“Yes, yes, let me help.” I reached down to push the rest of the girdle off my hips. The only part left was a section from my hip to my navel, almost like a pair of panties, but it wouldn’t budge. I mean not at all, like it was super-glued to my skin.
“Um, Daniel, we seem to have a problem here.”
“Mmmmm, and what would that be, dear? I am finding nothing wrong with my current environment. You have the most splendid breasts, my dear.”
“Well, thank you for that, but I really feel like we need to get some scissors involved again. Mission undergarment removal seems to have stalled in regards to my…lower half.”
He raised his head and looked at me, then looked down at the super-glued fabric. “Ah, yes, that would be a problem, as I am most interested in continuing this little exploratory mission of mine to parts south. Now where did those scissors get to?”
He looked around us, felt under the pillows, rolled me over to the side, all while I was still struggling to try and wrench the fabric down my hips.
“Hmmmm, we seem to have misplaced them,” he said as he continued to pull up one pillow after another.
“You’ve got to be kidding! They were right here! What, did they sprout legs and run off?”
“You tell me; you’re the one authoring this particular fantasy. I’m simply at the mercy of your deranged imagination.”
“Deranged?” Of all the nerve! He was the craftsman and it was my fault he couldn’t get the job done? “You’re the one that stopped when the job was only half done! If you had just gotten it all cut off at once, we wouldn’t be having this argument right now!”
“Yes, you are correct; I’m sure this is all my fault. I would just like to point out, however, that if this were my fantasy, we would both have started out naked, and at this point I would already be deep inside of you,” he yelled.
Um…yes, please.
“Stop talking and start pulling or cutting or something. This can’t be happening again; it just can’t. What is wrong with me? I can’t even have fantasy sex right…I am a complete freak.”
He was responding with what I could only imagine was another smartass comment, but I couldn’t hear what he said; his mouth was moving but no words were coming out.
I woke up panting and sweating with the covers flung off the bed. And I had a death grip on my panties.
“Son of a bitch,” I moaned as I curled into a ball and tried to quiet all the various body parts that had come out to play tonight.
I was losing my mind.
CHAPTER 7
Well, my dear fashion fiends, your mama hopes you are taking a moment to catch your collective couture breaths before resort season starts up. Your mama hears many houses are opting for a full-on runway show, so don’t put those roller skates up just yet. Come May, you will be skating from one show to another all over again. Can I get a fashion hallelujah? If you are a true someone in this fashionating world, you will be sitting ringside with your mama to watch them all bring the goods. If not, keep your bat channels tuned to this blog and your mama will bring you all the latest bat updates.
--February 24th “It’s just fashion, bitches” blog--
I was trying to muddle through the backlog of emails that had piled up during the last few weeks. With the crazed pace of show after show, I relied more on text messaging and wasn’t as diligent in checking email. And now I was paying the price for it.
Ryan poked his head in my door and thankfully saved me from the drudgery of my task.
“So I heard we might be heading out today to do some preshow photo-shooting and scouting? Please say yes; I’ve been stuck in the office for the last two days organizing the storage room to Scarlett’s specifications.” Ryan plopped down in my spare chair, which for once was clean, as I had tackled everything in my office before I finally gave in and strapped myself down to answer emails.
“Why is Scarlett changing things in the storage room, and an even better question, why are you helping her?” I had thought it had been a little too quiet around here for the last few days. Ever since her arrival, Scarlett had been popping by almost daily to ask if we had any new clients (we didn’t), if there were any new write-ups about the company or our clients (there were not), or if I had some time to meet with her to discuss her new marketing strategies (I did not).
“Well, apparently she hasn’t had time to hire her own interns, and Marta told her since you had two, one of us could help her out. I drew the short straw, so Lizzie stayed with you and I had to go to Scarlett.” Ryan tried to look pathetic and sad, but the huge grin on his face ruined the whole look.
“I’m sure you were just devastated to have to run around after a sweet young thing with a rich daddy and a tight ass. It must be hell for you, poor thing. I’m sure that one day while you’re fulfilling some menial and degrading task for her, your eyes will meet and she’ll decide to chuck it all for a penniless intern with laughing blue eyes.” Ryan was a sweet kid; I wished I was the kind of woman who had no problem with cradle robbing, but alas, I preferred a man who had at least been born by the time I was reading Teen Bop Magazine, and at the ripe old age of nineteen, Ryan was just shy of that.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love to watch her bend and squat and shimmy around the storage room in those tight little skirts, but I think she’s more concerned with crawling up Marta’s ass than crawling into my bed. Although I do think that I caught her staring the other day when I forgot my belt and almost dropped trou while carrying a load of boxes into her office.”
“How classy. What boxes did she want moved into her office?” And the better question, why. Scarlett, as far as I could tell, was brought in because of the people she knew and the people her daddy knew. Those connections could keep business flowing during the down months. There were always private parties, events, local boutique shows that we were asked to do, but they were for a select few clients, and Marta was always saying that was the way to build the business. But unless Marta decided to give her a little more to do than I had first anticipated, she had no business with anything that had previously been living in the storage room.
“She wanted to see the print books for the last four years. She said that print was easier for her to examine. How anyone under the age of thirty could choose a book over a digital record is beyond me.” I didn’t think Ryan even knew where the New York Public Library was. The only thing I had ever seen him read were texts and Facebook updates.
“Did she say why?” And did she say how this was going to ruin my day, week, life, because somehow the idea of Scarlett delving into the archives of this company didn’t feel like a good thing. And it was very suspicious that she came on board at the same time Marta was out of the country for her holiday.
“Nope, I just fetch and carry. I follow directions well.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Apparently I lack the proper motivation for you; I can’t seem to recall you ever following directions. I’m so glad she has somehow reformed you. Does this mean if you’re with me today, you’ll also follow directions well? Or will you revert to the toddlerish photographer I know and love who questions every shot I ask him to get—even though he’s really not a photographer and just an intern?” I smiled sweetly.
Ryan rolled his eyes right back at me. How did I lose all authority with my staff? Oh right, I wasn’t a tyrant. “Put your claws away, Millie; what has your panties in a wad today?”
Oh, Ryan and his spot-on choice of phrases. I had been in a foul mood for the last week, since I woke up feverish and trying to shuck my own panties down to my ankles. If the overworked, anxiety-ridden side of my brain hadn’t already convinced me I needed to slow down and take a break, the sex-starved, delusional, in-lust-for-a-gay-man side put me over the top.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t seem to bounce back from fashion week like I used to, and now Marta has sprung Scarlett on all of us and I still can’t figure out exactly what her angle is or her agenda, so it’s making me grumpy and ill. And, as you
well know, my able-bodied assistant, none of us have had a minute for even a tiny piece of what might resemble a social life, so all that being said, I’m just a little on edge. Forgiven?”
“Sure, but you’re buying lunch on the way to the client’s place. Who are we shooting today?” Ryan insisted on always making guns with his hands and firing imaginary bullets at me. On a really good day, he would blow the smoke off the tips of his fingers and holster his imaginary side arms, a la John Wayne.
“We’re going to Daniel Singh’s to look over and shoot” (bang, bang) “the sample pieces that have come in for his resort collection. If we’re able to do a good job on this, I have a feeling we might also get his fall show.” Resort wear was like an appetizer. I always wanted to be the main course, and pleasing a designer and becoming their production house of choice, landing the spring and fall collections, was how we stayed in business. Parties and charity events were great, but the fashion shows were where the big money was at.
“Get your gear and I’ll meet you downstairs; we can pick a restaurant on the way.” Preferably one with no soup.
This was the first time I was going to see Daniel since my Marrakech fantasy and the tomato soup incident. I wanted to present a professional, fashionable, well-put-together woman who was not sexually frustrated. At least I had the right outfit for the job. I was wearing a power-red Michael Kors dress and black, patent-leather, peep-toe platform heels. I loved that Michael designed clothes for real-size women and he really knew how to show off curves. I felt downright sexified in this dress. Now I just had to manage to not break a heel, spill food on myself, or throw him down on his worktable and have my way with him. The odds were not in my favor, but I was nothing if not an optimist.
****
Oh my God, I was in love with this man. Not because he was sexy, not because of the British accent with just a hint of Delhi in it. No, nope, none of those reasons.
I was in love with this man because his dress forms and design ideas were based on a size-twelve woman!
While that still left me a little out in the cold fashion-wise, it was a heck of a lot closer than the size zero most designers used. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw the dress form. It was hilarious that my first thought was, My God, that thing is huge, when in actuality it was two sizes smaller than I was. But I had become so used to teeny, tiny dress forms and sample pants that wouldn’t even fit my arm that it just shocked me.
Thankfully Daniel was busy with someone in the corner, so he didn’t notice my shock-and-awe performance when we walked in. How quickly I had forgotten the cool, calm, and collected woman who was supposed to be showing up today. Country bumpkin Millie hee-hawed her way in here with her mouth hanging wide open, catching flies. But the fates were with me today, and he was too occupied to notice. Whew.
“Where do you want me to set up?” Lucky for me, Ryan was still coming in behind me with his equipment and had also missed my display. Another blessing. I best remember that I was now at my limit for the day.
“Um, why don’t you try that empty corner over there with the worktable? We can lay the clothing out flat or hang them, whichever gives us the best sense of color and proportion.” Sample photos were just for me to use for planning purposes and when discussing the show with the client, so they didn’t have to be perfectly lit, and the clothes didn’t have to be on models.
Ryan headed over to that side of the workroom, pulling his equipment trolley behind him. Daniel still had not torn himself away from his conversation to in any way greet or acknowledge us, but his discussion did give me the opportunity to study him. I was almost afraid he would be in the kurta and pajama pants from my Marrakech fantasy. It was strange to me how real those dreams felt. I knew it was impossible for him to have any memory of my dream, but for just a second, I wished he could. Maybe he could explain to me why he couldn’t ever seem to get my clothes off, or why I kept fantasizing about having sex with a gay man.
Alas, today he didn’t look nearly as exotic as he did in my dreams. Although I have to say the man could fill out a pair of jeans. This was the second time I had seen him casually dressed and in his element. His faded denims were paired with a pink button-down dress shirt worn casually with an open collar and rolled-up sleeves. On some men, pink could look effeminate, especially gay men. But on his caramel-colored skin, it looked…delectable. I was mentally licking my lips at the sight of him. Maybe it was true what they said about women who go too long without sex: They lose all sense of social boundaries. I had learned long ago there was no such thing as turning a gay man, but for some reason my head and my body were refusing to get on the same page about this one man.
I realized that at some point Daniel had finished and was now standing across the room staring at me staring at him. Wow, professional and put-together woman 0, socially inept stalker 1. I couldn’t imagine how I could possibly impress this man less, or why impressing him seemed to be important to me at all. Obviously work; I wanted him to be impressed with me professionally. Yep, that was the only reason…
He smiled and crossed the room toward me, his hands out in front, ready to pull me in for the obligatory air kiss. “Millicent, I am sorry I didn’t see you come in. I see you are sticking with your signature color?” He gently held my upper arms and air kissed both my cheeks. As he pulled back to look me over, his eyebrow cocked up and took in my red dress.
“Yes, well, I thought you might not recognize me if I wasn’t covered in something red. I know I left quite a mental impression the other day.” Why did he have to bring up the tomato soup shirt? I was trying to recreate my image here, but his teasing tone and smile were not helping me maintain my aura of professionalism.
“My dear Millie, I would recognize you if you were wearing a paper sack. Although I sincerely hope you won’t go that route, as paper bags are so last season.”
What was it about gay men and their uncanny ability to flatter and make you smile all at once? And why couldn’t they teach straight men how to do this? And while I was asking questions here, could someone please tell all my buttons that this was most assuredly not the man who would be pushing them?
“Well, flattery will get you everywhere and all that.” I looked around the workroom, which had cleared of all staff except Ryan, who was setting up in the corner. “This is a great space you have here—lots of natural light, and it’s open and airy but practical.”
“It is the complete antithesis of my workspace in India. It was cramped and dark, the power always going out and people running in and out all day. I was forever misplacing things, could never find anything: fabric, trim, buttons, even my scissors would somehow get lost in the chaos.”
Wow, that sounded eerily familiar.
“I wanted someplace here that was quiet, open, and calm, as I’m already a bundle of nerves about this collection. May I show you around a bit, or are you pressed for time and need to get started?”
Pressed…up against him. How was it that almost every other word out of his mouth I could apply to the deviant fantasy life I had playing out on one side of my brain while the other was being polite and making small talk?
“Please, the more I know about your process and your collection, the better show I can produce. I was interested to see that you have what would be described as an unusually large dress form. Are your sample sizes this large as well?”
He took my hand and curved it into the crook of his arm as he led me across the workroom to the nearest dress form. His scent enveloped me as we strolled leisurely toward the dress form. Sandalwood, spice, soap, and something uniquely Daniel.
“Unfortunately no, my sample sizes are more traditional fashion sizes. I wish I could send a collection down with size-twelve models, but I think that might be something that will come later in my career, maybe after I’m more established. I grew up making clothes for my mother and my sisters who are—how shall I put this? We are Punjabi, and Punjabi women tend to be more voluptuous, not unlike your own figur
e.” His eyes slid over my curves for just a brief moment before he smiled back at me.
“Well, I’m a little more voluptuous than the twelve. So do you still design on that form and then scale it down for the models?” Something was different about him…I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something different about Daniel.
“Yes, it is quite the opposite of a lot of designers, who create on a tiny form, then have to adjust the dimensions to fit the size of normal women.”
I loved that he referred to the curvy ones as normal and not the other way around. Everyone who worked in fashion, even me as a plus-size woman, tended to forget that there were more of us than there were of them. Every magazine had only images of the super-thin in these gorgeous works of fashion art that sometimes we forgot the overwhelming majority of women were closer to the twelve than the two. How refreshing to work with an artist who saw the beauty in the hills and valleys of the female figure. I felt very appreciated at that moment and couldn’t stop the smile from taking over my face. Professional woman was slowly losing the battle to adolescent teenage girl.
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