by Sandra Cunha
Oh, right. My speech.
“I didn’t like Matt when I first met him. It wasn’t anything he said or did. It was the fact that he was dating my little sister. Up until that point, it had just been the three Bettencourt girls, taking on the world. And here came this tall guy who played basketball and loved peanut butter. I mean, loved peanut butter.”
The wedding guests laugh and nod in recognition of Matt’s love of peanut butter.
When they stop, I continue, “I guess I was jealous and thought he would take Betty away from us. I wanted things to stay exactly the way they were. But as the years and years and years went by . . . laughter . . . I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. That’s when I realized that Matt wasn’t taking Betty away from us—from me—he was becoming one of us.”
I pause to take a deep breath.
“When our mom got sick, Betty and I took care of her . . . but so did Matt. He gave us a break whenever we couldn’t handle it. And then, when our mom passed away, and I zoned out for a while, a long while, he was the one who was there for Betty, not me. My mom loved Matt. Everyone loves Matt. And now he’s officially a part of our family. So thank you Matt, for coming into our lives and for taking care of my little sister. To Matt, my brother!” I say, raising my drink.
“To Matt,” rings out across the room.
“Betty,” I say, looking directly at her. “Mom would be so proud of the woman you’ve become. I won the lottery the day I got you as a sister. To my sister, Betty Getty!”
“To Betty Getty,” rings out across the room.
Betty dabs her eyes. Actually, there are quite a few people doing the same thing.
Matt takes Betty’s hand and guides her towards me. I jump off the stage and meet them half-way on the dance floor.
And then, the three of us are in a hug, which must look sort of awkward from the outside but feels really nice and special on the inside.
So now I’m in tears, too. Tears of happiness with a touch of sorrow that our hug is short by one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
IT’S MONDAY MORNING, and I’m not sure what my next steps are, now that I’m back in control. So I start brainstorming ideas in my head.
“Are you okay, querida?” Gloria asks.
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“What I should do with Lady Bettencourt.”
“Oh, the fashion show. I knew,” she says matter-of-factly.
“You did?”
“Of course! I’m on Pinterest—for the recipes. But I follow you, too.”
She knew, and she didn’t say anything, either. I wonder if Lizzie also knew.
“Is Vanessa finished for us?” Gloria asks.
“Yeah, we won’t be seeing her again.” (I hope.)
“Why don’t you have another fashion show?”
“It’s not that easy. I’d have to get a venue, suppliers, buyers to come . . .”
Wait a minute.
That’s the way you’re supposed to have a fashion show, not the way you have to have one. What if I kept things simple?
“Gloria, you’re a genius!”
She shrugs her shoulders.
I start pacing back and forth.
It’d have to be the least expensive fashion show of all time, as in, zero to very low cost. I’ve already spent most of my savings on one that will never be.
Hmm, what do I need to hold a fashion show?
A venue. No, just a location.
Lots of dresses. Gloria and I can make those, maybe get some extra help.
Accessories and shoes. Lizzie? Maybe we can borrow some from the vintage shop in exchange for advertising or something.
Models.
Where the heck am I supposed to find models?
Wait.
No.
Maybe?
Mila did say to contact her if I needed anything. Aren’t you meant to keep your enemies close? Is she an enemy? I don’t know what she is. I’ll keep her as a potential option.
But what I really need is a hook. My time with Vanessa wasn’t a total waste. I did pick up a few things from her.
I’m brainstorming possible hooks when a loud, shrilling noise goes off.
“What is that?” Gloria asks, looking around in alarm.
“Don’t worry, it’s just my phone. It’s old and makes weird noises.”
Hold on a second. It’s not old. It’s vintage.
That’s it! I’ve found my hook!
But can I actually pull this off?
I call Betty and Lizzie and tell them to come to the condo at six. Luckily, Betty isn’t taking her honeymoon for another month.
Then, I ask Gloria if she knows any other seamstresses who would be able to help us. She says she’ll call her sister, Natalia, and Sophia, a niece of Anestis, the man who ran the alteration shop my mom worked at. She says they’re both very good dressmakers.
I’m getting excited. This is going to work. I can feel it.
But in order for it to work, I’ll need publicity. So I take a deep breath and call the producer of Breakfast Television and tell him my plans.
He says he loves the idea and will fit me in Friday morning as part of their Fashion Week coverage. I thank him a million times over.
Finally, I call Mila. It’s risky, but something tells me it’s okay. She doesn’t seem surprised to hear from me. She’s coming to the condo tonight, too.
After everyone has been called, I sit down at the dining room table and start sketching.
I had some ideas for fall dresses that I’d put on hold because I was working on the spring line-up. I need to have all of my new designs ready by our meeting tonight.
Before I thought a month was too short to put together an entire fashion show. Now I’ve given myself just three days.
I’ve officially gone nuts.
The condo is in mayhem.
There are materials and people everywhere. A big table has been setup in Betty’s old bedroom. Thankfully, I hadn’t moved my things into it, yet. This is where most of the sewing is taking place. The model fittings are happening in the living room.
At the meeting I called last night, I shared my idea with everyone and asked them if they wanted to be a part of it. I explained that they’d get compensated for their work, but that I wasn’t sure right now what that would be, and that I’d understand if they weren’t interested and wanted to leave.
No one left.
I told Mila I needed ten models of various sizes, ages, and ethnicities. The models would have to be okay with being compensated by getting to keep their dress and another one from the line.
Lizzie talked to the owner of the vintage shop, and he said we could borrow shoes and accessories. We don’t need purses, as almost all of the dresses have pockets, but I want to include one, a very particular one. Lizzie said she would see what she could do.
There will be ten dress designs for the show, including updates of the original three. It’s all we could manage in the time allowed. The Rosie will end the show. It’s earned its place in the line.
Betty will be in charge of photography and social media. She actually likes social media. She used it to gather ideas for her wedding planning and has become an addict.
Mila and I are working on getting the secret extra supplies we need for the show.
Betty asked at the meeting if what I was planning to do was legal. She’d mentioned something about getting permits.
I’d glanced over at Mila, who’d said, “It’s cool. I know a guy.” Then, we’d smiled at each other while Betty had given me a worried look.
But it’s all been decided, and we each have a job to do.
We also have a codename: Operation Reissue.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EVERYTHING IS UNDER control. Tomorrow is the big day.
But before then, I have a special delivery I need to make, and if I don’t mail it out today, it won’t arrive in time.
I hesitated about whether or not I shoul
d send it. It almost seems like too much time has passed, even though it was just a couple of weeks ago. But it feels like the right thing to do.
And so I once again find myself at the post office.
I’m joining the long line when I realize who’s standing directly ahead of me: Bradford, my former boss.
As I turnaround to leave, I stop myself. I need to face him. It’s part of the twelve-step program I’ve created for myself.
Step one is to tell the truth. Step two is to face my fears. (I’m not sure what the other steps will be, yet. It may be only a two-step program.)
I tap him on the shoulder.
He turns around and raises his eyebrow. “Yes?”
He doesn’t recognize me. I worked for him for almost five years, and he doesn’t recognize me.
“It’s Erin, Erin Bettencourt. I used to work for you.”
He wrinkles his forehead. “Erin! Right, right. How are things?”
This is so awkward. Does he remember firing me? It doesn’t seem like it. But I still want to say what has bothered me for the last two years.
“Bradford, I-I just wanted to apologize for how things ended. It was totally my fault. I’m really sorry.”
He looks confused. “Well, these things happen. People move on.”
He doesn’t remember!
I’ve been worried about this, this whole time, and he doesn’t even remember. So I can’t resist asking, “Um, how is everyone back at the office?”
“Everyone is good, good.”
I’m going to have to say it. “And Carol? Your administrative assistant?”
“Good, good. Actually, she’s now the marketing coordinator.”
I knew it!
I can’t really be mad. I’m sure she’s doing a much better job than I ever did.
“Okay, great,” he says and turns back around.
I guess that means our conversation is over.
Maybe I never needed his forgiveness.
Maybe I just needed to forgive myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I’M BACK at the Breakfast Television studio. It feels so different this time around. I’m nervous, but nothing like I was the first time. My hair and makeup are done, and I’m about to go on set.
I walk towards Dina and Kevin, who each greet me with a hug, like we’re old friends. We move towards the light-blue sectional. I take my spot . . . and a deep breath.
In five, four, three, two—
Dina gives a brief introduction, welcoming me back to the show.
“So, Erin,” Kevin says, “your original Lady Bettencourt fashion show was cancelled because you decided to take a different approach. Tell us about that.”
I’m looking at him as he says this, instead of directly at the camera. (Progress.)
“It’s an anti-fashion show during fashion week,” I say. “We’ll be showing dresses women can buy and wear now, not next spring. It’s a fashion show for the people, not those in the industry. And each show will have an old-to-new theme, just like my dresses.”
“I love it!” Dina says. “And the show, or should I say shows, will be held in various secret locations around Toronto, is that right?”
“That’s right. Each of the locations has significance to me and the Lady Bettencourt brand. The first show starts soon. Very soon, actually.”
“Can you give us a tiny hint where that one will be?” Kevin asks.
I pause, as if I’m debating whether or not to tell them, even though we planned this part out in advance.
“Okay, a tiny hint . . . Ride the Rocket.”
“Oh, I know!” Dina and Kevin say in unison, jumping up and down in their seats.
We laugh happily together.
“And will The Rosie, the dress Rachel McAdams wore to TIFF that started all of this, be in the show?” Dina asks.
“It will. A slightly updated version. The Rosie is now a permanent addition to the line-up. I think every woman should own one fabulous evening gown.”
“With pockets,” Dina says, winking at me.
“With pockets,” I say, smiling back.
“Well, we should let you get to that first show. It was a pleasure having you back,” Kevin says.
“It was a pleasure to be back.” I turn and look directly into the camera, and then I wave.
I couldn’t resist. Plus, I know my ladies are watching.
Operation Reissue has assembled at Bloor subway station. It’s a quarter-to-eight. We do one final check, then the models take their positions on the platform.
Betty’s taken the day-off work to photograph everything. Mila and Gloria are also here for support and any dress adjustments.
The subway train pulls into the station. The models are lined up and wearing (secondhand) men’s grey trench coats.
I give the lead model the signal.
One by one they slowly take off their coats, revealing a newly designed Lady Bettencourt dress underneath.
Some people notice something is happening, but continue into the subway, as do we.
Mila, Gloria, and I quickly collect the coats from the models. Then, the models take out magazines. Magazines from the Sixties to today. They’re mostly fashion magazines, but The Betty model is reading The Economist.
The real Betty maneuvers through the passengers, taking photos of each model.
Now people are really starting to pay attention. I hear different variations of “What’s going on?” (Along with a few grumbles.)
And then, just as I hoped, the passengers pull back to watch, creating a small clearing. The newer subway trains, without separate cars, make a perfect runway.
The models begin walking down the train while passengers farther along, crane their necks to see what’s happening.
I keep waiting for someone to say it’s the Lady Bettencourt fashion show. But the models have been walking for a while, and no one’s said anything.
I’m starting to get worried.
Finally, someone shouts, “It’s the Lady Bettencourt fashion show! I heard this morning on Brunch Television!”
I look towards the voice.
It belongs to Gloria, who is ducked down in a group of people. I can’t help letting out a small laugh. I’ll have to tell her later that it’s actually called Breakfast Television.
Her announcement has a ripple effect throughout the subway train. There’s some oohing and aahing at the dresses—and even clapping! It’s like a real fashion show!
Mila, Gloria, and I start handing out Lady Bettencourt business cards, shaped like dresses.
The models continue to walk down the train until we reach Union station, where we get off.
Anti-fashion show number one: completed.
We’re doing the whole thing again. And again.
Each time we do, the same sort of pattern emerges. People are confused at first, then slowly recognize what is happening, and finally, someone (usually Gloria) announces that it’s the secret Lady Bettencourt fashion show.
And, at one of the shows, someone recognizes me and tells me to take a bow.
I’m overloaded with grey trench coats but somehow manage to do a curtsy. Unfortunately, it’s at the same time the train jerks, and I find myself sitting on the lap of an amused older gentleman.
I definitely need to work on that part.
I’m nervous about this second set of shows. I hope we can repeat this morning’s success.
Operation Reissue has convened at the lower level of First Canadian Place in the underground path. It’s a wide-open space that gets a lot of foot traffic.
It’s almost noon. Office workers will soon come out in droves to grab some lunch.
The models, wearing their grey trench coats, are assembled in a line, overlooking a tiered water fountain.
Workers begin spilling out from different areas of the concourse. Some of them look over at this line of grey women but keep walking.
I give the signal. The first model takes off her coat, followed by the next model,
until all the grey trench coats are laying on the ground.
This is when people start to really take notice.
One of the models hoists a ghetto-blaster from the ground onto her shoulder and presses play. A mixed tape of music through the ages that Mila cut together, rings out through the path.
More people have stopped to watch.
Another model is now listening to a Walkman, another to a Discman, and yet another to an iPod.
The other models are pretending to talk into cell phones from the ’80s, ’90s, and early 2000s, as well as the latest smartphone. All the while they are walking and spinning, spinning and walking.
When the show is over, there’s applause.
I go “on stage” and take an awkward bow. As I do, I search the crowd, but I can’t find who I’m looking for, who I’m hoping is here.
Afterwards, Betty shows me some of the photos she took, capturing everything. They’re amazing. But she wasn’t the only one taking photos. There were people in the crowd taking them, as well, and they’ve posted them to various social media sites.
“Who’s that guy?” Betty asks out of nowhere.
I look in the direction she’s pointing to. “Oh, that’s Joaquin, from the coffee house.”
“I know who Joaquin is,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I meant the guy standing beside him, talking to him.”
I let out a little gasp.
He came! He came!
“That’s Mr. Trader, remember me mentioning him? The guy I used to deliver lunches to?” I say, trying not to sound too excited. I never got around to telling her about our disastrous dinner.
Aaron sees us looking in his direction and comes over with Joaquin.
“Erin,” Joaquin says, “that was fabulous! Makes me want to wear a dress.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” I say, giving him a hug, which I immediately regret. Aaron is standing right there, and it doesn’t seem appropriate to give him a hug.
