you and I'm not proud of a single one of them. But you left me in shambles. You wouldn't even give me the time of day.”

  “So this is all my fault now?” I roll my eyes hard; he hasn't learned a thing, has he? “I don't have time for this,” I mumble as I turn and reach for the doorknob. But he stops me, holding the door shut with his hand placed against it, and high above my head.

  “That's not what I'm—” he cuts himself off, closing his eyes tight and taking a breath. I've never seen him like this, unable to find the right words to say. His voice softens. “The truth is I... I miss you,” he says, placing his hand softly on the curve of my waist.

  Oh. His admission catches me off guard and gets me all choked up. It's been so long since he's touched me; his touch is even more electrifying than I remember. It triggers memories of all the nights I spent yearning for him and feeling empty without him.

  “Let me hold you,” he says, “for just one moment.” His voice is so pained, and I feel that pain with him.

  He leans in even closer. The warmth that radiates from his body nearly feels scorching against my skin. My lips tremble, fighting to speak, and my brain urges my body to move, but he's so close to me and I just can't. He wraps his arms tight around my waist, pulling my back against his chest. In the instant that I feel his body against mine I'm lost; completely and utterly lost. Pulled down under the current, to the depths of the darkest ocean by that old familiar anchor known as Mr. Cartwright. And here I've worked so hard to stop drowning in him.

  “You know I don't love her. Who I marry doesn't have to stop us from being together,” he says as he lowers his lips to my neck, softly brushing them against my skin and then replacing them with his tongue. His hand cups my breast and I gasp. It's been too long since he or anyone has touched me like this. And as much as I try to pretend that I'm over him, my body tells a completely different story.

  My voice comes out as a stutter at first. “You... you can't touch me like this.”

  He gropes me harder. “Oh yeah? And why is that?” he whispers, his lips dusting my ear.

  “Because I'm not yours anymore.”

  He chuckles darkly. “And that's where you're wrong, Tamara. You always have been and you always will be mine.”

  His words are more than enough to bring me crashing back into reality. “Let me go,” I demand, my voice shaking as I pull his hands off of me and shove him away.

  “The offer still stands. Think about what I said,” he calls after me, taunting me as I force my way through the door way. I fly down the hall, my feet carrying me as far away from Mr. Cartwright as fast as possible, hoping no one sees me in this frazzled state. I dip into the bathroom to compose myself.

  Under the flickering fluorescent lights I eye myself in the bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the face that stares back at me. Who am I to let him pull me back into his web again? It was like all the progress I had made over the past several months had suddenly become undone.

  I manage to avoid him for the rest of the shoot and keep my cool. That night I go home and cry hard until I fall asleep. I cry because I hate him for making me feel. I cry because he took it away. But most of all I cry because I know that he's right.

  *

  Dancers Turnout is an old studio in the Bronx, nestled in between a couple of old brownstones. It's an area of town I could never imagine Veronica setting foot in, but apparently Mr. Cartwright doesn't have an issue with it. Knowing the two of them, he probably suggested this studio just to piss her off.

  From the get go, I expected to have to do a whole bunch of ridiculous crap to prepare for this wedding. But at least hellish activities like hauling ten thousand pounds of tulle across the state for Veronica's fitting are relevant. Going to dance class isn't.

  I manage to avoid both Veronica and Mr. Cartwright for almost five straight days. It's been like a vacation, even though I'm still working my ass off. But then, surprise, just when I think I'm going to make it a full week I get an urgent call from Melissa, telling me that Veronica isn't “feeling well” and that Mr. Cartwright needs a partner to fill in for his ballroom dance lesson. Apparently, he's trying
to learn how to waltz before the big day so he doesn't make a fool of himself in front of everyone. Personally, I wouldn’t mind seeing that, but it's not exactly my call.

  After the incident at the photo shoot I was reluctant to agree, but I didn't really have much of a choice, especially after Melissa begged me to show up. I knew I would come face to face with him again, sooner rather than later, so I had already pushed the events of our last meeting back into the recesses of my mind and buried myself in work.

  I can handle this. If I can handle sleeping on the streets I can handle an entitled brat in a suit.

  I show up early wearing my favorite pair of yoga pants—they make my ass look great and I know that Mr. Cartwright is going to notice, even though he can't have it.

  I step inside and the first thing I see is a man who looks to be in his late 30s with jet black hair, serious eyebrows and a pair of black dancers tights that are even tighter than mine. He looks me up and down before tapping his heel against the wooden floor.

  “May I help you, Madame?” Madame? This guy is serious business.

  “I'm just here for the dance class with Mr. Cartwright.”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Cartwright, he's the one getting married. He's running late, clearly, and yet he has a lot of work to do if he wants to learn how to waltz in just one session,” he says flipping his ponytail over his shoulder as he turns and makes his way to the barre.

  One session? What exactly does he mean by that?

  “I'm Alejandro, by the way. I'll be your instructor,” he says as he begins his stretches. “We'll get started as soon as the groom arrives.”

  I take a few steps up towards him, carefully as to not disturb him or throw off his groove as he begins his stretches.

  “Not to be a bother, but what exactly do you mean by one session?”

  He barely breaks his concentration as he moves and points his toes, showing off his dancers arch.