CHAPTER 13
Get your flip-flops (well, for you bitches I would say it’s more like platform espadrilles) and your Bain De Soleil. Resort wear shows are right around the corner, and your mama is hearing great things about this season’s collections. Marc Jacobs is said to have been inspired by the 1950s pin-up girls, so expect a lot of black and a lot of one pieces. Also a little tropical birdie told us that Versace’s collection will be all about red. Well, your mama always packs her Bain de Soleil, so red is never a color she sports, you know what I mean?
Enjoy these following images your mama compiled of some of the best resort wear in the last five to ten years. Let’s hope this year’s collections bring it as fiercely as these years past. Later gators!
--April 15th “It’s just fashion, bitches” blog--
Avis was still up when I had gotten home last night, and I filled her in on the major dilemma and shared with her the advice Daniel graciously offered me after he green lit my proposal for the show.
Basically he said more about the meditation and also said to spend some time picturing in my head what it would be like to go in every day and have Marta’s job. Would the rewards be worth the sacrifice? Would I still be able to have time for the other things that were important in my life? (That would be a big no—I didn’t have time for those now!) But most importantly he said I was an extremely intelligent woman who knew what the right decision was; I just needed to listen to my intuition and stop worrying about it.
I did agree with him that I knew somewhere deep down I had already made the decision. I just needed to get quiet enough to hear what I had decided. I also agreed that I didn’t need to poll a lot of people on this to hear what they had to say. At the end of the day, the people in my life wanted the best thing for me. They could tell me what they thought I should do, but that would be looking at the situation from their perspective. I was the only one who was facing this choice and would have to live with the consequences. So as much as hearing what other people thought tended to make me feel better about my choices, I thought in this case it would confuse me even more. And I knew the more I loved my own choices, the less it mattered what others thought of them.
So I stuck with Daniel and Avis as far as advice went. Avis chimed in along the same lines as Daniel and said that I knew what was best for me; it was just a matter of me getting quiet and deciding what path I wanted to take. Avis certainly had the unique advantage of being the only person who knew about my other career and my lifelong dream to be a writer. I told her I was scared that I wouldn’t have time to do both, and that it might even be a conflict of interest to write about things I found out about at work once I became the head of the company. If I took this position, I would have to retire the blog. And it could never get out that I was the one who authored it or it might undermine my credibility with my peers. I certainly couldn’t imagine anyone sharing a confidence with me if they found out I used to be the one who blabbed everyone’s secrets for the world to read!
No matter what I decided, a part of me would be left behind. I didn’t know if I could take a chance on continuing to work for Marta and get stuck with some super-horrible boss and be miserable. I had seriously considered that if I didn’t take the job I would need to resign anyway and take a chance on this writing career by finally working on a novel. Or even talking to a local paper about a column. If I left Marta’s, I wouldn’t need to keep it a secret that I was the author of the blog. I could finally cash in on the recognition.
My master plan had been to sleep on all of this, to drift off while I was slowly reviewing the mental pros and cons list I had worked on all evening.
Alas, clarity and the Oprahesque “aha” moment did not occur before rising. I was as confused and unsure of the right move as I had been when I went to bed. So much for everything looking brighter in the morning.
I got ready and trudged into work hoping that something along the course of the day would show me beyond a shadow of a doubt which decision was the right one. Avis said I had to remember that at any point in our lives we make the best decision we can at the moment with the information we have right then. Would I ever look back on this moment and wonder why in the world did I decide to do that? Absolutely. Because the facts change over time.
I also knew that I was a maximizer, which meant I was always trying to make the better best. I didn’t waste time making okay better. What was the point? If there was something I didn’t do well, I didn’t do it. And if there was something I could do well, I wanted to do it better than anyone else. The whole concept of a well-rounded person only set someone up to fail. Everyone couldn’t be good at everything. One of the challenges with being a maximizer was that I always wanted to gather more data. And I tended not to be as happy with whatever it was I ended up deciding on because there would always be a part of me thinking I could have done it better if I had done it differently.
And I wondered why I was so crazy.
It was strange to walk into the office and try to imagine what it would be like to walk in as the boss. I was known as the person who always said “hello” to everyone; I thought people would like it if I continued to do that when I was the boss. I was also the office’s buffer between them and Marta. If Marta was upset with anyone on the team, I would break it to them gently before she pounced. Conversely when they had any concerns or questions for Marta, I was usually the one who volunteered (or in most cases elected) to take those issues to her. So what would happen if I were the boss? Would they feel like they could come to me? Or would they find someone to be the buffer between them and me?
I had no idea what would change around here if it was announced tomorrow that I was going to become the boss. I did know that I would never have any spare time left to write, and the blog would have to be retired.
I sat down at my cluttered desk and for a brief moment imagined moving into Marta’s giant palace of an office. And then I imagined my assistant sitting at the desk right outside my door. Oh, and then I imagined the sheer bliss of being able to make all creative decisions. Of course I would take into account the opinions of my team; I did that today. But to know that there was no one to veto me or to trump me…man, that was a giant addition to the pro side of the argument.
The only bright spot to this dilemma was that it kept my mind churning away and left little time for me to pay attention to the discussion my body was trying to have with me—specifically the discussion related to one Daniel Singh and his ability to incite a nuclear meltdown with just a grin and a harmless brush up against my body. When we were going over the plans yesterday evening after the dash back from the coffee shop/Hindi slip incident, he kept crowding my space as I was showing him the visuals for the show. Every time I would back away a little or step to the side to give him more room to look at everything, he would somehow position himself either glued to my side or standing slightly behind me. At one point I could literally feel his warm breath on the back of my neck and I thought my panties would burst into flames and fall as ashes around my ankles.
At least I didn’t have to worry about running into him for the next few days. The show was this weekend, and I had told him I would call him or text him with an update to my decision, but that I wouldn’t see him until the dress rehearsal on Friday. Any other time I would make up whatever excuses I needed to in order to put us together as much as possible. But with this decision looming over my head, I knew it was best that I keep some distance between us and stay focused on my future.
My calendar was clear for the day and I could really spend some time here in the office imagining how things might be different if I decided to take the job—or see if I thought I could live without it.
I opened up Excel to review and update the pros and cons list. I was sure there would be more things to add to both sides of the list by the end of day.
But…while Excel was loading, I decided to go out on the internet and do a little more research about my client. I hadn’t seen much more than his
portfolio and his last few collections when we first met, which was usually as far as I went with new clients. Daniel had piqued my curiosity, and not the professional kind. I had never tried before to research a designer’s private life. I could take just a few minutes out of my day and do a little digging; what could it hurt?
One of the advantages of knowing Avis and her posse of retired librarians was that I knew all kinds of ways to search for information. People had this perception that older librarians were behind the times and didn’t know the first thing about digital searches or online research tools. While that might be the case for some of them, the group of intrepid researchers that Avis ran around with was more technically savvy than most teenagers.
The other thing I had learned from them was if there was no information out there, it either meant no one wanted it found, or it was never there to begin with. Basically, you were searching for something that didn’t exist, so don’t be surprised when you don’t find it.
What I was surprised to not find was anything about his social life. While Daniel was still a relatively new designer, he had dressed Kareena Kapoor and Deepika Padukone, as well as the one and only Aishwarya Rai. While those names didn’t mean much to people in the US, these actresses could cause a riot in any Indian city by just stepping out of a car. There was some coverage of Daniel at a few big Bollywood parties, coverage of the after parties he attended during Lakme and Wills Lifestyle Fashion week, but not a single picture of him with anyone other than the ladies he had dressed.
Not a single word about who he was dating, who he was being seen with, or that he was gay. While homosexuality was still a little under wraps in India, it was fairly common amongst the creative, artistic types.
How did a man as handsome as Daniel and with as much publicity as he had while working in India not have one single mention of a social life? Or a regular boyfriend? Or even a rumor that he was gay? The only person other than clients that I could even find him photographed with was his mother (who, by the way, was absolutely gorgeous). All curves and long black hair in a stunning sari I’m sure Daniel designed just for her.
Either he had no social life whatsoever or he was the most stealth gay man in all of India.
I took a break in my research and glanced over my spreadsheet. One thing to add to the con sheet was that I would lose the day-to-day interaction with designers I had grown to love. Writing was pretty solitary, and as much as I liked the quiet solitude of doing it on the side, I didn’t know if I could handle the day-to-day grind of working by myself. Even if I was lucky enough to land a column, most of those were freelance, and I wouldn’t have an office to go into. I got my energy from being around people; it was one of the reasons I loved New York so much, and India for that matter. There was no word in Hindi for privacy because the concept simply didn’t exist. While, at times, that certainly got on your nerves, I loved the feeling that everyone was looking out for you.
When I lived in Delhi, I became close with my host family. Indians have a very formal social structure, so while we were close, we didn’t hug or touch in the casual Western way. I didn’t think I realized I had been there a month with no real physical contact with anyone (unless I counted the squeeze of strangers next to me on the bus, which I didn’t) until I came out of my room one evening dressed in a sari. It was my first time tying a sari, and I was determined to do it on my own. I had watched my Aunty-ji and felt sure I could duplicate the intricate pleating and folding.
She took one look at my pleats and immediately shoved her hands down my skirt and pulled them out. She muttered the whole time in Hindi; the most I caught were things like “stubborn girl,” “Americans,” “why can’t they ever ask for help,” things along those lines. I was shocked when she fixed the pleats then shoved them back down into my underwear. It was summer and no one wore a petticoat in the summer, choosing instead to tuck the sari right into their underwear. After that incident, there was never a question of my need for privacy and personal space. My Aunty-ji liked to say it was on that day I truly became an Indian.
All right, back to the pros and cons. Only it wasn’t really holding my attention. All this thinking about my home away from home made me think maybe instead of trolling around the internet I should just call some contacts in Mumbai and see what they knew about my very private client. It was 8:30 at night there; surely someone would answer their mobile.
I decided I could make one call, waste a few more minutes on this, and then I would need to get back to the business of making my monumental career decision. I called my friend Upasna. She was an assistant to the designer Payal Singhal. If anyone had heard a speck of gossip about Daniel, it would be Upasna.
I dialed her number and played around with the fonts on my spreadsheet while I was waiting for her to answer.
“Hello?”
“Namaste, meri dost! Tum kaise ho?”
“Theik hain, theik hain. Am I to understand that this is my long-lost friend from America who I have not seen in ages and doesn’t even have the time to Skype with me?”
“Guilty! And now that I’ve asked you how you are, we need to move on to more important things, like why I’ve graced you with an out-of-the-blue phone call” I absolutely adored this woman; she was the most astute observer, gave the best advice, and was always up for a shopping trip. Last time she was in the States, I introduced her to the joy of Charming Charlie’s, and she single-handedly helped to boost the US economy that day.
“By all means, please. I hope it’is to tell me you are coming back to visit, and not just to Delhi but to your poor, lonely friends down here in the South. We miss you just as much as they do!”
Her voice made me homesick for India. “I am planning to come back sometime next year; I’ll let you know when I book the ticket. I will definitely get down to Mumbai, or better yet, you can meet me in Goa and we can have a nice, relaxing beach vacation while staring at some nice, hot men. How does that sound?”
She giggled at my suggestion. “Delicious, my friend, delicious. Now what can I help you with? I have about fifteen minutes, and then I’m out the door to a fitting with a client, so spill it.”
“All right; I’m doing a little digging for information on a local boy done good. I took him on as a client here in New York, and I wanted to find out a little more about him. I’ve taken the Internet as far as it will go, so I decided to tap another source who had almost as much information.”
“What to do? People love to tell me things, and I love to remember them.” I could hear the smile in her voice and knew she was remembering some of our many conversations.
“Tell me everything you know about Daniel Singh, and not anything work related—personal.”
“Daniel Singh? That is your new client? I had heard he was dipping his toes into the Western waters, but I had no idea he had landed on your doorstep.”
Mmm, had he ever. “Yep, we’re handling his resort wear show.”
“Well, let me see. He’s Punjabi, comes from a very wealthy family, but he tries to play it off like he was middle class. Most people in Mumbai don’t care enough to find out that he was rich back in Delhi, but anyone he works with in Delhi knows his father and his reputation, and it did help him get his foot in the door, so to speak. The education in England didn’t hurt either. He made friends with a couple other designers who also came back to India and had some success. He has a very tight group of peers whom he works with; he keeps most of his shows quiet and has a select clientele of mostly rich Delhites but has recently garnered a few big Bollywood red carpets.”
Interesting. I knew I was right about him being rich. “Yeah, I saw the pictures of Kareena, Deepika, and Ash. So his family is rich? What does his father do?”
“Hmmm, I can’t remember exactly how he made his money—maybe import/export. I know they didn’t come from money, but his dad made most of it in the nineties when they opened India up to outside companies. That might be why Daniel claims middle class instead of upper class—becau
se his dad didn’t come from money but earned it in trade. You know us Indians; we can be so British at times.”
“Absolutely. Did he work out of Mumbai or Delhi? ‘Cause I didn’t see a lot about him the social pages of The Times or any of the Bollywood magazines. I figured The Times would cover him in Delhi and the rest when he was in Mumbai.”
“You know, now that you mention it, I think he spent most of his time in Delhi. He would come to Mumbai for any shows, and of course he was here for the Filmfare Awards if he was dressing one of the nominated actresses. What exactly are you trying to find out about the guy?”
“Well…he’s projecting a certain image here in New York, but there is a part of me that thinks it might be an act, but I don’t have any concrete proof—just a gut feeling.”
“My dear friend, you’re going to have be a little more specific than that. What exactly is he selling that you aren’t buying?”
“Ummm, well, I guess in a nutshell it’s…look, he’s acting like he’s gay, and I don’t know if I believe him.”
“What do you mean acting? Is he throwing men down in front of you and having his way with them?” Upasna could barely get that last part out, she was laughing so hard.
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