by Mj Fields
I look back down at the report on my computer screen. “Newsflash, you’re no actress, I’ve known that for some time.”
“Oh, I hate you to the depths of hell, you pig bastard.”
I look up at her and see the rage, but I’ve seen worse. I look back at my screen. “Okay.”
“Okay! Do you care to explain what I walked in on Saturday night? Natasha being there,” she points up to the ceiling. “Natasha, my Natasha, in that fuck pad?”
“I don’t care to explain a damn thing and for your information, I haven’t fucked anyone up there.” I point to the ceiling as I stand and walk around the desk to the door. “And you should be thanking me that I brought a drunk underage girl home from a bar instead of letting her go with that punk who would have taken advantage of her.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The question is stupid, I know what she means, I was loaded.
“It means,” she walks toward me, “That you were fucking past lit, you were a blown bulb. When I came here to get her, you were lying face down like dead Bill the vampire. I tried to wake you, to have it out with you right there and you didn’t move, not one inch. Then Natasha begged me to leave you alone and she and I fought. We don’t fight!”
“She’s finally growing her own balls and might not need Auntie Autumn and Mommy to–”
I’m cut off when her hand connects with my face. And when I’m about to put her in her place, she begins to sob.
I fight the urge to console her, to tell her it’s fine, because it’s not.
When she looks up at me and her face starts to harden again, I hold up my hand. “As a devout feminist, I refuse to tell you that you hit like a girl. But you hit me again and I will.”
I’m shocked when she fists my shirt and begins to cry into it.
“She’s falling in love with an asshole.”
“I’m really not comfortable with this conversation.”
“Well, tough shit.” She shakes as she sniffs. “This is all your fault.”
I pat the top of her head. “Need I remind you the whole, hey, this is Natasha’s boyfriend, came out of your–”
“Shut the hell up.” She leans against me. “Just shut up, Oliver.”
Holy fucking shit, this woman is nuts, but hey, the heroine in this tale certainly has the ability to make us all that way.
“I don’t know if I want to hire a hit on you or give you a pat on the back for not touching her.”
I silently thank God that nothing happened.
“Well, you’ve already hit me so–”
“She was on the couch curled in a fetal position when I came in. Her face was stained with tears, Oliver.”
I don’t remember a thing after telling her she looked like Grace, her kissing my scars, and me pulling away from what I know would have been the best kiss I’d ever experienced, knowing I couldn’t resist her much longer. She covered her face with her hands as she sobbed. I felt like a part of me died, in order to give her a chance to live… to love.
She went to the bathroom and I paced waiting for her. When she came out, she crawled in my bed and I told her I’d take the couch. She begged me to just lay with her. Told me she had mistaken this, motioning between us, and wanted to forget it ever happened. She was on the verge of tears again and she had just regained her dignity, I couldn’t take it away, not again… not ever.
So, like every time she’d ever asked me a for fucking thing, I couldn’t tell her no.
“I hope you’re happy.” Autumn sniffs, bringing me back to the here and now.
“I never take joy in hurting someone,” I sigh.
“Could you at least act like you’re consoling me? Jesus, I can’t even go cry to my best friend.”
“Because this is as much your fault.”
“No shit, asshole.”
I wrap an arm around her and give her a squeeze. “Better?”
“Fuck you.”
“Well, you need to pull your balls out of the estrogen pot they’re soaking in, so we can sell this to the board, so they can make her shine as much as she deserves to.”
She looks up at me with hopeful eyes. “Do you love–”
“Jesus Christ, Autumn, really?”
She steps back and slaps away her tears. “Fine. Whatever. Stay away from her. I’ll fake a break up on FaceTime–”
“Contrary to what you believe, she’s capable of handling this herself.” I step further away from her. “And the more you and her mother keep coddling her, the more she’s going to lean on you, so for fuck’s sake, let her off the tit, for her own good.”
“Have I mentioned I hate you?”
“Yes, now go get to fucking work.”
The board at de la Porte watched a presentation of Natasha’s winter line. Each picture was met with an audible ooo, or ahhh, or gasp followed by a complimentary phrase. They gushed over it. Then a picture revealed a young girl sitting with a sketch pad on her lap in la Placard. The sound of shock filled the room. When the next slide revealed a young woman’s back holding a sketch pad in la Placard, the whispers began. And when the last, a front view of the same picture, came up and revealed… her, silence filled the room.
When Angela and Bass were prompted back onscreen to answer any questions, they were bombarded with them.
I took it as long as I could before I stood, abruptly, and then they begin pelting me with questions.
My voice shakes in anger when I shout over them, “Need I remind you who owns the majority in this company?”
Silence.
“Need I fucking remind you the man who designed the majority of this company, affording you designer clothes and filling your belly with food, and that still pads your pockets, is dead, and you’re still eating, because of them!” I point to the monitor.
“Need I remind you that this young woman has spent more time in that fucking closet than anyone in this room, possibly more than anyone in this building, and definitely more time in that closet than Jean himself, is the one your questioning?”
I start pacing, “You sons-of-a-bitches even know the name of Coco Chanel’s biggest rival?” Silence. “Well, she does. Because this,” I wave my hand at the photos on the screens surrounding the room of her designs brought to life. “Is what she has lived. This is where she escapes. This was all swimming around in her head when she could have been drowning in her own self-pity like you assholes are. This is what she loves. And,” I laugh maliciously. “She went to a high school with a focus on design, and is studying design in London, yet still you question her. You with your Ivy league degrees in what? Secretary fucking!”
I hear the words playing favorites mumbled and I am about to go over the table at one of the greasy well-fed fucks when Autumn stands and rushes in front of me.
“I agree wholeheartedly with what Mr. Josephs is saying and to whichever one of you thinks this has anything to do with favors or favoritism, I will tell you, these designs were fished out of a storage box by the man who knows the runway and the fashion world better than anyone in here. Bastien owns this company, he was entrusted with it by his father, and was offered millions by his father’s biggest rival to bury the name. He could have sat back and wiped his ass with Benjamins and you could have all been tossed aside.”
“They still can be,” I warn them.
“He,” Autumn interrupts me, “believes in the de la Porte name. He has a keen eye for class and elegance and a business degree. He believes in staying loyal to those who stay loyal to him, and–”
I interrupt, “He expects you to sell this to your contacts in the fashion world like your livelihood depends on it, because it fucking does.”
“It certainly does,” Bass adds and I look up and see him on the screen and I know he’s trying to control his temper. “And I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
“Unless it fails,” A smug voice quips. I whip my head around and see Courtright’s self-
righteous face.
“Failure’s not a goddamned option, heart attack.”
“Okay, Oliver.” Autumn turns and pushes on my chest, trying not to laugh. “Chill out
“You son-of-a-bitch.” Courtright, who in fact just recovered from a heart attack, starts to stand.
“And this is the reason he has so many exes,” a voice calls and I turn and see his son, Eric, walking in the room. “Father, Johnson is waiting to take you home, you still need to rest for recovery.”
“I’m fine. You’re just trying to take my place.”
“No, I’m just trying to make sure all eight of your kids continue to be fed.”
“I’m not playing games here, boy.” Courtright points a fat finger at his son.
Bass interjects via the video monitor, “And last I checked, I haven’t asked Eric to step down as your replacement, old man. So, you thank your son for picking up your slack and make your way out of the building before Oliver finds the quickest route.”
“Are you threatening me, son?”
“I’m not your son, old man, and fuck yes, I–”
Angela cuts him off, “No, he’s not. Oliver could call security and have you escorted.”
“Listen here, you–”
Bass cuts him off, “You speak to her in any way other than respectfully, and I will defy space and time to snatch all four of those fucking combed over hairs on that oddly shaped head of yours and drag you out myself.”
“And take the joy away from me?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
The room is radio silent when Courtright exits and I look up at the screen just as Natasha comes on it. Her eyes meet mine briefly and then find Autumn’s.
“Uh, hi everyone.” She clears her throat, then bites her lip, and closes her eyes briefly.
You’ve got this, Little Warrior, I think as I sit, trying to not look affected by her appearance, but I am.
“Um, this was supposed to be two way so I could answer any questions, but I think we’re having connection issues. So, I guess I’ll just say, I am… am...” She stops and closes her eyes.
Come on, Natasha, I silently root for her.
She smiles, shakes her head, and laughs, “I’m really glad this is happening here with you all and not during one of the interviews Mom and Bass already have lined up. I mean, you’re all kind of like family.”
She opens her eyes and blinks a bit as unshed tears well in her beautiful eyes. She blows out a long steady breath and smiles again.
Keep doing that, Natasha, keep fucking smiling. That scar only shows when you’re not. Fuck, I wonder if she knows that.
“I have been swept up in the magic that all of you and Jean have created since I was eight years old. I’ve taken comfort in being inside that building you all are in right this moment. It was always my happy place.” Her lip quivers, and her hand clutches her shirt above her heart as she speaks.
I look down trying not to focus on the fact that there is a chance I made her use the word was, instead of is.
I feel an overwhelming need to get the fuck out of the room, so that she doesn’t have to face me, and to be honest, so I don’t have to face her, and in her, my past failings for now two women who trusted me, believed in me, but I can’t fucking move without causing her further disruption, regardless of how much it fucking hurts me.
Part VI
Oliver & Natasha (From Paris to London)
33
Natasha (Six Months later)
Prior to the launch of my winter line, I was an emotional basket case. My father was “disappointed in me”, for not telling him about it before he saw me on video screens all over de la Porte the day it was announced to the board. He did this via text message. I knew he had called Mom and she and Bass handled it, while Bass took the opportunity to tell him at the same time that he and Mom were together.
I knew this because a week later my father called and told me. He also told me he went to Oliver about it and Oliver helped him “through it.” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I was angry that he needed to be helped through anything concerning my mom. He’s the one that screwed up, not her. And I was embarrassed that Oliver now knew what a giant vagina my father was. When I messaged him that I was sorry he had been dragged into it, he responded, did he text you or call you. I replied, he called. His response was one word, Good.
The week before my nineteenth birthday, my first line launched, and even though it was late, the designs we had sold out within two weeks to the same shops and boutiques that carried Jeans designs, in New York, LA, Paris, and London. They were already buzzing about the eighteen-year-old fashionista who is going to turn the fashion world upside down.
Me, they were talking about me.
When word got out I was already designing a line for the spring, the New York and Paris headquarters had to hire extra employees to handle the e-mail and calls coming in from all over the world with requests to place orders. Both Bass and Mom told me if I wanted to take a break from school and focus on the business, I should. But school was my saving… grace. I told them I wanted to continue doing what I had been. Taking classes during the week and traveling to Paris on the weekends. I had next semester’s coursework condensed to three days. I would be in school for longer days but would have Mondays and Fridays off.
Autumn was now in Paris full-time and Mom was over the moon to have her back. I was over the moon, too. Until I realized, Oliver would be in charge of de la Porte New York and he’d be here less and less.
He was here for Christmas when Autumn went home to be with her family. But he rarely looked at me, and when he did, I swear I saw pity in his eyes, for me.
When I messaged him that night, I told him I was fine and he could stop looking at me like that. His reply was again, Good.
After Christmas and celebrating Mom and Bass’s engagement, he missed two weekends, including New Year’s Eve. I spent New Year’s Eve faking happiness as we watched the ball drop and then faking sick as I laid in bed all day crying about how stupid I was for thinking I would maybe get to tell him Happy New Year.
That weekend, the second in a row he missed, I FaceTimed him and did so using Maisie as an excuse. I would have taken that as hitting rock bottom if Maisie hadn’t regained her pep, but Oliver had thanked me and asked me to continue doing that if he was tied up in New York.
When Stella’s father passed away two weeks later, he messaged me and asked how I was.
I went on a rant, but instead of sending it, I pressed the delete button until it was gone, and typed, Good, instead.
When I came home for the funeral, I had a few drinks with my friends and drunk messaged him…
How can your dreams be coming true all around you and yet you feel like your whole world is crumbling apart? How?
He didn’t reply.
And when I called him, he sent me to voicemail.
I was so angry, I sent another message asking him what I did to lose his friendship, he replied, it is I who lost yours.
When Mom and Bass told me that they’d be getting married on February 14th, I had to take a brief break from the spring line to design my mom’s wedding dress and while I was at it, I designed my sister, or brother’s christening gown from the same material.
I spent every moment after class designing it, and the following weekend I cut, hung, tacked and sewed the most beautiful dress I had ever created.
I was feeling better about life, until the wedding itself.
Standing under the Eiffel tower feeling beautiful for the first time in months, I watched two figures walking toward us. A couple, it was obviously so. In the dark, I couldn’t see their faces, but in my imagination, it was me and it was him. It wasn’t the first time I had imagined this very situation. This dream I dared dream got me through so many hard times.
As they got closer, I felt a pain that I believe could be the worst pain a woman can ever feel, my heart was cracking, pieces of it breaking away and falling into a pool of nothing.
Oliver had brought a date.
She was tall, she was blonde, and she was unscarred.
My stomach turned and before they reached us, I excused myself, and threw up behind the Eiffel Tower.
Dizzy, I walked to the closest vendor to buy some mints when I saw someone beside me throw down two Eiffel tower keychains and a bottle of water.
I looked over and recognized his hand, even though it’s newly tattooed.
He paid the man and handed me the water.
“I can get it.”
“You okay?”
“Leave me alone,” I hissed at him, hoping the vendor didn’t hear me.
“I asked if you were okay.”
I looked up at him, tears streaming down my cheeks, and his body went rigid.
“I asked that you leave me alone.”
“Natasha–”
I took my change and the breath mints and began to walk away.
He moved in front of me, stopping me.
When I glared up at him, he tried to touch my face. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare touch me when all you see is someone else. And double don’t you dare touch me when you brought a date to my mother’s wedding.”
“Then don’t you dare beg to be fucking touched, Natasha. And double don’t you dare look at me like I’m a monster. A monster would have deflowered you, not told you the fucking truth.”
“You read my book.”
He nodded once and held up his finger. Two key chains hung from it.
“That’s sweet that you got your girlfriend–”
“Date,” he corrected as if it made one damn bit of difference.
“Fuck you, Oliver. Fuck you for ruining today and ruining this place–”
He grabbed the back of my head, pulling me forward, and he snapped, “Watch your mouth.” Then he kissed the top of my head.
“How dare you.” I pushed him away from me.
His eyes narrow, and his jaw tightens, then, he walked away.
It was after that when I realized I had been wrong about Oliver. And it wasn’t his fault. It was mine. He made me see beauty in all things, even scars. I’d just been blinded by their beauty to see what lies beneath. Changing that would now suffocate the beauty I’m creating, and I will not let that happen.
