by Thérèse
India cursed and then took a deep breath. She needed to slow down. She had plenty of time to get to The Greenwich, and if she was a bit late, she could blame the weather. Right? Henry would be there ahead of her to greet Rebecca. This need to be punctual was old conditioning from years teaching school and racing for the bell. It wasn’t as if she still had thirty kids waiting outside on a playground for her or a full assembly to take. This was a whole new world where you were allowed to run as late as you liked as long as you arrived looking fabulous, your lipstick intact and your hair immaculately blown out. Clearly, the women she was meeting had absorbed too many episodes of Sex and the City.
The thing was, even when you got to the meetings, you didn’t have to give people your full attention. You could check your texts every five minutes, step out of rooms to take calls, leave early because you had yet another (implication, more important) meeting to go to. Imagine if you behaved like that when you were giving a lesson, she mused. You’d be fired – wouldn’t last a day.
After showering and quickly putting on her makeup, India rifled through her half-unpacked suitcase in search of a pair of black tights. A frantic race around the room failed to locate them. She was running out of time to be even fashionably ‘consultant late’ she realized. Damn it, she would have to abandon the skirt and wear those Agnes B black pants yet again. She was already experiencing suitcase fatigue – absolutely sick to death of the clothes she had packed.
How were you supposed to anticipate freak weather in June? The humidity alone was already doing terrible things to her hair. Did Inès de la Fressange ever find herself on day four of a work trip down to her last clean pair of knickers? Somehow, India doubted it. There were glaring omissions in that style guidebook and absolutely no advice on how to get out of the Warwick Hotel in the absence of a rowing boat or an ark.
Minutes later, standing under the awning at the entrance to the hotel, help came in the form of a doorman who flagged down a cab with a shrill ear-piercing whistle. India climbed into it under the protection of his supersized hotel umbrella.
Her phone rang as the cab lurched forward. Fishing it out of her pocket, she saw from the caller ID it was Adam. She let it ring a few times before picking up. It had been days since she’d heard from him; she could wait another few seconds.
“Hello.”
“Hey. Where are you?” Adam said, his gravelly voice sending shivers down her spine.
“New York,” she said.
“Really? How come you didn’t tell me?”
“It was arranged quickly. I worked out you were probably on your way to Marrakech.” (Read, ‘You never bother telling me your plans; see how you like it…’ ) “So where are you? Are you there now?”
“No. I’m in Cannes,” he said.
India went pale. He was in Cannes. He was in the south of France. He was in le sud de la France WITHOUT HER. How could he do this? He’d absolutely promised to take her. That had been the trade off for letting her down about the Paris trip.
“So why aren’t you in Morocco?” she managed.
“We couldn’t get the right permits so here we are. Cannes is super busy. I thought it all went quiet after the Film Festival, who knew? I’m at Eden-Roc. It’s really warm out here today. So what are you up to in New York?”
“Oh. You know,” India said, “meetings. Absolutely tons of meetings. You should see my schedule – it’s insane.” (Read, Am international business-woman; meetings are in my DNA.)
“Who are you meeting with?”
“Adam, I’m in a cab right now. I can’t really talk.” Read, Am international business-type person who cannot risk being overheard by a driver.
“Oh! Sorry, okay.”
“How long are you in France for?”
“Not sure yet. I was thinking maybe we could meet up in London on my way back?”
“Absolutely,” she said and then concerned she might have sounded too available. “Though best give me some notice. I may not be in town.” (Read, Am international traveler who may well pop down to Cannes herself.)
“Will do. Miss you.”
“Okay,” she said. “Enjoy Cannes. I have to go.”
And she did have to go. She had to stop the conversation right there while she still had the strength to keep up this air of cool detachment. It was killing her. She had managed an air of cool detachment though, hadn’t she?
It took a while for India to find the discreet entrance to The Greenwich Hotel. For a moment she was surprised that Henry had chosen to stay at such a low-key location. This was downtown; wasn’t he an uptown kind of a guy? Once inside the doors, she remembered his fondness for boutique hotels. She gave her name to the concierge.
“Mr. Cowan is expecting you.” He smiled, nodding toward a short hallway.
Shaking off her raincoat, India made her way into the dark interior of a large sitting room. The place had the feel of a gentlemen’s club; the stout leather armchairs, worn oriental rugs and the mahogany bar leant a decidedly masculine ambience, where the Hotel de l’Abbaye in Saint Germain had been chintzy and feminine. Nevertheless, it was a similar vibe – a calm oasis in a frantically busy city. She could not help but think it would be the perfect place for a tryst.
Henry was sitting on a low camel back couch by the fireplace. The woman opposite him looked up as India walked over.
“Sorry I’m so late,” India said. “I misjudged the time it’d take me to get here in this weather.”
“No problem,” Henry said. “We’ll bring you up to speed. Rebecca, this is India Butler, our education consultant.
Do all the women Henry works with look like this? India thought, as a willowy airbrushed blonde reached out an extended hand. I wouldn’t be able to pick any one of them out in a lineup.
Henry gestured to the armchair next to him. India shook hands, then sank down in the gently worn tapestry cushions.
“We’ve ordered Crostini for starters to keep us going,” Henry said, indicating the plates of olives and fava beans, ricotta and pita bread spread out on the low table in front of them. “What would you like to drink?”
India, resisting the urge for a Bloody Mary, took her cue from Rebecca, who was nursing a Diet Coke. “Pellegrino,” she said. God it was so cozy in here; all she wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep.
After ordering her drink, Henry turned to her. “Let me fill you in on where we’ve gotten to. Rebecca, as you know, is dean of one of the leading fashion institutions in the world. She’s been responsible for some of the most experiential industry collaborations of the last decade.”
Rebecca lowered her eyes coquettishly. “Thank you. That’s very kind, Henry. We do like to feel that we’re ahead of the curve in testing the boundaries of creativity and innovation.”
Very smooth, Henry, India thought. You’re good.
“Rebecca, tell India, if you wouldn’t mind, about Time is a Gift. It’s a great model for Faux Fashion.”
“Sure. Absolutely, Henry. Happy to.”
Crossing one gazelle-like leg across the other and displaying what India recognized as the appropriate amount of thigh for an informal New York meeting (skirt just below hip level), Rebecca continued.
“For that project there were five cross-disciplinary teams of students of music, dance, design, theater and photography. They came together to present live performances…all original choreography, music scores and conceptual garments of course. The deconstruction and reconstruction in their respective fields was their interpretation of the theme of Time is a Gift, which was inspired by Baume Mercier’s Heritage.”
India was mesmerized. How was it possible for a human being to speak written English so fluently and in an American accent too! She lost concentration for a few moments, watching Rebecca’s coral pink mouth open and close. Snapping back into the moment, she tried desperately hard to make sense of what she was hearing.
“With project-based work we put a heavy emphasis on
the tangibility of outcomes. Our educational outreach stresses the importance of design approaches that are grounded in well-researched collaborations and rooted in an environmentally sustainable ethos. Our students have the opportunity to base their work in sound methodological theory.”
“Absolutely,” Henry interjected.
“And Henry,” Rebecca continued, “the commercial implications for designs that result from project work like this are immeasurable. Two of our students won contracts with Bloomingdales on the strength of their analogue fabric designs and one alumnus is currently head of product design at Cartier. He’s only twenty-four.”
“That’s impressive,” India said, delighted that she at last had something concrete to hang onto; everything Rebecca said seemed so abstract.
“So for Faux Fashion the potential for innovative outcomes is huge.” Henry was speaking fluent Rebeccan and India was beginning to feel frustrated.
“Henry, I have to thank you and Luella for this amazing opportunity. Her book is a validation for every Arts and Design student who’s had to claw their way through academia to get to the place where they could find their voice. My students have been so inspired by the themes in her book. India, I am so happy you are coming to the college to see what we’re doing.”
“I’m really looking forward to it.” India smiled. “Tomorrow. Yes?”
“I can meet you at ten then. Does that work for you?”
India nodded. “Perfect,” she said.
Then Henry adjusted the belt on his jeans, ran the flat of his hands down the inside of his thighs and stretched out his extremely toned arms on his knees before levering himself into a standing position. The action disturbed India in ways she didn’t want to think about right now.
“Great. Well let’s go through to Locanda Verde. They have a table waiting for us,” he said, guiding them both toward the doorway and through the Victorian engraved glass doors of the adjoining restaurant.
11
A few days later India was on her way back to London, her suitcase heavier from the frantic yet fruitful dash around the boutiques in Soho. The exchange rate meant her English pounds had gone a long way and of course, it was important to have a closet appropriate for an international consultant. It made sound financial sense to shop in the states. How could anyone have resisted the summer cashmere in Cottonier and the dresses in Club Monaco?
She had been surprisingly quick getting through security, and it left her plenty of time to pick up a few essential purchases from Duty Free: Guerlain perfume, Chanel nail polish, Clarins moisturizer, a Longchamp travel tote (which on refection might probably have been cheaper in Paris), a Swarovski crystal iPhone case and a compact. After showing her passport and paying, she made her way to the Club Lounge feeling very much the world traveler.
Going through to the shower stalls, she changed into a comfortable pair of pajama bottoms and a worn Gap T-shirt, aware she was breaking one of Inès’s golden rules, but comfort at this point was more important than looking tres chic. She planned on sleeping her way back to London.
After helping herself to an array of snacks and drinks from a counter, she sat for a while watching CNN news until, seeing from the monitor that her flight had been delayed, she decided to call her friend.
“Hey Sarah. How’s it going? I’m at JFK on my way back. How’re you feeling?”
“Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful. It’s starting to feel very real.”
“I just saw the ultrasound picture you posted on Facebook,” India said pushing away her plate of nachos and salsa and finishing her glass of Pinot Grigio.
“Yes, I thought it was time to share. It was quite a moment. Damien came with me and went all glassy eyed when he saw her.”
India inhaled, unable to quite place the emotion she was feeling. Why hadn’t Sarah shared the picture with her privately – as in in an e-mail – before posting online for those hundreds of so-called ‘friends’ to see?
“So you know it’s a girl?” she said.
“Yes, well I’ve known that for a while.”
“Oh!” India managed. “Oh…great…Well, I’m sure you must both be delighted.”
“I’ve never been happier,” she said. There was an awkward pause. “So. What are you up to? How did the meetings go?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. It went really well,” India said. “Actually, sorry Sarah. I don’t think I’m in the cell phone area of the lounge. I’ve got to go. Catch up later. Bye.”
India clicked off, leaned back awkwardly in the circular plastic chair and closed her eyes. Somehow, she seemed to have lost the connection with Sarah. Maybe she’d neglected her friend recently. Had she been too preoccupied with the dramas over Adam or the stage production at the end of the school semester? Maybe she was imagining things, maybe not. Either way, right now with Adam in France, her sister in California and Sarah nesting in London with Damien, India felt unmoored.
The tinny announcement of another hour’s delay did nothing to help her mood. She refilled her wine glass and then gathering together her pashmina and purse, dragged her carry-on suitcase into the business area of the lounge and went into a cubby where she sat down and pulled out some of the papers the students had given her the day before.
The college visit had been exhilarating. Rebecca had escorted India around brick-walled, open-plan studios to workstations with draped mannequins and cutting tables spilling over with fabric. India had marveled at the standard of the illustrations displayed on the oversized pin boards and at the precision of the technical drawings laid out on drafting machines. The students barely broke their fierce concentration until Rebecca approached them directly, at which point they jumped up to share whatever they were creating, explaining their process with infectious enthusiasm, even at one point letting India try out a state-of-the-art sewing machine.
India had toured the art department and seen handbags being fashioned from papier-mache and learned how eco-friendly canvas could be woven into biodegradable dresses. What really blew her mind were the scarf designs that had been innovated from the genetic printout of DNA macromolecules.
By the end of that day, the shows were no longer an abstraction to her. She had the visuals and was deeply impressed. She’d also warmed to Rebecca who’d been at pains to explain everything in detail and spoken to her in plain English. She was clearly idolized and respected by her students.
India opened one of the portfolios:
The illustrator produces unique images offering an original red and indigo creation, making a break away from her usual monochrome world. The audience will be delighted to find the designer’s complex motifs bursting in a panoply of color. This collaboration between the biotechnology laboratory and the design department will create a unique evening dress printed with original designs conceived by Julie Levine, Year 3.
The idea of scientists of molecular and synthetic biology working with design students was intriguing. Even though India was unsure what synthetic biology was, she was certain it must be fascinating. She had much to learn. She turned page after page for a while, so engrossed that she barely registered the loudspeaker announcement.
“Passenger India Butler please make your way to Gate Two-K immediately. This gate will be closing in five minutes. Repeat. Passenger India Butler…”
“That’s ME! I’m India Butler!” she yelped, scrambling to collect her things, dashing through the terminal building and careening down a ramp where she was escorted onto the plane by a highly irritated flight attendant who yanked the cabin doors closed behind her. Left struggling to cram her case and bags of Duty Free into the overhead locker, India finally managed to slam the bin shut, before collapsing into her seat. A few seconds later, she saw Henry sitting across from her, an expression of high amusement on his face.
What on earth is he doing here? she thought. He’s supposed to be coming back tomorrow.
India brushed a damp strand of hair and
a bead of sweat from her cheek and attempted a smile. In that moment she desperately wanted to press rewind – to have been there ahead of him, flicking through a copy of Vanity Fair, her hair in a smooth chignon, a Pucci scarf around her neck, a glass of sparkling wine in hand.
There would be no escaping him. The cramped love-seat arrangement of the seats meant he was going to be diagonally across from her for the next seven hours. India wasn’t entirely sure why this was bothering her so much.
“Hello, Miss Butler.” He grinned.
“Hello, Mr. Cowan,” she answered, snapping shut her seatbelt and gripping the armrest as the plane taxied down the runway. She could sense Henry looking at her as she stared fixedly out of the window.
“I didn’t know you were scared of flying.” He laughed shortly after takeoff.
“I’m not,” she said, letting out a squeal as the plane suddenly dropped altitude and there came a crash of metal from the nearby galley. “Omigod.”
“It’s only a bit of turbulence. We’ll be okay once we get higher,” Henry reassured her.
“I’m fine.” India grimaced, clenching her fists in terror, as the plane hit another bump. “Actually I’m not,” she muttered.
“Here,” he said, stretching his hand across the screen divider. “Hold my hand.”
Luella carried her iPad into the sitting room, flopped on the couch and zipped open the case. She stared at the accumulation of unopened e-mails from Peter. These last few weeks he had been relentless in his attempts to contact her – turning up on the doorstep at all hours of the night, filling her answering machines with emotionally charged messages. This morning, having slept for a merciful seven hours, Luella braced herself. She would have to respond sooner or later. It may as well be now.
