by Hyland, Tara
When college started again that autumn, Caitlin found to her relief that the course began to improve. With the basic skills like pattern cutting under their belts, the class was given the chance to start putting them into practice. They were assigned projects with specific requirements—to design a season, brand, or range—as if they were in a proper atelier.
Halfway through the term, Madame set the class its biggest assignment to date.
“It will give me the opportunity to see whether you have got to grips with everything you have learned—planning, marking, and cutting out the pattern, garment assembly, and finishing processes,” she told the class. “And, more importantly, it will give you the opportunity to explore your creativity, to start finding your own style.”
The students shifted excitedly in their seats, exchanging murmured comments. There was a strong element of competition in the class, and everyone saw this as their opportunity to prove themselves. Madame banged her stick on the ground. Everyone jumped and fell silent, as she had known they would.
“Your brief is to design an evening gown, influenced by a particular historical period of your choosing.” She began to stalk the floor, her limp a little more pronounced than usual.
“Stretch your minds,” she ordered. “Look for a way to take the historical and update it for the contemporary. Search for inspiration wherever you can—in magazines, flea markets, antique shops . . . in the clubs you undoubtedly frequent at night when you should be studying.” A ripple of laughter echoed through the class. Madame silenced it with a look. “Just remember—there is no wrong answer here. What matters is your creativity.”
Brooke’s hand shot up.
“When is this due?” she asked.
“I expect to see a finished product in two weeks,” Madame said coolly. “Oh, and you will undertake this work in your own time.”
Caitlin quickly settled on the Victorian era. She had always been fascinated by the darker aspects of the period, like the criminal underworld in London, with its pickpockets and grave robbers, the extremes of rich and poor, prudishness and depravity, the violence and the slums.
“This brief is only a springboard,” Madame told the class. “Think what the period, and the country it is set in, mean to you. Find something about it that interests you particularly and run with that. It should not matter what you are drawing or designing. The trick is to make the piece about you. Inject your personality into what you are doing. Only then will you succeed in creating something truly distinctive and individual.”
So that’s what Caitlin did.
She started by rereading Shelley, Bram Stoker, and Radcliffe to get a feel for the mid-nineteenth-century Gothic Revival. And as her research progressed, she began to sketch. Not the dress itself, but rather elements that grabbed her: a horse-drawn carriage on the fog-filled streets of the capital; windswept castles with carved gargoyles, majestic dagger gable ends, and shadowy archways. The sketches encapsulated the mood that she wanted to convey in her final piece.
As the days passed, Caitlin found there was one theme she kept coming back to: death. The Victorians were obsessed with death, and during their extended mourning periods, widows had worn an elaborate system of mourning apparel. It was an unusual idea for an evening dress, but she felt it could work.
So she went with her instincts, researching the style and materials traditionally used in England at that time for widows’ weeds. Then, with the facts under her belt, she had some fun. Taking the basics of the Victorian mourning gown, she slashed the neckline and raised the hemline. Instead of using traditional crêpe, she went for the more decadent material of crushed velvet, in a deep purple with black lace trimming. The result was an ornate costume, lush and sensual, dramatic and extravagant—a kind of glamorous Gothic punk. It was as much a piece of theater, a piece of art, as a dress. For the first time ever, Caitlin felt she had achieved her best—and, without realizing it, she had also found her style as a designer.
But the creative process was just the beginning. Once she had her ideas in place, she then had to start thinking about bringing the garment to life, taking it from 2D to 3D. It was a long, tedious process. In a proper design room, sample machinists and pattern cutters would work with the designer through several stages until the sample garment was ready to be made up in the proper fabric. But, for this exercise, the students were expected to go through all those stages themselves.
“One day you will have a whole design team to help you,” Madame told them, “but for now you need to be able to do everything yourself.”
It was time-consuming and frustrating, but already Caitlin could see the advantages: using the toile—a trial version of the garment in plain-colored calico—to iron out kinks in the design meant wasting less of the expensive materials that she had bought to make the final garment.
The day for showing their projects came around quickly. The students sat nervously at their assigned workbenches, their creations on the mannequins next to them. Madame explained the format of the lesson at the start. Each of them would have to give their own five-minute presentation, telling the rest of the class which historical period they had chosen, before explaining the style and materials they had selected for their ball gowns.
Caitlin couldn’t help feeling disheartened as Madame began to work her way around the room. She seemed so unimpressed with everyone’s efforts. Even the usual stars weren’t faring well. Hong Kong–born Kuan Tsang had produced a fitted mandarin dress in black shantung silk, with a red dragon motif, reminiscent of 1920s Shanghai socialites—it was dismissed as cheap and tacky. Brooke’s antebellum gown, complete with hoop skirt and parasol, was labeled “more fancy dress than elegant party.”
“Dismal, poor, penible!”, declared the teacher to a disheartened class.
Caitlin was last to present her piece. Standing back, she steeled herself for the inevitable decimation by Madame. A whisper ran through the class as they studied what she had produced. Everyone turned to the teacher, waiting to hear her verdict. Madame got up, walking slowly over to Caitlin’s mannequin so she could inspect the garment more closely.
“Technically, this still needs a lot of work,” she began, “but that is not what is important here. I am not looking for a dressmaker,” she told the class. “I am ’ere to create designers.” For the first time, the cold gray eyes smiled at Caitlin. “Mademoiselle O’Dwyer, you have created something very special here. Your work has passion, individuality. And that is what I am looking for. The rest of you, take note.”
With that, she awarded an astonished Caitlin the highest mark in the class.
Madame stood looking at Caitlin’s piece for a long time after the class had departed. She still remembered Caitlin from her interview over a year ago. She had seemed like a quiet girl, but with an interesting portfolio. Her work had shown promise—and it was this same potential that Madame could see today.
There was a darkness in her work, a sense of self that seemed much more highly evolved than in the rest of the class. As she flicked through the sketchbook Caitlin had submitted, which showed the evolution in her thoughts to the final piece, the woman could see exactly where she had sourced her ideas. The dress was pure Gothic romance, conjuring up images of blood-red lip, and ghostly skin. There was also an impressive attention to detail, since with the leftover material Caitlin had made a choker to match—four inches of aged black lace with a draping of jet chains to create an effect like a spider’s web. It was all in keeping with the British Victorian era. But despite the influence from a historical period, there was also something so very contemporary about what the girl had done. It was, in a word, impeccable.
16
_________
Elizabeth’s final term at Cambridge passed quickly. She worked hard toward her exams, and when the economics finals results were posted at the Senate House, no one was surprised to see that she had graduated magna cum laude.
After indulging in the garden parties and college balls of May Week�
��confusingly held in June—Elizabeth flew to Italy, where she spent the summer attending an art history course in Florence. By the time she returned to London in late August, she was already looking forward to moving on to her next challenge, the one that was closest to her heart: going to work at Melville. Although she could have lived with her father in Eaton Square, she decided instead to rent her own place, as she’d always valued her freedom. She found a top-floor flat in a beautiful Georgian townhouse in Mayfair, a few streets from her grandmother and within walking distance of the head office.
On her first day at Melville, she was up and ready to go by seven-thirty. She emerged from her flat into the bright morning sunshine. This early, there was still a chill in the air, but she could tell it was going to be another beautiful September day.
As she passed Purdey & Sons, the nineteenth-century gunmakers on South Audley Street, she checked her reflection in the shop window. In her classic charcoal gray suit, a neat leather briefcase in her hand, she looked the consummate professional. She had made a special effort to look businesslike today, hoping people would see beyond her age and pretty face. Her blonde hair was cut into a sensible bob, and she’d kept makeup to a minimum.
It didn’t take long to reach Old Bond Street. She passed the shopfront and then turned down the little alley that led onto Albemarle Street, where the entrance to Melville’s head office was situated. Like all the other buildings, it had once been a grand residence. Now, the interior had been sympathetically refurbished inside to high modern standards disguised in old-fashioned charm. Elizabeth input the security code, and the front door clicked open. Feeling a moment of exhilaration, she stepped inside.
In keeping with the essence of Melville, the reception area was all understated elegance, muted colors, thick carpets, fresh flowers. The receptionist knew Elizabeth by sight. She greeted her with a big, fake smile.
“Your father said to go straight on up, Miss Melville.”
Elizabeth took the lift up to the sixth floor, where all the directors’ offices were situated. On the way, she fussed with her appearance. She smoothed down her suit, checked that her makeup and hair were in order. Ridiculously, she felt nervous. There was so much to prove. She’d spent her whole life expecting to run Melville one day. What if she turned out to be bad at it? Elizabeth Melville, who’d never had a moment’s self-doubt, was suddenly terrified.
If she had been hoping for words of encouragement from her father, she was to be sorely disappointed. As soon as she got to his office, he started in on a lecture about how she would be treated like every other employee and shouldn’t expect special favors just because she was his daughter.
“I’ve decided to start you off in the strategy department,” William told her. “It’s the heart of the business, and you’ll learn a lot there. I’ve got a new guy heading up the team. Very smart, very good. In fact, I think you might have met him . . .” A knock on the door stopped him from finishing the sentence. “Ah, impeccable timing. That must be him now.”
Elizabeth guessed who her new boss was going to be a split second before the door opened. Her heart sank as Cole Greenway stepped into the room. She thought back to the last time she’d seen him, during that weekend at Aldringham, nearly six months ago now. She remembered ruining his jeans and acting like a bitch and hoped he didn’t. From the cold smile he gave her, it was apparent he did.
“Hello again, Elizabeth,” he said, in case she was in any doubt. He was just as she remembered: almost threateningly large, with those arrogant dark eyes. To her shame, Elizabeth looked away first.
If William noticed any tension, he didn’t show it.
“Good,” he said. “Well, I’ll look forward to hearing Cole’s report on your progress, my dear.”
With that, they were both dismissed.
Cole didn’t bother holding the door open for her as they left the room. He was off down the corridor, his long legs covering the space quickly. Elizabeth had to run a little to keep up with him. They waited in silence for the lift to arrive. When they got in, he pressed the button for the fifth floor. As soon as the doors closed, she tried breaking the ice.
“I’ve heard great things about you from Daddy,” she said brightly. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
He gave her a cool look. “For me,” he corrected.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ll be working for me, not with me.” He said the words slowly and deliberately, as though he was speaking to a child. “There’s a big difference.”
The lift doors opened and he stepped out. She took a deep breath. Right: if that’s how he wanted to play it, then she would just have to go along with him—for the moment, anyway.
With the exception of Cole, who had his own state-of-the-art office, the Strategy Department was open-plan, with big windows overlooking the bustling street below. It turned out Elizabeth wouldn’t be sitting with the rest of the team.
“There’s no desk space at the moment,” Cole explained, as he showed her into a small, windowless room at the far end of the office. “Hopefully in a few weeks’ time we’ll be able to find you something more suitable.”
Elizabeth looked around in dismay. It was little more than a broom closet, with a desk hastily shoved in the corner, facing a blank wall. The only light was from a single bare bulb hanging in the middle of the room.
“So waddya think?” Cole asked cheerfully.
His dark eyes dared her to complain. Somehow she swallowed down her objections. If this was a test, she was determined to pass with flying colors.
“It’s fine, thanks,” she managed.
He gave a faint smile. “Good. Well, get settled in. Someone will be along to tell you what to get started on.”
After Cole left, she did as he said. She switched on her computer. She familiarized herself with the phone. And then she waited.
After an hour, she was given her first task. A thirty-something, hard-faced brunette came in and dumped a box of magazines on Elizabeth’s desk. She introduced herself as Kathleen McDonnell, Cole’s second-in-command. Kathleen had a strong Scottish accent—she was from good working-class stock—and a chip on her shoulder concerning anyone she felt had gotten ahead in the world through nepotism rather than merit. Without any prompting, she ran through her CV, clearly wanting Elizabeth to know how much she deserved her job. Apparently, she had spent the past decade working in marketing, mainly blue chips. Elizabeth thought uncharitably that it looked more like two decades, judging from the lines on her forehead.
After Kathleen finished her spiel, she told Elizabeth what she wanted her to do: go through the pages of every magazine and put a Post-it note wherever there was a mention of Melville or one of its competitors. Elizabeth was mentally calculating how many days that would take, when new faces started barging through the door, carrying more boxes with them. She looked on in dismay as Kathleen’s assistants brought in another eight boxes, filled with magazines going back ten years.
“Why does this need to be done?” Elizabeth asked finally.
“To compare changes in our advertising strategy.” The answer was sufficiently vague not to invite any further questions.
“But it’s going to take forever . . .”
Kathleen shrugged and started to leave the room, before turning back to twist the knife in one last time.
“Oh, and before you get started, could you go around the office and take everyone’s coffee orders? No one drinks that shit in the machines, so we get the junior staff member to pop out at eleven and three for everyone.”
Elizabeth stared at her in disbelief.
“You don’t have to pay for it,” Kathleen assured her. “There’s a kitty in the kitchen.”
As though money was the problem!
“I’m not getting anyone’s coffee,” Elizabeth said flatly.
Kathleen looked peeved. “Don’t get on my case. Look, if you have a problem with any of this, take it up with Cole.” With that, she walked out.
Take it up with Cole, Elizabeth repeated to herself. It was obviously the party line that everyone had been told to trot out.
“Fine,” Elizabeth told the empty room. “I will.”
Cole wasn’t surprised to see Elizabeth stalking down the corridor toward his office. He’d wondered how long it would take her to complain. Well, she could go right ahead and moan all she liked. She wasn’t going to get any help out of him. He’d been furious this morning when William Melville had called to say that his eldest daughter was coming to work in the strategy department. For six months, minimum.
Cole had been characteristically blunt.
“What the fuck do you expect me to do with her, William? We don’t have time to babysit.”
William had laughed. Cole was one of the few people whom he allowed to speak to him that way. Mostly because he didn’t want to lose the brilliant man who was such an asset to his organization.
“Elizabeth is a very bright girl, Cole,” he said mildly. “She won’t need babysitting, as you call it. In fact, I think she’ll surprise you.”
Cole had snorted. He sincerely doubted that.
But, as usual, William Melville had gotten his way. Sometimes Cole still couldn’t quite work out how he’d ended up working at Melville. After that weekend at Aldringham, he’d gotten a call from William, inviting him for lunch. He’d gone out of curiosity, nothing more. Having spent a decade in a big, cutting-edge U.S. investment bank, a sleepy English luxury goods company held no interest for him.
But William had been persuasive. To Cole’s surprise, the package offered had far exceeded what he was already making. But it was the job itself that had been the clincher for Cole. Melville was facing a difficult period, William had confessed to him. For the first time in years, sales were declining. The company needed a shakeup, but William wasn’t sure where. He wanted Cole to tell him. As head of the newly formed strategy department, he would have full autonomy for hiring whoever he wanted and for choosing whatever projects he saw fit. Cole was sold.
