by Sandra Cunha
“Joaquin, you remember my sister, Betty.” They shake hands. (Phew, we’re back to the safety of handshaking.) I turn in Aaron’s direction. “And Betty, this is Aaron Novak.”
“Aaron?” she says with a raised eyebrow. “Interesting. Nice to meet you.”
Aaron smiles and shakes her hand.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Aaron asks me.
We walk away from the others.
“I guess you got my package, huh?” I say, still embarrassed by my behaviour from a couple of weeks ago.
“I did. Thanks for the box of calming tea. I was running low,” he says, grinning.
I smile nervously. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m sorry I went all crazy at dinner that night. It wasn’t fair of me to unload my crap on you. But I wanted you to know I made it right.”
“Erin, sorry,” Mila says, interrupting us. “But we have to get going.”
I reluctantly agree. “Can you come to the next show?” I ask him.
He looks at his watch. “Sorry, I can’t. I want to, but I’m meeting someone—a client.”
“Okay . . . I guess I’ll be bumping into you, then.”
“Be bumping into you,” he says, chuckling before turning to go.
I hesitate a moment.
“Aaron, wait!”
He turns around.
“Here.” I hand him a Lady Bettencourt business card. “Just in case that takes a while.”
As he reaches for the card, our hands graze one another.
“Good luck with the rest of the shows, Erin. You deserve this,” he says, winking.
“Thank you,” I say, blushing.
I head over to Scotia Plaza for the next show with my ladies.
And I know we’re about to put on a good show. No, a great show.
Operation Reissue is at the final secret location for the anti-fashion shows: Yorkville.
It’s an outdoor show, and, luckily, the weather is cooperating. It’s a beautiful, sunny afternoon in late October.
Our other shows have already gotten some press. I can’t help wondering if Vanessa has heard about them. But I put her out of my mind just as quickly as she’s entered it. I don’t want to think about her today.
I wanted to have this fashion show in Yorkville for both the rich and the gawkers who hang out in this area.
And appropriately, although I resisted the idea when Betty first suggested it, the old-to-new theme is . . . dogs. They aren’t actually old dogs. They’re dogs that were or need to be adopted from a local animal shelter.
Betty asked her coworker Greta if she had any contacts. It turns out Greta’s dogs, Huey, Dewey, and Louie, who I walked once (another one of those long stories), were adopted from the shelter. As were Mila’s dogs. So even though I’m not a fan of dogs in general, I agreed.
The models are wearing only their dresses this time, without the grey trench coats. But there is one addition. One of the models will be carrying a vintage Chanel 2.55 bag . . . in black. It was all Lizzie could get.
But if things continue to go as well as they have been, I may be buying it as my reward. My keepsake from this wonderful day.
The dogs are wearing coats made from the same materials as the dresses, with either “I’m adopted” or “Adopt me” embroidered on them.
Greta’s and Mila’s dogs represent those that have been adopted, and the shelter brought a few others that need adopting. I’ve also been assigned my own dog that will appear with me for the show finale bows.
We’ve convened at the gigantic, artificial rock hill on Cumberland Avenue before the start of the show. It’s pretty chaotic with us and the dogs.
The plan is for the models to do a lap of the main loop, with the finale happening back at the artificial hill.
Almost right away, we hear someone say, “This must be one of those Lady Bettencourt shows!” without Gloria having to announce it.
Betty follows the models around the loop, taking photos of them as if they are famous movie stars.
Gloria, Mila, and I stay back at the hill with Lizzie, who was able to pop out of the vintage shop to attend these shows.
The little dog that has been assigned to me, a black cavalier with splotches of white and brown, keeps loyally to my side. My right side. Sort of like, and this is weird, this is also her fashion show. I think it’s a her, given what she’s wearing.
Sophia, one of the new seamstresses, took care of making the dog clothes. I wasn’t interested in going anywhere near them.
Lizzie bends down to pet the cavalier. “What’s your name, pretty girl?” She looks up at me, expectantly. I shrug my shoulders. I missed our introduction.
“I once knew a dog who looked exactly like this,” Lizzie continues. “The shop owner’s wife had one. She’d bring her in once in a while. Same demeanor and everything.” Lizzie turns to me and says in a whisper, “A bit snobbish.”
I laugh because it’s true. This dog is snobby.
We see Betty coming around the corner, followed by the models, followed by a small group of people.
God, this is fun.
Once everyone is back at the hill, the snobby cavalier and I head to the front and take a bow.
At least, it looked like she was bowing, too.
By six o’clock, the final show of the anti-fashion shows is over.
I can’t believe we did it. We actually pulled it off! Everything went (almost) exactly as we had planned.
Silently, I thank the universe. Then—aloud—I thank my ladies and the models for their hard work. Hugs and kisses are exchanged.
The van from the animal shelter arrives. I glance down at the cavalier and say, “Time to go home.”
She looks up at me with her big, brown eyes, and tilts her head to the side. My heart melts. She doesn’t have a home to go to. Not a real home. She’s in an orphanage . . . for dogs.
I bend down and pet her for the first time. “Sorry, kid. I know what it’s like to feel all alone. But you’ll be okay. Someone will adopt you soon. Just look at those lashes!”
She seems to nod slightly in agreement.
The volunteer from the shelter has rounded up all the other dogs. He turns towards us and says, “C’mon, Coco. C’mon, girl!”
Coco? Her name is Coco?
Coco looks at me once more, then runs towards the van, leaving me standing there.
“Ready for our celebratory dinner? Matt’s saving our table at the restaurant,” Betty says. “Erin?”
“Um . . . yeah. Yeah, I’m ready,” I say, starting to walk away with her.
But then, I stop to look back at the van as it turns the corner and disappears into the darkening evening.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BETTY CALLS the next day for an update.
“How are sales?” she asks.
“Through the roof! Thank goodness, I have Gloria and the new seamstresses helping me. We shouldn’t fall behind on orders like last time.”
“That’s awesome! I’m so proud of you. What you did was really cool. I knew you had it in you.”
“Thank you, Betty. That means a lot,” I say, my voice catching a bit. It’s true. Her opinion matters the most to me.
“Did you buy the bag?”
What bag?
Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about that. “No, but I’ve made a decision about the condo.”
“And?”
“I want to stay. I think I’ll be able to manage the rent. There’s just one, small thing.”
“What?”
“Is it okay if I have a roommate?”
“You’re going to rent out the den?”
“What’s wrong with the den? I’ve slept in there for two years. It’s cozy. Actually, I’m going to continue sleeping in there because I’m keeping your old bedroom as Lady Bettencourt’s sewing workshop. There’s more space for when the ladies want to come over.”
“Great idea! And you’ll be able to claim a portion of your rent as a business expense for ta
x purposes, which will help with covering it.” (I totally thought of that, too. Right.) “But where is this roommate supposed to sleep? Is it that guy Aaron? Is he moving in?”
“Aaron? I barely know him.”
“Who’s this roommate, then?”
“Well, it’s not really a person; it’s a dog. But she does seem to act a lot like a person.”
“You’re getting a dog?”
“I’m adopting the little cavalier from the Yorkville show. We bonded. I get her officially in a couple of days.”
“Are you sure you can handle running a business and taking care of a dog?”
“I’ll figure it out. Plus, she needs somewhere to go, and I don’t want to live on my own. We’re a perfect match.”
“She is cute.”
“Super cute. And she appreciates fashion. I can tell. Here’s the crazy thing: her name is Coco. Can you believe it? It was meant to be.”
“With you Erin, I’m starting to believe anything.”
EPILOGUE
28 days later . . .
COCO AND I are on our way to visit Lizzie at the vintage shop before heading to the dog park. Coco has a play date with Greta’s dogs: Huey, Dewey, and Louie.
Who would have thought I’d ever want to spend a Saturday afternoon at a dog park? It’s a strange world. But it’s important that Coco has friends. We all need friends. Sometimes Mila and her dogs join us, too, but they mostly just stand guard, waiting.
Since the anti-fashion shows, Lady Bettencourt dress sales have been growing steadily. I was afraid I was going to be a one-hit wonder. I know it’s still early, but I think women want an ethical alternative. As long as I keep the dresses affordable and well-made, I don’t see why Lady Bettencourt won’t continue to grow.
I finally feel like a business woman who (mostly) knows what she’s doing. What I don’t know or can’t do on my own, I get help from people I trust.
I could never fulfill all those new orders without Gloria, Natalia, and Sophia. And the dresses are of higher quality because their skills are superior to mine.
I could never source all the secondhand materials I need without Mila. She has a great eye for finding stuff.
I could never take (non-blurry) photos of the dresses for the website or maintain Lady Bettencourt’s social media accounts without Betty. She’s really taken to it. And my “followers” like interacting with the person who inspired The Betty dress. Plus, she’s the only one I trust to manage my books.
We’re a team. My success is their success.
And then, there’s Aaron.
He called me a few days after the show to say if I ever needed any business advice, to let him know.
So for the cost of a few vegan dinners (and the promise to get my first-ever menswear creation), he’s been helping me, too. Except, lately, there hasn’t been that much talk of business. I’m not sure where that’s headed, but I think I like where that may be.
“Time will tell,” I say out loud as a man walks past me.
He gives me a funny look.
Quickly, I bend down to pet Coco and say, “Isn’t that right, girl?”
I do this whenever I talk out loud to myself and someone catches me. It happens quite a bit. I’m not sure Coco appreciates being used like this, but then, I have to pick up her poop, so she doesn’t get a say.
We’re almost at the vintage shop when a woman hurries up to me.
I’m used to this. It happens all the time now.
But it’s not because they recognize me. It’s because of Coco. Everyone loves Coco.
Instead of petting Coco, however, the woman opens her coat and flashes me. I’m taken aback at first until I realize she’s showing me her dress.
“It’s The Glory!” she says excitedly.
She’s wearing one of my new dress designs named after Gloria. This is the first time I’ve seen a customer wearing a Lady Bettencourt dress out in public. It feels so good.
I pull open my own coat and say, “Me, too!”
We both burst out laughing.
“I love your dresses and what they stand for,” she says.
I blush with pride and thank her. It’s nice to be recognized, to be almost famous. But the thing is, I was always somebody. And I’ll always be somebody, no matter what happens.
She looks down and finally notices Coco.
“How cute is she! Do you design dog clothes, as well?”
She’s referring to Coco’s coat, which happens to match the dress I’m wearing. I used the leftover materials to make it.
When I first got Coco, I’d decided I wouldn’t dress her up in dog clothes. But she kept draping materials over her little body and going over to my full-length mirror to check herself out. I think she likes it, so I do it every now and again. Plus, it’s getting chilly out. She needs a coat. Well, another one.
“No,” I say. “I just make things for Coco here.”
“Lucky dog.” She bends down to pet Coco.
We say our goodbyes, and then Coco and I are on our way again.
Hmm . . . maybe I should start a dog clothing line.
Or create my own signature perfume.
Or custom shade of lipstick. (Definitely not hot-pink.)
I could really diversify and get the Lady Bettencourt brand out there.
Everywhere.
Maybe I shouldn’t be putting the horse before the cart . . . or is it the other way around?
What I mean is, I should probably stick to figuring out this whole dressmaking business first. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few weeks, it’s that more isn’t always better.
But better always is.
THE END MIDDLE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’D LIKE TO THANK: Everyone I thanked in my first book, Erin, Girl (including The Academy).
To that list, I'd like to add:
My new prereaders and writing club members, Anukriti Mishra and Diana-Marie Bombardieri, for getting me on a schedule and reminding me of what “Erin” wouldn’t say and do. I’m very, very grateful.
Anthony Del Col, for sharing with me what it’s like to be “inside the TV.”
Luvbugs and Hugs, for inspiring the Lady Coco Bettencourt character (and for being my pooch sisters).
Madison Dechief, a fashion student, for answering my (many) questions while we waited in line at the Toronto International Film Festival. (The film was The Dressmaker, very apropos.)
My sister, Elizabeth Cunha, for also helping with dressmaking-related questions, as I failed to inherit our mom’s sewing gene.
And last, but definitely not least, I’d like to add YOU to the list, for taking a chance and reading a book by an unknown indie author.
It’s really all happening . . . maybe.
BOOKS BY AUTHOR
Bettencourt Series
Erin, Girl (Book 1)
Lady Bettencourt (Book 2)
House of Bettencourt (Book 3)
HOUSE OF BETTENCOURT PREVIEW
Prologue
“ERIN! ERIN! LADY BETTENCOURT!”
Camera lights are flashing in my eyes, blinding me. I try to hold my smile and not turn away in reaction.
They know who I am. I didn’t think they would, but they do.
I look over at Aaron, who is standing a few feet away from me. He grins and comes to join me.
We walk the remainder of the red carpet together, stopping every now and again to pose for a photo.
It feels like I’m in a dream.
Am I dreaming?
I have to be. Why else would I, Erin Bettencourt, be walking the red carpet of the Toronto International Film Festival?
This can’t be real.
We’re about to enter the theatre, Roy Thomson Hall, when an entertainment reporter who I’ve met before reaches out and grabs my arm.
“Erin?” She looks surprised to see me. “I guess I don’t have to ask who you’re wearing.”
I laugh. “No, but I’ll say it, anyway. My dress
is a new design from the Lady Bettencourt line. It’s a special edition named The Penny. It’s made from old curtains! Oh, and my bag,” I pause to hold it up for the camera. “My bag is a vintage Chanel 2.55. Medium. Navy. It belonged to my mom.”
4 weeks earlier . . .
MY HIP IS VIBRATING.
At first, I think I’m having some sort of localized seizure, then I remember it’s my phone in my dress pocket. I thought I’d turned it off. I’ll have to ignore it. There’s nothing else I can do now, not while my segment is being taped.
What was I saying? Something about . . .
“Um, yeah, so that’s how to incorporate patterns into your wardrobe.”
“Ooh, I love this paisley one,” Marilyn Denis, the TV show host, says as she reaches out to touch the Lady Bettencourt dress worn by a model on the set.
“Me, too. It’s such a happy pattern.”
“It is. Thanks for being back on the show, Erin.”
“Thanks for having me back.”
“Coming up, a hundred-and-one ideas on how to manage unruly curly hair . . . or maybe just five,” Marilyn says, winking at the camera.
When the taping stops, Marilyn and I walk past the live audience, where one of the women yells out to me, “I love your dresses!” Another one says, “I’m wearing The Cindy!”
I yell back, “Thank you!” and “Looks amazing on you!”
Once Marilyn and I are out of view, she kisses me on both cheeks. “That was great, kiddo. See you in a couple of months.”
“Thanks, Marilyn. Great shoes, by the way!” I say as she’s walking away.
In response, she waves her hand over her shoulder, without turning around, and heads back into the studio.
I still can’t believe I have a regular segment on The Marilyn Denis Show, a national lifestyle program. I’m inside people’s televisions all across Canada!
This reminds me of my hip vibrating earlier, which could have potentially led to my not appearing inside those televisions anymore. I check my phone to see who the culprit was. My new smartphone.
