by Melissa Ford
That feeling of all-day giddiness faded after a while, becoming a shorter and shorter entity until it diminished into a fluttery feeling when he locked the bedroom door or kissed my neck, a feeling that was drowned out by all the other competing thoughts in my head. But every once in a while, I am able to recapture that first night when we had figuratively laid down the sand for our private island, separating ourselves off from his sister and my best friend with our secret, able to feel the same soft internal moan captured on Rita Hayworth’s face as she threw off her dressing down and stepped into the shower, that satisfied stretch and fold into the water, like a cat finding a warm space to curl up.
And tonight was one of those nights.
I roll onto my back, and Ethan follows, bringing a knee on either side of my hips as he hovers over me, pulling off his own shirt first and then working mine over my head, taking a few moments to allow his fingers to traverse the skin from my neck to navel, pausing on the soft arch of my breast and then outlining the skin beneath as if he is drawing an invisible smile. He bends over, hungrily leaving a trail of kisses down my stomach until he comes to the top of my panties and peels them back with his teeth, his fingers hooking on either side and dragging them down my legs. I bend my knees to help him, and he licks the caps, a soft swirl of his tongue against skin, and I fold upward, wrapping my hands around his neck to bring his face to mine while he fumbles with his boxers, tossing them over the side of the bed to join the rest of our clothes on the floor.
“Wait, wait,” he tells me, taking a condom out of the drawer, and I pause for him to slip it on even though the act feels laughable. It took my doctor years to get me pregnant with Beckett, trying everything from low-tech Clomid to seven—yes, seven!—IVF transfers. Even once he got me pregnant, there were two early losses until we tried daily Lovenox injections to keep my blood free of clots that could potentially clog the umbilical cord. And even then, we don’t know if it was the medication that worked or simply chance that Beckett is now here despite an early birth and long NICU stay. If it took all of that work to create a child, I highly doubt that we need birth control now, but I allow Ethan to put on the condom out of habit.
He eases into me and my body clenches deliciously, a Rita Hayworth smile on my lips as I tilt my head back and close my eyes, and he touches his lips to my ear and says, “though the day you’re ready to try, say the word and we can ditch them.”
Ethan doesn’t see my eyes fly open, my body tense underneath him, and it isn’t because I’m climbing toward some miracle, instantaneous climax. What does he mean “ready to try”? And what exactly are we then going to ditch? Does he think we’re going to have a baby together? All the words dry up in my throat like leathery discarded potato peels, almost choking me, as I watch my boyfriend’s face become slack with bliss as he finds his rhythm.
“Ar—ee—on—aaah,” he moans out my name in four drawn-out syllables. I try to return to the moment, to catch back up to where he is, but I’m too far behind, my mind too far out of the moment, and he finishes with a few shudders while I try to shake an image of me in my tiny apartment, filled with babies I now need to care for, my career long abandoned. Another baby would mean pushing off starting my own design house for at least another two years, if not more. How would we even pay for another child with Ethan’s paltry part-time salary? I would have to take on hours of extra work; I’d never sleep. I start sweating against the sheets even though it is cool in the apartment.
“Mmmm, let me finish you,” Ethan says, pulling out carefully, but I put on my best automatic smile and curl onto my side, trying to conjure a purr. “I don’t think I’m going to orgasm tonight, but that felt really, really good.”
“Are you sure?” Ethan asks without conviction, his entire body postcoitally languid down to his fingers, which are lying partially curled like spiders on their backs.
“Absolutely. I’m spent,” I lie, and let out a feigned contented yawn and stretch. Ethan doesn’t question it or even notice my knitted brow.
“Let me just clean up and we can go to bed,” he says, rolling away from me into a standing position. I listen to him close the bathroom door, and then slide out of bed to get dressed again. The empty condom wrapper is on the floor, and I pick it up, turning it over a few times before I crumble it, shuddering, and throw it in the trash bin.
I WOULDN’T CALL it lucky that I have Ethan’s words to distract me while I’m waiting to meet with Francesca with the drawings. My brain can’t stop playing mental future home movies where I’m commuting into Manhattan from a nondescript neighborhood in Queens, looking worn out from caring for both kids and working full-time while Ethan breezes through life. Don’t get me wrong; he’s wonderful with Beckett, but he’s not exactly what I’d call reliable nor does he step in and do any real parenting beyond keeping him entertained while I get a few sketches done. Not that he should: Beckett is mine. He’s great at occupying Beckett while he simultaneously watches a baseball game, but that stops short of being the sort of parenting that I’d need from a partner if kids outnumbered me. And anyway, I don’t have the wherewithal to go through IVF again. I don’t have the money, I don’t have the emotional reserves, and I certainly don’t have the time to spend every morning at the clinic. Ethan is brilliant, so I sometimes have a hard time understanding how he can’t see the facts clearly in front of us: we have a good thing happening right now. We shouldn’t do anything that could potentially mess that up.
Francesca finishes her drape with Tabitha and steps away from the form, beckoning me to join her in the little office. I squeeze into the chair wedged underneath a shelf holding current ordering catalogs while Francesca folds herself gracefully onto the arm of the much nicer chair Mr. Howe donated when he redecorated his office. She looks as if she’s ready to spring up like a waiting jack-in-the-box. She takes my drawings and starts flipping through them, making a few noncommittal noises similar to the ones that escape her throat when she’s looking at bolts of fabric that she ultimately rejects. My heart sinks as I lean forward to look at the drawings with her, trying to see them through her eyes.
“I like this one very much,” Francesca says, bouncing a pencil against a buttery yellow column gown that I imagined on a writer named Bee whose long hair could be swept into a loose chignon, displaying the delicate straps I studded with tiny rhinestones to discreetly pick up and reflect the stage lights. “It has an old-Hollywood feel to it, no?”
“I’m definitely influenced by old movies,” I admit. “I love the glamour of that era.”
“And this is interesting,” Francesca continues, flipping back to a dark red floor-length gown with a slightly darker sash that wraps around the waist and then trails along the floor, giving the dress an artfully disheveled look. “It’s bold. It’s the only piece that comes close to capturing the feel of Davis & Howe.”
I flinch from her criticism and lean back in my chair. There’s no need to look over the top of the sketchpad.
“Arianna, why does someone buy a Davis & Howe dress?”
I bite my tongue from saying that some people enjoy spending extraordinary amounts of money on clothing. Francesca doesn’t wait for an answer. “People buy a Davis & Howe because they tap into something elemental, something so basic that it is like . . . oxygen. You don’t even realize how much you need it until someone draws your attention to it.”
This, of course, makes no sense, but I don’t point that out to Francesca. Her Milanese accent becomes more pronounced as she praises Arthur Davis and Nigel Howe’s brilliance. “They translate the world into clothing. They capture the air through their choice in fabrics. We can see the waves of the ocean in the movements of a dress. A Davis & Howe dress transforms and explains the woman. It brings a woman back to all the basic elements, and at the same time, it redefines what it means to be a woman.”
I nod, even though it’s a meaningless jumble of words. I have no c
lue what Francesca wants. All I know is that all the work I did yesterday is useless, and that thought makes me feel very tired all of a sudden. I have a deep longing to crawl back into bed and start this day over. It takes all my energy not to let my head fall into my lap and start crying.
“I’m not trying to be cruel, but this is business, Arianna. You need to bring your best work. Why don’t you take a few days to think about this, and then I want to see something elemental.”
Elemental? Is that even a real word? Does it mean what she thinks it means? Francesca stands up and hands me my sketchpad. I tuck it under my arm and follow her back into the sample room.
“I’m just running out for a moment. When I get back, I’m going to be working on those fabric button samples you wanted.” I try to keep my voice even. I drop off my sketchpad and retrieve my purse, giving a terse smile to Tabitha to indicate that everything is fine, but I don’t want company. She goes back to carefully taking apart a seam, and I exit the loft, taking the stairs two at a time even though I’m wearing heels.
The July heat hits me in the face like a slap, shaking my hurt feelings like an earthquake. I bite the lipstick off my lower lip to keep the tears firmly in my eyes and walk down the block to calm down, taking right turns until I’m back where I started. I’m still upset so I do a second lap, barely noticing the storefronts or other people on the sidewalk. I’m considering a third turn, except my feet are starting to hurt so I shuffle into a bodega to buy a Diet Coke before going upstairs. I’m calm until I think about it again. I don’t know how I’m going to work in the same room as Francesca for the next few hours and not end up crying.
What the hell does she want? Enormous skirts reminiscent of grey boulders from the Rocky Mountains? Earth-tone gowns with twig bodices? I don’t even know what elemental means, much less how to deliver it in fabric form.
My phone dings to let me know I have a text message, and I look down at the screen.
How are the suits going?
I look at the number, confused. It’s not one I recognize, though it’s a local area code. Nigel Howe has never texted me before, and surely he’d ask Francesca how things are unfolding instead of coming directly to me. He could even swing through the sample room if he wanted to talk to me. Unless that’s exactly what he’s done and he’s pissed off that I’m taking a break when they need those buttons and he’s now going to tell me to hurry back. It’s going fine, I write back and then turn the sound off on my phone so it will vibrate if he writes again since it’s a miracle that I heard my phone in the first place over the noise in the shop.
As I give the cashier my money, it suddenly occurs to me that I could be speaking with David Lear. As in the David Lear. David Lear maybe just sent a text message to my cell phone. I take the phone out of my pocket and stare at it in amazement, and like magic, it answers me, spitting out another message as the phone buzzes in my hand.
It’s Noah, by the way. You gave me your number at Volt. We’re filming in a restaurant right now, and I’m waiting for the light crew to finish setting up.
I go from excited back to confused so quickly that it feels as if I left my brain back inside the bodega. Why is Noah writing me? I rest the soda can on top of a newspaper kiosk and type back to him.
That’s cool. What is the sketch about?
It takes a moment for my phone to buzz.
It’s a piece skewering reality television and the wasting of food on cooking tournament shows. It’s a mock elimination cooking show called That Bites!
I snicker and open the soda can, glancing down the street to the loft. I can take another two minutes.
You should see the kitchen, he writes. Pyrotechnics is setting up a kitchen fire.
Sounds exciting.
My phone is still for so long that I fear that I’m never going to find out the point of why he’s writing.
Flames just shot two feet into the air. I’m going to write fire into every sketch from now on.
It’s good to have goals.
I feel awkward standing on the street, texting with this stranger for no reason. I’m about to slip my phone into my pocket and head back upstairs to work when my phone buzzes one more time. Watch the sketch tonight. You’re the inspiration for the Fremdschämen joke.
I freeze, unsure of how to respond. On one hand, I’m flattered. I mean, it’s not every day that someone writes a private joke you shared into the script of an extremely popular television show. And on the other hand, I am instantly uncomfortable. It was a private joke from a moment that I’m still unsure about in terms of appropriateness. I believe Ethan when he says he wasn’t bothered by it, and certainly nothing happened on my end, but when I think about the tables being turned, how I’d feel if it had been Ethan who had come home after having coffee with someone like gorgeous, long-haired Bee on the Nightly staff, I know that there is something off about the whole thing despite what I told Rachel.
I stare at the word fire on the screen. That’s exactly what my normally fair complexion feels like at the moment between the summer heat and my embarrassment. I rest my hand on my cheek, a caricature of the 1950s damsel in distress, a thought bubble of “oh no” bobbing over my head.
As I try to think up what to say back, my eye keeps getting drawn back to the word fire. I nudge Noah out of my brain for a second, hoping divine inspiration will bring me a decent response if I don’t think about it too much. Isn’t fire one of the four elements? What if I went with a fire theme on stage, pulling in the range of colors contained in a flame, choosing fabrics that flicker with movement? An idea starts forming in my head, getting me excited to get back up to the sample room so I can whip through the buttons and get back to drawing.
Sounds funny, I tell him. Promise I’ll watch. Inspiration can come in the strangest of places.
I jog back up the steps to the loft feeling considerably lighter, or really, as if someone has lit a fire under me and I finally have a clear way of pulling this off.
Chapter Five
“I SAW IT,” TABITHA informs me as she reinforces a seam. A model stands nearby, reading something on her cell phone in only her undergarments. While we’d never talk about anything of substance in front of Francesca, neither of us think twice about talking in front of the models who ignore us as much as we ignore them in the lead-up to Fashion Week. Sure, there have been times when Davis & Howe has employed some hot, new model who is so grateful to be working that she wants to chitchat through every fitting, but usually Nigel Howe prefers to hire well-seasoned models that return time and again to our runway. And those girls don’t care what two samplehands are gossiping about unless we have some dirt on a celebrity or a rival model.
Tabitha doesn’t need to elaborate. I know that she’s talking about the Nightly sketch for their fake reality television cooking show that aired on last night’s episode. I told Tabitha about Noah’s text messages when she asked me why it had taken me so long to grab a Diet Coke from the bodega. I didn’t want to admit to my walk around the block or how upset I was about Francesca’s criticism, and I was still being truthful. Answering Noah’s texts did slow me down.
“I missed it,” I admit. I stayed up in the living room working on the new sketches while Ethan went to bed and forgot it was going to be on television.
“You have to go see it,” Tabitha insists. “I’m sure it’s online. It was hysterical.” She hands the skirt back to the samplehand, who helps the model step into the outfit without catching her heel on the delicate lining. “I loved the food fight. And when Justin Timberlake turned around and said, ‘can you pass the salt?’ Just go watch it. It’s only a few minutes long.”
“Are you guys talking about that sketch on the Nightly last night?” the model asks. “It was so fucking funny that I almost died. Fuck the pepper!”
We both stare at the model, who is examining herself in the mirror while
the samplehand tugs and adjusts the top so he can have it perfect before he drags Francesca over to pin any changes she wants before we move on to the next piece. I’ve seen this girl before, a vacant-looking brunette whose name mysteriously changed from Courtney to Kourtnee between two seasons. She looks at my reflection in her mirror, but I’m watching Tabitha, who’s checking the clipboard.
“Arianna’s friend wrote that,” Tabitha tells her.
“He’s not my friend,” I admonish. “I barely know him.”
“Davis & Howe is doing the Nightly’s Emmy outfits, and Arianna is helping with that project,” Tabitha gossips even though that sort of news is supposed to be confined to the red carpet. We didn’t sign a confidentiality agreement this time, but we all know that we’re supposed to keep things discreet. I look over to see if Francesca heard Tabitha, but she’s deep in conversation with a samplehand on the other side of the room.
But really I’m more annoyed that Tabitha has reduced my role to helper. I’m designing the outfits, and I’m head patternmaker on this project. I have people helping me, not the other way around. I hold my tongue instead of correcting her because I don’t want Francesca to walk into this conversation, and there’s no way to say it that doesn’t make me look petty and Tabitha look jealous. Instead, I silently seethe while I work.
I’m sufficiently curious how Noah managed to work Fremdschämen into a cooking sketch. I wait until I finish hand stitching one side of a dark orange two-way riri zipper into place on the front of a cardigan before I excuse myself to take a break. I walk out to the building stairwell and sit on the top step, taking my phone out of my pocket. I Google “that bites” and it immediately pops up as a story on a celebrity news site.
