by Sandra Cunha
I had no designs.
So I stayed up late, sketching. I’ve finished up a few more this morning.
When she arrives, she’s wearing her tailored, dark grey pantsuit (again) and has two Starbucks coffee cups in her hands.
“I thought we could use these to get us going,” she says, smiling as she hands me one of the cups. “Lactose-free milk, right?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, surprised she remembered. I take a sip. The effects are immediate.
I lead her into the dining room, where I’ve placed the sketches all around the table.
She looks them over, taking in each one separately, as though she’s at an art gallery. Occasionally, she points to a design and says, “Very nice.”
I’ve never had someone scrutinize my designs before. I’m not sure I can handle the criticism.
“I haven’t had a chance to name the dresses, yet,” I say nervously.
“Mm-hmm.”
She circles the table again.
And again.
I can’t take it anymore. “So? What do you think?”
“They’re great, but—”
“But, what? But, what? Please, just tell me!” I knew it. My designs suck.
“Relax, Erin. I like what you’ve done; incorporating pockets into a lot of the designs is smart. It seems to be what women want. But is there any way to make the dresses . . . sexier?”
“Sexier?”
“Yes, for example, with this dress,” she says, pointing to one of my designs. “Maybe take up the hem to mid-thigh. And this one—this one would look amazing with a lower neckline.”
“My dresses aren’t meant to be overtly sexy. I want classic designs that women can wear for years, not something that goes in-and-out of fashion. It’s Lady Bettencourt for a reason.”
“Well, sex sells. But you’re the designer, you get the final call.”
Maybe I could shorten a few of the hemlines. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll get you a list of the hot colours for next spring so you can be on the lookout for similar colours at the thrift store.” She sees the face I’m making. “Or you can just go with classic colours.” Vanessa looks at all the designs again, and then asks, “Where’s The Rachel? I mean, The Rosie?”
“I’m not sure I want to have an evening gown in the line-up. They’re a lot of work to make.”
“It’d be a great way to cap-off the end of the show. Plus, the audience will be expecting to see it.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Just think about it, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, even though I already have enough to think about.
My chest tightens. I need my paper bag.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Days to wedding / fashion show: 25
GLORIA AND I have decided she’ll focus on fulfilling existing and new orders, while I mainly focus on the fashion show, Betty’s wedding, and the business side of things.
I wasn’t sure how to pay her, so I said she’d get a certain amount for each dress completed. She already finished one in the time she was at the condo. She’s much faster than I am.
And here’s the amazing part: she has a serger. (That’s a fancy sewing machine for finishing garments.)
This is taking my dresses to a whole new, professional level. I’ve wanted to buy a serger for a while, but they’re expensive. Gloria’s teaching me how to use it. She’s left it at the condo, so it’s here if either one of us needs it. She’ll be working with me at the condo, for the most part. She said it’s lonely at home now that her kids have moved out.
When she saw my mom’s sewing machine, she gently caressed it and got teary-eyed again.
I’ve been having flashbacks of Gloria spending time at our old place when I was growing up. It’s funny how things like that can hide in the recesses of your mind, only resurfacing themselves as needed.
When Betty came home from work that evening, she recognized Gloria right away, even though I hadn’t had the chance to tell her about our reunion.
We all chatted for a bit while enjoying some yummy custard tarts Gloria brought us, and then, as she was leaving, Betty invited her to the wedding.
So now I have to keep the date of the fashion show a secret from Gloria, too.
“Hey, Erin?”
“Yeah?”
Betty and I are sitting on the couch, watching television. She’s working on the seating arrangement for the wedding, and I’m deconstructing secondhand clothes with my friend, the seam ripper.
“Do you think I could have my final dress fitting on Sunday when I get back from Chicago? I don’t want to leave it to the last minute, given everything else you have going on.”
“Um, sure. No problem.”
There is a problem.
Her dress is only half-finished. I’d forgotten all about it. I count the days on my fingers. Five. I have five days to get it into final dress-fitting state. If I had nothing else to do, this wouldn’t be a problem, but I do.
“Did you ask Lizzie to come to the wedding, yet?” Betty asks.
Something else I’ve forgotten to do.
“Um, no. But I told her I’d drop by the vintage shop on Saturday for a bit. I’ll ask her then.”
Okay, make that four-and-a-half days to get the wedding dress ready. Maybe I should tell Lizzie I can’t come. But I haven’t seen her in a while; I miss her.
I met Lizzie two years ago. She works at the vintage shop where my mom’s Chanel 2.55 bag turned up after so many years. (Betty still thinks it wasn’t our mom’s bag, nor that the universe had a hand in my finding it again. I strongly disagree on both counts.) Lizzie would keep me updated on whether someone had bought the bag while I tried to earn the money to buy it myself. I did get to buy it, but then, I lost it.
Lizzie is like a guardian angel to me—the living kind. And she shares the same name as my mom. (See? It’s totally the universe working its magic.)
Speaking of names, I ask, “Have you decided what you’re going to do about your last name, yet?”
“No. I sometimes think that’s why I’ve waited so long to marry Matt.”
Matt’s last name is Getty, which would make her, Betty Getty.
“You could start going by Beatrice.”
“Never.”
“How are your other wedding plans coming along?” I’ve been so focused on myself that I haven’t thought to ask her lately.
“Great! My list is almost all checked off,” she says, showing me a printed spreadsheet with a bunch of check marks on it. Betty’s so organized.
“Sorry I haven’t been able to help you more.”
“Don’t worry about it, Erin. It hasn’t been that hard to organize. That’s the best part of having a small wedding. All I need is for you to show up. Oh, and finish my dress, obviously.”
Obviously.
When Betty is safely asleep in her room, I begin my search.
I check every conceivable location Betty’s half-made wedding dress could be. I need to find it; it’s irreplaceable.
Betty asked me to incorporate the dress she wore to prom with Matt and one of our mom’s old dresses into her wedding design. Both of which are a light grey. She’s going a less traditional route with her dress colour, although the design itself is classic. It’s actually The Rosie but with added lace flourishes.
I search the condo three times, which isn’t easy given all the secondhand fabrics and other half-finished dresses, laying around. I have to go through each piece to make sure Betty’s dress isn’t hiding in them. I even looked under my bed.
But I can’t find it anywhere.
Shit! Where could it be?
I need to find the dress before Sunday.
And before Betty does.
CHAPTER NINE
Days to wedding / fashion show: 21
IT’S BEEN FOUR DAYS, and I still haven’t found Betty’s wedding dress. I even searched her room from top-to-bottom while she was at work. I need a Plan B. Time is running
out: her fitting is tomorrow night.
But right now, what I need the most is a break.
A break from cutting materials, sewing dresses, and packaging orders. A break from designing dresses for spring when the leaves outside are just beginning to change colour. But most of all, I need a break from the condo. I’ve been couped up for days.
So I’m on my way to visit Lizzie at the vintage shop in Yorkville: a little hamlet in the big city. A rich hamlet with designer and luxury goods, which means the vintage shop isn’t filled with old housewife dresses from the 1950s. Instead, it’s filled with vintage Dior, Yves Saint Laurent, and, of course, Chanel.
I used to be afraid to drop-in to visit Lizzie because I wanted to avoid the mean salesgirl she worked with. But the mean salesgirl (and her hot-pink lipstick mouth) finally got fired a few months ago for being rude to the wrong customer. I guess some customers are worth more than others.
Whenever I do come here, I’m reminded of the first time I realized this place existed.
I was walking around Yorkville, playing this game (long story), when I noticed a flash in the distance. The flash came from the sun reflecting off the clasp of my mom’s vintage Chanel bag in the shop window’s display. Finding that bag again, after so many years, started a chain of events that’s led me back here today.
Even though I don’t have the bag anymore, I made a friend in exchange. (But Lizzie knows that if a medium, navy, vintage Chanel 2.55 bag ever finds its way into the shop again, she is to call me immediately. While I know it’s only a silly bag, a part of me still wants it back.)
I walk inside the shop and look around for Lizzie. She’s finishing up with a customer at the sales counter.
“Erin!” she says when she sees me. She comes around the counter to give me a big hug. Lizzie gives the best hugs.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been here in a while. Things have been crazy,” I say, holding her tightly.
“Well, aren’t you a bundle of nerves?” She releases her grasp to look at me. “Are you all right, dear?”
I tell her about everything I have on my plate. How lucky I am to have Gloria helping me, but it still seems like too much to handle. How I’m having these mini-anxiety attacks and a hard time sleeping. I also want to tell her how I’m having my first-ever fashion show on the same day as Betty’s wedding, but I’m not sure how she would react. I need Lizzie in my life. I need her to think I’m a good person.
“Oh, dear. That does sound overwhelming,” she says. “But I know just the thing.” She goes back to the sales counter and writes something down on a piece of paper.
“What’s this?” I ask when she hands it to me.
“It’s a calming tea—soothes the nerves. Drink it before bed, too. It will help you sleep. You can pick some up around the corner at Whole Foods.”
“Thank you, Lizzie. You always know just what I need.” I smile at her. “Oh, yeah! I have something for you, too.” I reach into my purse and give Lizzie the invitation to Betty’s wedding. “We both hope you can make it. You’re kind of my date.”
She opens the purple envelope containing the simple, but elegant, silver invitation inside.
“October 17th. I just so happen to be free,” she says. “Wait a moment . . . isn’t that the same day as your fashion show? Wasn’t that what they said on that television program?”
I didn’t know she’d seen it. I’d meant to call her, but then, I’d forgotten with all the commotion.
“Um, that was a mix-up. The fashion show is being rescheduled.”
Lizzie looks at me for a while before saying, “Well, at least, that’s one less thing for you to be worried about right now. By the way, you were great on the show. A real pro!”
More like a real fraud.
There was a time when Whole Foods was a mystical place to me. A place I liked the idea of, but not a place where I would actually buy anything. Mostly, I thought it was too expensive.
Then one day, I helped a little old lady who needed some apples (another long story) and became a semi-regular customer. And it turns out, not everything is that expensive, or, at least, not that much more expensive than what I’d pay at a conventional, big-chain grocery store. Plus, the quality is so much better.
So I pick up some organic broccoli and fair-trade bananas before heading to the tea section, where I search row-upon-row of tea-after-tea until I find it.
There’s only one left. (These must be stressful times.)
As I’m reaching for the calming tea, my hand collides with someone else’s. A man’s hand. A very nice manly hand with long, squared fingers.
My eyes slowly follow the hand up to the owner’s exposed muscular-but-not-too-muscular arm, across his T-shirted broad shoulder, and finally land on his face, where a curious smile awaits me.
I know him.
I know, I know him.
But I can’t quite remember from where because he’s out of his natural environment.
“See something you like?” he says, in a deep voice and with a grin on his face.
That’s when I realize who he is: Mr. Trader.
I used to run this errand service from my old office job (that one’s a really long story) until I got caught. Mr. Trader was one of my former “Erin Girl” clients. I fetched his lunch on a daily basis for months, but then, he must have realized it was ridiculous to pay that much to have someone get your lunch, and, I guess, started getting it himself. I call him Mr. Trader (not to his face) because he’s an equity trader . . . and because I like to give people nicknames. But mostly, because I always feel weird using his real name.
“Hey, Erin, how are you?”
“Um, good,” I say, embarrassed he caught me checking him out. He does look good, though. Scruffier than I remember him but better somehow.
“You still saving the day, one errand at a time?” he asks, grinning again.
That was the tagline from my errand service. I’m surprised he remembered.
“No. Now I save it with dresses.” He gives me a funny look. I guess he missed my television debut. “You still vegan?”
“Every day, except Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
It’s my turn to give him a funny look.
He shrugs his shoulders and says, “Nobody’s perfect.”
We both look over at the tea, still waiting on the shelf.
“You have it,” he says.
“No, you have it.”
“Let’s wrestle for it.”
This is the Mr. Trader I remember. There was always a bit of harmless innuendo to our conversations.
“I’m kidding. Just take it,” he says. “I still have half-a-box.”
I thank him, but now I’m wondering why he needs calming tea. He doesn’t look stressed out. (This tea must really work.) But I probably don’t look stressed out, either, and I clearly am. It’s hard to know what goes on inside people’s minds.
“Fuck, I’m late,” he says, glancing at his watch. (He hasn’t lost his potty-mouth.) “I’m headed to a barbecue.” (Barbecued tofu?) “But I’m glad I ran into you, Erin. You look great!”
The last time he saw me, I was still sporting my “grief weight.” After my mom died, I had slowly put on a few extra pounds. I was never technically overweight, but I did look sort of . . . puffy. I’m finally starting to feel like my old self again.
Actually, that’s what’s also different about him: he’s lost weight or toned up or something.
“Thanks,” I say. “It was nice running into you, too . . . Aaron.”
And that’s why I call him Mr. Trader. Otherwise, it feels like I’m talking to myself—not that I’ve ever been guilty of doing that.
CHAPTER TEN
Days to wedding / fashion show: 20
AFTER I HAD a cup of the calming tea and a short nap, I came up with a solution to Betty’s missing dress problem. I spent all night making her a mock wedding dress by sewing together two of the tablecloths I picked up at the thrift store.
It’s an e
xact replica, including my special pockets incorporated into the design. It turned out really pretty. Maybe I could use this dress for the fashion show finale. It’s The Rosie design, after all. And it’s symbolic of my brand, as Vanessa would say. I’ll run the idea by her.
I’m finishing placing the dress on Sally, the dress form, when Betty walks in the door.
She puts down her weekend bag and says, “It’s beautiful.” But as she comes closer, she has a confused expression on her face. “These aren’t my dress materials.”
Here goes . . .
“I’ve thought about it, Betty, and I want your final wedding dress, with all the extra little details, to be a surprise. There are so few surprises in this life; we should embrace them whenever they present themselves. It’d be my special gift to you.”
“Uh, okay . . . but how do I know it’ll fit?”
“We’ll do the fitting with this dress, and I’ll make the final alterations based on that.”
“And that’ll work, even though it’s different materials?”
“The draping will be slightly off, but the fit will be the same.”
“Well, I guess, if it means that much to you to keep it a surprise. So long as this isn’t some ploy because you’ve lost my dress,” Betty says, laughing. “You are famous for losing things.”
I nervously laugh along with her. “Don’t worry, Betty. Your wedding dress is safe and sound where I last left it.”
Which is most likely the truth. I just don’t remember where that is.
“So when is the new fashion show taking place?” Betty asks. “You haven’t given me an update.”
She’s standing on top of a stool, wearing the dress and her new wedding shoes. I’m circling her, pinning the dress where it needs to be taken up or taken in. Luckily, I made the dress extra long, so it should work for the runway model when I unpin it, if I decide to use it for the show.
“Um, we haven’t picked a new date,” I say. “We’re looking for a venue first.” It’s easier to lie when I’m looking at her feet.
