Felix stood facing a semicircle of advertising reps, talking about upcoming layouts. Belle got a plate of food and joined them. She waited until the conversation played out and the reps headed off for more refreshments before she turned to Felix. “Can we talk?”
He took a sip of his champagne and let out a sigh. “Is this going to be more complaining about being conscripted to model? Because really, I don’t want to hear it. We all do what we have to do to make a show work. You know that.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “Well, not really. Was Sebastien the one who suggested I stand in for Svetlana?”
Felix picked up a cracker from his plate and dipped it into foie gras. “What does that matter?”
She told him everything—how she’d refused Sebastien last September and what he’d said in return.
Felix’s expression showed only annoyed disbelief. “Let me get this straight. Svetlana ditched the show at the last minute, and somehow that’s part of Sebastien’s drunken master plan from last fall to undermine you by making you look bad in a twelve-thousand-dollar evening gown?”
She exhaled, frustrated he was missing the point.
He took another bite of his cracker. “Plenty of women would love to be undermined that way. I mean, so the guy got drunk and hit on you. It happens. You can’t be so easily offended.”
“Easily offended?” She couldn’t even defend herself by explaining that she wanted people to treat her like a professional, or tell him how the dress had made her feel like a bedazzled hooker. The gown was part of this season’s line. Felix had approved it.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Look,” he said in his most patronizing tone, “I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure getting things ready for the show. I’ve been in this business long enough to understand that artistic types don’t always take stress well.”
So now she was the difficult, artistic type. That’s what he thought of her.
“The show is behind us,” he went on. “Relax and enjoy yourself. You don’t need to stay at the party if you don’t want to. Why don’t you go do something with your girlfriends?”
She clenched her plate to keep from doing something she’d regret later, like writing a resignation letter.
Sebastien strolled up, holding a glass of champagne between his fingers in a careless, erudite manner. He was thin, and his gelled-back hair was reminiscent of Elvis, or at least would have if Elvis had had a hooked nose and hipster glasses.
“Great show,” he told Felix, then his eyes slid to Belle. “And what you showed was great too.”
Her gaze snapped to Felix. She expected to see a dawning realization that everything she’d told him was true. But he calmly ate another cracker. “I wouldn’t joke around with Belle right now. She’s not in the mood.”
“Pity,” Sebastien said with a smug lift of his eyebrows. “I never seem to catch her when she’s in the mood.”
Belle looked at Felix again. Nope. Still no realization. Apparently the man was determined to be dense. She turned back to Sebastien, narrowing her eyes. “Go grease yourself.”
Then she stormed away.
She marched out the door and down the hallway, determined to—well, she wasn’t sure what. She just knew that she couldn’t stay at the party. Let Sebastien and Felix chat up the guests without her. She’d worked too hard, for too long, to be treated this way. She pushed the elevator button with a smack.
“Isabelle?” A middle-aged Asian woman had come out of the executive lounge and was heading down the hallway toward her. She wore a red and gold cheongsam, an updated version of a traditional Chinese body-hugging dress. Her hair was twisted up into a knot with a pearl comb tucked in the front, and she had a pleasant, open smile. “Isabelle Lind? It is you, isn’t it?”
No one had called her by that name for a long time. She’d been Belle since Paris. She gave the woman another look, trying to place her. “Yes.”
The woman walked up to her, tutting. “Look at you! You hardly seem like the same girl I knew at WSU.”
Oh, she knew Belle from college. Definitely hadn’t been a student, though. The woman was too old for that. A professor, maybe? Someone who worked at the campus library with her? Nothing came to mind. In the six years since graduation, she’d met so many people.
“Yes, I’ve changed a lot,” Belle said with a forced laugh. “No more turquoise Keds.” Those had been a thrift store find she’d been inordinately proud of. Back then, all of her clothes had been from thrift stores, but she’d worn the Keds nearly every day. They were comfortable, and it had been a personal challenge to see how many outfits she could match them with.
“The clothes, yes. Those are very different.” She looked Belle up and down, noting her black cocktail dress and her Giuseppe Zanotti lace-up heels. “But I don’t think it’s only the outside that has changed. The Isabelle I knew—I don’t think she would have told a man to ‘go grease’ himself.”
Belle inwardly winced. “You heard that?”
The woman tapped her earlobe. “I have very good hearing. Sometimes I’m not sure whether it is a blessing or a curse.”
Who was this woman?
“I wish my memory were as good as your hearing. I’m sorry; I’ve forgotten where we know each other from. Were you one of my professors at WSU?”
“No, no.” the woman laughed at the suggestion. “I shouldn’t have expected you to remember me. My name is Pearl Li. I worked at The Mandarin House restaurant for a couple of years, helping out my sister, who owned the place. Now I live in New York, helping out my other sister who’s a boutique buyer.”
The Mandarin House. Of course. During her freshman year, her study group used to meet there every Monday night. She hadn’t thought of the place in years, but just the name brought back memories of bright red lanterns and the smell of almond chicken.
“You and that nice boy, Dawson,” Pearl went on. “I forget the others’ names, but I gave you all many a fortune cookie.”
“Oh. Yes.” Belle still didn’t remember the woman. But then she’d always been too wrapped up in Dawson to see anyone else when he was around.
Dawson.
Memories of that time came rushing back as though Pearl had swung open a door to the past in Belle’s mind. The painful and sweet moments, the hopeful and despairing, all mixed together in that boy’s blue, blue eyes.
The first time Belle noticed Marco Dawson was in physical science class while the professor took attendance. To be fair, everyone noticed him. The teacher was running down the roll, calling students’ first names. When he called, “Marco?” three students yelled, “Polo!” in return. All guys. All laughing at their own joke.
A guy on the other side of the row raised his hand. He was in a word, gorgeous. Tall, athletic, chiseled jaw, the whole Greek-god package. A sweep of light brown hair fell across his forehead, as if a stylist had tousled it for his close-up.
“I go by Dawson,” he said, and then added with a grin, “for obvious reasons.”
“Dawson,” the professor repeated and penciled a note on his sheet of paper. He went on with the roll, and everyone else in class turned their attention to other things. Everyone except Belle. She hadn’t been able to stop stealing glances at Dawson’s profile. Toward the end of class, he happened to look in her direction. She hurriedly turned away, embarrassed to be caught admiring him.
She might never have gotten the courage to speak to him, but the next week in class, he spoke to her. They were both picking up their quizzes from the teacher’s desk, and Dawson caught sight of her score. A hundred percent. His was a sixty.
He groaned and shoved his test into his folder. “You’re one of those students who’s going to kill the curve every time, aren’t you?”
Flustered by his gaze, she hadn’t known how to respond. “Sorry. Um, I’m sure I’ll do worse next time, or you’ll do better.” So stupid.
He laughed—no doubt used to girls babbling around him—then chatted with her some more, casually,
friendly, as though they were equals.
That was one of her sweet memories of Dawson. He never saw her as the awkward girl in tacky glasses who was too thin, too poor, and had no idea what to do with her limp, blond hair.
When the teacher told everyone to take their seats, Dawson walked to hers with her, still talking. “Hey, I’d love to study with you some time.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Are you free tonight?”
“Sure.” She would have missed a kidney transplant if it meant spending time with him.
“Great. I’ll reserve a study room at the Terrell Library for seven o’clock. Give me your number, and I’ll text you which one.”
She gave it to him and then floated through the rest of her day practically senseless. Dawson had asked for her phone number. He wanted to see her tonight.
After her last class, she went straight back to her apartment, knowing she’d need her roommate Daisy’s help to get date-ready. It was a date, after all. Or maybe it wasn’t. He’d asked her to study with him. Did that count?
This was the main topic of conversation between Daisy and Belle as the former attempted to add body to Belle’s hair with a curling iron.
“He asked you to do something with him at a specific place and time,” Daisy said. “It counts.”
She was from California and looked the part: sun-kissed brown hair with a perfect figure and a perpetual tan. The sort of beach beauty guys hoped to find at an ocean-side volleyball game. She had a string of boys regularly stopping by the apartment who tried to impress her.
“Yeah, but we’re meeting at the library,” Belle pointed out. “That’s not really a date place.”
“If he’s as good looking as you say, he can’t be that clueless about raising a girl’s expectations. Maybe he’s trying to keep it casual the first time. Or maybe he’s poor. Either way, it’s a date.”
Poor would be fine. Preferred, even. Belle understood poor.
Daisy finished Belle’s hair and moved on to her makeup. “I bet when you’re done studying, he suggests getting something to eat.”
A spike of worry shot through Belle. “Should I pay for my own meal or let him pay?” There were so many ways this could turn awkward. If she offered to pay for herself, would it seem like she didn’t want to be on a date with him?
Daisy brushed eyeshadow across Belle’s lids. “Play it by ear.”
“I haven’t dated enough to know the music.”
Daisy laughed as though Belle was joking. She wasn’t. She’d had a total of two dates, both of which had been to high school dances.
Daisy stepped back to inspect her work, then applied more bronzer to Belle’s cheeks with practiced strokes. “If you go to a place where you pay at the counter, let him go first. The cashier will ask if the order is together. Let him answer.” Daisy opened a tube of lip gloss and slid the color over Belle’s lips.
“And what if we go to a sit-down restaurant?”
“Just ignore the bill for a few minutes to see if he picks it up. When he does, offer to pay for your meal. Hopefully, he’ll say that you can cover the bill next time.”
Because then there would be a next time.
Daisy turned Belle toward the mirror, all encouragement and optimism. “Look. You’re stunning.”
She wasn’t really. Daisy’s work was an improvement, but makeup could accomplish only so much. Belle was a late bloomer, the sort of girl who looked like she’d barely wandered out of junior high. No curves. She was too thin, and too tall to be so thin. The combination made her look like a candidate for an eating disorder poster. Her dark-rimmed glasses, far from being trendy, gave her eyes an owlish look. And her hair, well, it looked nice when Daisy sent Belle out the door. But halfway to campus, a light rain started and undid most of Daisy’s work.
Not that it had ended up mattering.
When Belle reached the study room, another guy sat at the table with Dawson. The two of them had their books spread out before them as they talked.
Dawson looked up when she came in. “Great, you’re here.” He moved some of his books to make room for her. “You don’t mind if Brady joins us, do you? He has a hard time with science too.”
So, definitely not a date.
Brady slid a couple papers out of the way. “Can’t tell RNA from RAN.”
“Dude,” Dawson said, “RNA is in biology, not physical science.”
“See?” Brady shrugged and laughed. “This is why I need help studying.”
Belle forced herself to smile. “The more the merrier.” She sat down, feeling transparent. She shouldn’t have put on so much makeup. Had Dawson noticed that she’d beautified herself to study with him? She shuffled through her papers so he wouldn’t see her blush, wouldn’t see the disappointment on her face.
To her credit, she was able to fake cheerfulness throughout that study session. She even cracked a few jokes. Each time Dawson laughed at one, she felt as though she’d won something. And even though this wasn’t a date, the two of them were still spending time together. That counted for something. It was a start.
Ah, hope. Such a determined emotion.
Not long after that, Dawson found out Belle was acing English and he asked her to proofread his papers. Those were her favorite times with him—just the two of them alone together. Proofing always morphed into talking, and after a while it grew easy to pretend that she was his girlfriend instead of just his smart friend.
He told her he wanted to be a doctor, but not for the money. He wanted to practice in a poor, struggling community where he could make a difference. She mentally adjusted her dreams to accommodate his. She wouldn’t mind moving to some rundown city to be with him. She became so recklessly sure that he was her soul mate, so careless with her heart. She should have known better, even back then.
All of those memories, conjured in a split second by hearing his name on Pearl’s lips.
The elevator door opened with a ding, bringing her mind back to the present. Both women stepped inside, and Pearl pushed the button for the ground floor.
“I thought you’d become a teacher—the way you were always helping the others with their schoolwork.”
“Maybe I should have been.” The bitter aftertaste of the show was back on Belle’s tongue.
“You were such a good group of kids,” Pearl went on, happily reminiscing. “After Dawson got engaged, he brought his fiancée in all of the time.”
“Did he?” Belle said trying to speak in a conversational manner. Because she couldn’t talk about his marriage with any sort of neutrality.
His wedding day might have been the happiest day of his life, but it definitely counted as her worst. Against her will, another doorway full of memories opened.
Halfway through the semester, she invited the study group to her apartment. Daisy helped her clean, made cookies for everyone, and then gave Belle free range of her closet so she could wear something new. Back then, Daisy was on her side. They’d been best friends. That is, until Dawson walked in.
And everything changed.
Belle watched it happen, helpless to stop it: Dawson’s gaze landing on Daisy and lighting up with interest. Daisy smiling coyly in return.
The two flirted all evening and went on their first date two nights later. Daisy acted only mildly apologetic about stealing him, shrugging off guilt with sentiments like, “The two of you were only ever friends. It’s not my fault he was never interested in you,” and, “You’ll find someone else, someone who is as right for you,” and, “If you really cared about him, you’d want him to be happy. He’s happy with me.”
The elevator reached the bottom floor, and the doors slid open. Pearl strolled out. “Funny that I saw you tonight. I ran into Dawson just a month ago.” She pressed her lips into a line, and shook her head. “I was so sad to hear about his divorce.”
His what? The world seemed to shift a little, and Belle had to review Pearl’s sentence to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood. “He’s—di
vorced?” Somehow the possibility that Daisy and Dawson could fall out of love had never occurred to Belle.
“Oh yes,” Pearl went on. “I talked to him right after the legal work was settled. He’s single now.”
“Really?” Belle kept pace beside Pearl, heading across the lobby. Dawson’s whereabouts shouldn’t matter, not after all these years, but still, she had to ask. “Where is he living these days?”
“Montana. Too far away. But he’ll be at Cancun for a family reunion next weekend—the Playa Del Sol resort. Maybe you should go there yourself. I think you and Dawson would be good for each other.”
Belle chuckled at the suggestion.
Pearl paused and turned to face Belle to give her words emphasis. “I’ll give you a fortune, this time without the cookie. Lucky people create most of their luck.” She nodded knowingly. “Besides, I think you need a vacation.”
*
That night while Belle lay in bed, trying to sleep, she thought about flying off to Cancun. She couldn’t decide if such a trip would be spontaneous and fun or just irresponsible. Sometimes there was a thin line between living life to the fullest and avoiding being an adult.
She pulled up her covers, blocking out as much of the cold February night as possible. She had the money. Her landlady considered herself a fashionista and had happily waived rent for the last two years in return for one-of-a-kind clothes of Belle’s making. Belle had even sold wedding dresses to the landlady’s friends and relations. She hadn’t vacationed much because she never felt like she could take the time off of work.
The thrifty part of her, the part that had scrimped and saved all through her high school and college years, still balked at the idea. Jetting off to a resort in Cancun at the last minute would be so expensive.
Would it be spontaneous or irresponsible?
She decided that if she could think of ten good reasons to go, she would do it.
1) She was overdue for a vacation.
2) Winters in New York were horrible.
3) Sebastien was a jerk, and she could do without seeing him for a week.
4) Felix didn’t appreciate everything she did at work, so maybe he should see how things ran without her.
How I Met Your Brother (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 2
