Lady Bettencourt

by Sandra Cunha

  Oh, my God. Is this really happening?

  “No, that can’t be right,” I say. “I told you I wasn’t interested!”

  “You never heard the offer. You didn’t even want to consider it. I couldn’t let that happen to Lady Bettencourt. I know you can’t see this now, but this is the best thing that could’ve happened to the brand.”

  “The brand? This is about me and my company—my name!”

  “No. It’s always about the brand. Always.”

  “Why would you do this? Why?” I say, holding onto the table to steady myself.

  “The fashion house needs someone to oversee and direct the brand, and with my experience, I’m the perfect candidate.”

  She’s telling me all this so calmly, like it makes complete sense.

  “So . . . I’m out?” I wipe a tear away from my cheek.

  “Don’t be silly. Here’s the best part,” she says excitedly. “We’ll still be working together! By signing the contract, you agreed to accept a lump sum payment—which I think you’ll be very happy with—as well as an equity share for the duration you remain the face of Lady Bettencourt. You’ll get to do all the fun parts, like magazine profiles and television appearances. And you’ll still have a partial say in the direction of the line, but you won’t have to worry about making the dresses anymore. It’s an amazing opportunity, especially for someone so new to the industry.”

  She’s positively beaming. She actually believes I would want this. I don’t know what to do or say. How could I have signed that contract without reading it?

  I’m such an idiot!

  But then, an image pops into my mind, and I remember something. Something I did.

  I let out a loud, crazy laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Vanessa asks.

  I can’t stop laughing; now tears are really rolling down my face.

  “Erin, stop it. Why are you laughing like that?”

  “Be-because,” I say, trying to get a hold of myself, “there’s something you don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not really left-handed.”

  “I thought you were left-handed?”

  “Okay, I am. I’ve just always wanted to say that. But there is something you really don’t know.”

  “Quit it with these silly games and get to the point.”

  “I never signed that contract. I mean, I signed it. But I didn’t sign it, sign it.”

  “Yes, you did. I have a copy right here,” she says, reaching into her tote bag and pulling it out. She looks closely at it, flipping page after page. “What the fuck? You little bitch!”

  Vanessa draws back her lips, baring her clenched teeth. I never noticed how sharp her incisors were before. Her pupils are fully dilated, and there’s a low, growling sound, coming from her throat.

  Oh, my God. She’s going to attack!

  I look down at the dining room table for a weapon.

  Shit! The scissors are closer to her side of the table. All I have are the seam ripper and Sally, the dress form, that I can use as a shield.

  We stand there, glaring at each other for a long time.

  Then, Vanessa’s whole demeanor changes, and she regains her composure. “Don’t be rash,” she says. “Now that you know about the contract and the opportunity it represents, I think you should consider it. I can get a new contract for you to sign.”

  A new contract? Phew!

  I wasn’t sure what I did would completely void the contract. I didn’t know if by signing it, in whatever manner, still made it valid. I was only trying to buy time when I thought it was for the factory in Cambodia. But her saying she has to get a new one, confirms it isn’t.

  “Although,” she continues, “this may still be valid. I’ll have to get lawyers involved.”

  Dammit! Stop thinking, Erin. She can hear you!

  But I have one more ace to play, thanks to Betty and her love of legal television dramas.

  “You could, but I’ll say I signed it under duress. Gloria will be my witness.”

  “It’ll be your words against mine.”

  “Maybe so, but how strong is the word of someone who wrongly accused her former boss of selling child pornography?”

  She looks stunned. “That-that was just a rumour. It’s not true,” she says unconvincingly.

  Thank you, Betty! Thank you, Google!

  “We’ll see, then. And we will see, Vanessa. Because there’s no way I’ll ever let you or anyone else steal my company!”

  She throws the contract at my face, but it lands in my hands, instead. “Have fun being a pattern-cutter for the rest of your life.”

  And I realize that is exactly what I want to be. Even if I never get to be in the spotlight again, this is what I was born to do, what I was meant to do. Being on television was a nice bonus, but that’s all it was, a bonus, not the main event.

  “You’re fooling yourself if you think you can change the world with some silly dresses.”

  “I’m not trying to change the world, Vanessa. I’m only trying to change myself.”

  She’s no longer looking at me. “I’ll send out a press release announcing the cancellation of the show. I can’t have my name associated with this or you anymore. You can deal with the venue and suppliers yourself. You’ll be getting my invoice.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  Vanessa stares at me coldly, then walks to the door and slams it behind her.

  I quickly lock it and put on the chain. I slide down the door until I’m seated on the floor.

  I can’t believe that just happened.

  My hands are shaking as I look down to see that I’m still holding the contract.

  I have Betty to thank for making me promise never to sign anything again without reading it. And my phone. My stupid, ancient, wonderful phone.

  Before “signing” the contract, I’d closed my eyes. That’s when I saw the jumbled text message I once sent with my name.

  My name came out as: “Err I Better Not.”

  So that’s what I signed on the contract.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I GET UP and rush over to my laptop, quickly changing the passwords to the Instagram and Pinterest accounts Vanessa setup. I can’t take the chance she’ll try to retaliate somehow by using them.

  There are photos of my dresses and information about the upcoming fashion show on both sites. I hadn’t realized I’d built up such a following. (That still sounds weird.) They should know the show is cancelled . . . but I need a photo.

  Taking some leftover tablecloth material and cutting it to create a sash, I write “cancelled” across it using a red marking pencil. I place the sash on Sally and take a photo. I have to take several more shots until I get one that isn’t blurry. I post the photo and write that the show is cancelled due to extraneous circumstances.

  Dammit! What about the Breakfast Television contest giveaway for the fashion show?

  So I call the studio and eventually get through to someone who connects me to the producer. I apologize ten thousand times, and say I’ll make a custom dress for whoever won the contest as a consolation prize.

  He says not to worry; these things happen all the time. And then, he tells me to call back when the fashion show is on again, and he’ll have me on the program.

  I can’t believe it!

  I thought you needed a publicist to handle that sort of thing.

  After thanking him profusely and telling him that I will, I hang up and start making some more calls.

  The rest of the afternoon is spent cancelling the venue and all the suppliers, and trying to get my deposits back—unsuccessfully.

  All around me are the clothing racks with the spring dresses I’d modified to Vanessa’s specifications. I grab the dresses and throw them on the hardwood floor. Then, with my seam ripper in hand, I sit down and begin to take each apart. One by one.

  The last one, at the bottom of the heap, is the mock tablecloth wedding dress I made for Betty. I hesitate
a moment, then take it apart, too.

  It was a beautiful dress, but it was made of lies.

  When I’m done, I fold the materials neatly and take them over to the bookcase where I store fabrics.

  I drop everything I’m holding on the floor.

  On one of the shelves, at the top of a pile, is Betty’s half-made wedding dress.

  That night, as I lie in my tiny room, I go over the events of the last month.

  A month! I can’t believe this all started just a month ago.

  I could say Vanessa put me into a trance from the moment I heard her hypnotic voice and looked into her riveting eyes, but the truth is, I wanted to be seduced.

  I wanted to believe everything she was telling me because it made things easier; I didn’t have to make any of the hard decisions.

  A part of me always knew she was lying. It is one of my mastered skills.

  What’s scary is how alike I now realize we are.

  We both tell people what they want to hear. We think we’re doing it for their own benefit and there’s nothing wrong with it, but really, we’re doing it for ourselves. Seeing it in someone else makes me ashamed to be like that.

  Luckily, I’ve been given another chance.

  This time, I’m going to do things right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I’M TELLING BETTY everything—after the wedding.

  There’s no point telling her before just so I can feel better.

  I spent the last four days working on Betty’s (real) wedding dress. As I was finishing it, I got that feeling again. I haven’t had it in weeks.

  Sometimes when I’m using my mom’s old sewing machine, I feel connected to her. Like I’m channeling her spirit or something.

  I know, I know. It sounds crazy. But it’s what I feel, real or not. Either way, it’s amazing that I can take something that belonged to her to create new things, to give them life.

  While I haven’t told Betty the truth, yet, I did tell her I changed my mind about her wedding dress being a surprise. I couldn’t have her walking down the aisle in a dress that didn’t fit her properly.

  That would really be unforgivable.

  I also changed my pretend hair appointment back to her stylist. She was so happy when I told her.

  Tonight, after the wedding rehearsal, we’re staying together at the Royal York Hotel, the oldest hotel in Toronto, and where the wedding is being held.

  Whenever our mom had some extra money, she would take us there for afternoon tea. It was our special place. And now it’s where Betty and I will spend our last night as the Bettencourt girls.

  I look up from my seat at the dining room table towards the painting of the mother and her two girls hanging on the wall.

  I’m flooded with so many different emotions.

  Tomorrow, my little sister is getting married!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  IT’S JUST AFTER nine on Betty’s wedding day. We’re finishing our room service breakfast when Betty looks at the time and asks, “Don’t you have a fashion show to get to?”

  My mouth drops open. “Betty, I can explain!”

  She starts laughing. “Relax, Erin, I know you cancelled it.”

  “Wait . . . you knew about the fashion show this whole time?”

  “I follow Lady Bettencourt on Instagram and Pinterest. You can’t get away with anything these days.”

  Oops! I’d forgotten Betty might have seen my social media accounts. Covering your tracks is a full-time business.

  “I swear I was going to tell you everything,” I say. “I was just waiting until after the wedding. Are you mad at me?”

  “I was. Really mad. But I knew you’d make the right choice.”

  I think about that for a moment. “I’m not so sure I knew I’d make the right choice.”

  “You do when it’s important. I was actually more upset when I found my unfinished dress laying around a week before my wedding.”

  “You knew about that, too?”

  “What? Did you think the universe neatly folded the dress and put it on your bookshelf?”

  “Maybe,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

  “Well, it was me. I found it when I was moving my stuff out. So I put it somewhere I knew you’d find it. Your idea of a ‘surprise wedding dress’ always seemed a bit suspicious to me.”

  “I’m a horrible sister. It’s almost like, you’re the good twin and I’m the evil twin.”

  “First, we’re not twins.”

  “We’re Irish twins!”

  “Second,” she continues, ignoring me, “you’re human. Humans make mistakes. Especially, when they really want something.”

  “But, Betty, I can’t think of any mistakes you’ve ever made.”

  “That’s because I’m not human. Mwahahaha.”

  “You’re a dork.”

  “That, too.”

  We start giggling, like two little girls after a sleepover.

  After we’ve had our hair and makeup done, we go back to the hotel to get changed.

  I help Betty get into her wedding dress. When she turns around, I get the full effect.

  “You’re beautiful,” I say, tearing up.

  She blushes. “I wish mom was here,” she says in a low voice.

  “Me, too,” I whisper.

  No matter how old we get, no matter how many celebrations we’ll have, there’s always going to be something missing.

  “C’mon, little sister!” I say to lighten the mood. “Let’s get you to the church—I mean, banquet hall—on time!”

  We link arms and leave the room together, not as little girls, but as women about to embark on the next stage of their lives.

  “Hey, where’s Mr. Getty?” I ask Betty. “I thought he was walking you down the aisle?”

  “I changed my mind. I told him I wanted to walk on my own.”

  “Really? Okay.” That’s strange. It’s not like Betty to change her mind at the last minute.

  We get the signal.

  It’s time.

  My stomach is full of butterflies. I can only imagine how Betty is feeling.

  The music starts to play. The doors open slowly into the banquet hall that has been setup for the ceremony.

  “Close them!” Betty shouts.

  I turn around.

  “Betty, are you okay?”

  “I-I can’t do it.”

  “What? Oh, my God. Um, okay. Okay. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll leave. We’ll get a cab and bust this joint. And we’ll never talk about this day ever again.”

  I grab her by the hand and start pulling her towards the other set of doors; the ones leading towards the hotel lobby.

  “I don’t mean that,” she says, stopping me.

  “No? I knew that,” I say. “I was just testing you. No cold feet here.”

  “What I meant was, I can’t walk down the aisle on my own. Everyone is going to be looking at me. There’s hardly anyone sitting on our side.”

  “Oh, Betty. Do you want me to have them get Mr. Getty?”

  “That doesn’t seem right, either.” She looks up at me. “Will you do it?”

  I engulf her in a hug. “Of course! I do! I do! I mean, I will! I will!”

  My little sister needs me! She still needs me!

  “Okay, Erin. You can let me go now.”

  I wait a moment longer, and then I’m ready to release her, to let her go.

  And for the second time that day, we walk together, arm-in-arm.

  The rest of the ceremony was really sweet. I had to dab my eyes a few times when they read each other the vows they wrote. Then, there were a gazillion photos taken, followed by the reception.

  I sat with Betty, Matt, and his parents during the meal, but I’ve switched over to sitting at Lizzie and Gloria’s table for the rest of the evening.

  Ever since dinner, though, something has been weighing on my mind.

  So I go over to where the band is playing and tell them to take five. (I’ve always wan
ted to say that.) I see people chatting to each other across the room.

  God, I wish I’d written something down. I was kind of glad when Betty made the no speech rule, but now I have to wing it. I also forgot to bring up my wine glass with me for the toasting part.

  I see a kid walk by with a pop in his hands.

  “Hey, kid,” I hiss at him. “Give me your pop.”

  “No!” he says, holding it tightly against his chest.

  “I’ll give you five bucks for it.”

  “Okay!”

  He happily hands it over to me.

  “Where’s my money?”

  I check my dress pockets. Crap. I don’t have any money on me. I didn’t think I’d need it.

  “I’ll get it to you later,” I say.

  He looks bummed.

  “It’s an open bar. You can get another pop, for free. Now run along, young man.”

  He furrows his brow and mutters something about how old people can’t be trusted.

  Great. I’ll have to borrow five dollars from Lizzie. I can’t have this kid going around telling tales about me.

  I remember why I’m up here.

  “Hi, everyone,” I say nervously. There’s piercing feedback from the microphone, just like in the movies when a character goes on stage at a wedding to give a speech. (It’s a real thing.)

  People stop talking and turn in my direction. I wave, sort of like I’m the President—err, Prime Minister.

  “Hi, um, I’m Betty’s sister, Erin. Betty said she didn’t want any speeches. Betty, where are you? There you are!” I say, waving at her. She looks mortified.

  “So this speech isn’t about Betty and how she used to wet the bed until she was six.”

  “That was you!” Betty shouts.

  “It was? Oh, yeah, right. Let’s forget that because this isn’t one of those speeches. Instead, this is a speech about Matt.”

  I search the crowd and find Matt. I wave. He waves back, then walks over to take a seat beside Betty.

  Everyone’s eyes are on me. This is the first time I’ve had such a captive audience. Maybe I should sing a song or recite a poem. But I don’t know any poetry . . .