Chapter Fifteen
Gideon avoided me the rest of the day, only making polite chitchat whenever his parents were nearby. I tried several times to talk to him and explain myself, but each time there was a small window of opportunity, he disappeared to do something for the estate. I thought I might have a chance to pull him aside after dinner, but as soon as we retreated to the library, Gideon excused himself, saying he had some emails to answer and calls to make. I stopped by his room on my way to mine and knocked, hoping he’d be willing to talk to me away from the rest of the guests, but he never answered. I finally gave up and went to bed.
The next morning, I finally got my opportunity. Jamie was packing the car for our return trip to London and I spotted Gideon way off in the distance. He was down at the edge of the property, setting up some small displays outside the Badgley Hall gift shop. I asked Jamie if we could hold off leaving and headed off to talk to him.
By the time I made my way down to the cottage, Gideon was already back inside, restocking shelves with Badgley Hall commemorative mugs, teapots, and strainers. He turned to look when the door chime rang.
“I know you’re upset with me, but I wanted to come and at least say goodbye and thank you before we head back to London. Jamie and I leave for New York in the morning.”
Gideon turned back around and continued stocking the shelves.
I walked farther into the gift shop and picked up a book titled, The Secrets of Badgley Hall.
“How much for the book?” I asked.
He turned around and glanced over at it. “You can just take it. The author didn’t even include the most salacious stuff in that one.”
I looked around at the old cottage, which had been converted to a quaint little gift and tea shop. “There’s so much history everywhere. If these walls could talk…”
“The rooms…the walls…the hedge maze,” he muttered.
“The hedge maze wouldn’t tell you anything I haven’t already,” I said.
Gideon looked up at me. “Did I forget to commend you for your honesty? Thank you so much for telling me you kissed your ex-fiancé while staying at my home.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Gideon’s arms hung down at his sides in defeat, his voice thick with disillusion. “It’s my own fault. I pushed things too fast. I thought we were on the same page. But, we’re not, are we?”
“I wanted to be. I thought there was a chance we could be. I never would have come here if I didn’t.”
I walked over to the corner of the store, where a telescope was propped up to the window, on display for sale. I knelt down and looked up through the glass.
“It was mine from when I was a kid. I used to take it up to the roof of the house to chart the stars. I don’t have the time to devote to it anymore, so I decided to sell it.”
I stood up, and Gideon brushed past me to readjust the telescope.
“If it means that much to you, don’t let it go so easily. You’ll find the time.” I picked the book on Badgley Hall up from the table and hugged it close to my body. “This isn’t goodbye, right? We’ll see each other again?”
“I’m sure our paths will cross at Victoria and Alexander’s wedding. Look for me up in the cheap seats,” he said.
“Viscount Satterley in the cheap seats? I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“I think they reserve the front rows for dukes and Olivier Award winners.”
“Perry hasn’t won yet.”
“He will.”
Twenty-four hours later, I was back in my tiny apartment lying across the bed and trying to work out whether my bedroom in Badgley Hall had been larger than my entire home. It was. The door buzzer rang, and I sprang up to answer it. Jordana rushed at me as soon as I opened the door. She flung her coat and phone onto a pile of unread magazines and newspapers, sat down on the couch, and opened her laptop on my coffee table.
“Thank goodness you’re back! We have so much to do.”
I threw my hands up. “Easy, girl. I haven’t even unpacked yet.”
Jordana pushed my hands down and kept talking. “I spoke to Gemma, and she said you have a dossier with all the wedding details.”
“You spoke with Gemma Landry?”
Jordana looked up from her computer. “She called me on Friday—wanted to make sure I had everything I needed to be able to field questions from the press. We hit it off like gangbusters.”
I sipped on my coffee. “Why am I not entirely surprised?”
She ignored my comment and continued.
“We worked out our strategy for dealing with the press and agreed it was in everyone’s best interest to give Vogue a bit of an exclusive on the gown. Anna Wintour has been such an outspoken supporter of Victoria’s choice of G. Malone, it just makes sense.”
“Victoria agreed to give Vogue an exclusive? I thought she wanted to keep the dress under wraps until the big day?”
“Victoria signed off on a cover story and spread to take place before the wedding to capture more stylistic elements of the dress but not to reveal the dress itself. Then they’re going to run a follow-up article on the world’s reaction to the gown following the wedding. You have a meeting with Vogue a week from…” She scrolled down to the bottom of her calendar. “Thursday.”
Jordana pulled a notebook from her bag, flipped to the middle, and rattled off a list of things I needed to do to prepare for the meeting.
“They’ll need an idea of the color scheme. For example, is the dress stark white or cream? If possible, they’d love a clue about the fabric choice. Lace? Satin? Taffeta? Tulle? Is the dress more whimsical or formal? Are you pulling any inspiration or ideas from history or past royal weddings? They also asked if you and Jamie would be willing to be in the actual photo shoot. I knew he’d be down for that but wasn’t sure how you’d feel?”
“Umm, uh, sure—yeah, I guess that’s fine.”
She took out a pen and crossed that off her list. “Great. Anna’s also asking for a lookbook as soon as we can get it to her.”
“I thought the shoot was just supposed to evoke the feel of the dress. Why does she need a lookbook?”
“Gigi, it’s Anna Wintour. I didn’t ask questions. When do you think you can get that over to her?”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty far behind.”
“Okay, I’ll let her team know you’ll have something with you on Thursday,” she said without looking up from her phone.
“Jordana, I’m not sure that’s doable.”
She stood up, closed her laptop, and stuffed it back into her very crammed tote. “You’ll figure it out. I have to run. I have a million calls.”
After a hurried air kiss goodbye, Jordana went back to the office, and I set up to work on designing Victoria’s dress. I picked up my coffee mug, the one I’d bought at Highclere Castle, and set it down on my drafting table. I turned on some music and waited for the rush of adrenaline that comes after hearing you had to meet a completely unrealistic deadline. Nothing came. Not one iota of inspiration.
I never realized how many distractions could capture my attention while I was trying to focus so furtively on the empty pages of my sketchbook. The buzz of an errant fly zipping around in the hazy sunbeams streaming in from the bay window. The odor of frying oil and French fry grease floating up from the burger restaurant downstairs. The intermittent cool breeze of the small oscillating desk fan set upon my windowsill.
I stood up and hit the blinking red button on my answering machine. Another distraction I couldn’t ignore. Aside from telemarketers, my mother was one of the only people who still bothered leaving formal messages on it. I wandered over to the couch and sifted through the pile of mail, newspapers, and magazines from my few days away while the messages played. The first was from the New York Philharmonic asking Mr. and Mrs. Gillman if we wanted to renew our yearly subscription. Not likely.
The second was from my mother. She spent the first half of the message letting me know how disappointed she was to have heard the news we were designing Victoria Ellicott’s dress from Matt Lauer instead of her daughter and the second half rattling off a list of all the prominent people who’d called to congratulate her on the news. Before hanging up, she casually mentioned not to pay any attention to the article in the New York Post.
I pulled the Post out from the bottom of the pile and quickly flipped to Page Six, the newspaper’s famous gossip section. The headline read, “Royal Flush: Will Georgica Goldstein Blow the Opportunity of a Lifetime?” The article that followed recounted my disastrous breakdown during the Top Designer finale and subsequent loss. I read through the story and scanned the accompanying pictures—photographs of some of my best and worst designs—then leaned back into the couch hoping it might swallow me whole.
Over the last four years when bouts of self-doubt crept up and out of the depths of my consciousness, Perry had been a few feet away cheering me on—forcing me to push those insecurities aside. I looked over to the corner where his keyboard once sat and hurled the newspaper at the empty wall. I walked back over to the drafting table turned to a blank page of the pad, and sat back down. I picked up a pencil and suddenly felt like my hands were going numb. I put the pencil down, shook them out, and tried to pick it up again. This time, I couldn’t even grip the pencil and it fell to the floor. I watched as it slowly rolled past my feet and behind the far leg of the table.
When I lifted my head up the room was spinning. My breaths, more like gasps, were fast and irregular, and I was certain I was about to pass out. I climbed off the stool and squatted on the floor, my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth, praying the feeling would pass. Finally, when the familiar tingle of pins and needles started creeping back into my hands and my breathing slowed to its normal rhythm, I opened my eyes. The room was still turning but started to come into better focus. I shifted onto my knees, and only when I was sure I was stable, pulled myself back up to a standing position.
I peeled my T-shirt away from my body. It was almost completely soaked through with sweat. I pulled it up over my head and tossed it onto the couch. Standing in nothing but my bra and a pair of leggings, I scoured the room for my phone.
I picked it up off the kitchen counter and searched my contacts. Even after all these years, I couldn’t bring myself to delete her information. Before I could second-guess myself, I hit the call button. Trini picked up on the first ring.
“This is Trini,” she said.
I cleared my throat. “It’s Georgica Goldstein.”
“Gigi, how are you? What a funny coincidence, I was just speaking with Anna about you.”
“Can we meet? Have lunch? Coffee? Whatever works for you?”
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Okay. Let’s meet in an hour at Abraco on East Seventh by my apartment.”
I hung up and changed clothes. I was still shaky, so I called for an Uber to take me downtown. When the car pulled up to the coffee house, Trini was waiting outside for me. As soon as I saw her, I broke down in tears. She rushed to the car and helped me climb out and get inside. We sat at a small table in the back, and Trini called over the waiter. She ordered a pot of chamomile tea and two scones.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and my nose with the cloth napkin from the table. Trini sat back in her chair and waited for me to compose myself. I took a few deep breaths to slow down my heart, which was beginning to race again. The waiter brought the tea, and Trini poured some into a cup, added a touch of milk, and slid it in my direction. I took a small sip and placed it back on the table.
“Do you know why the English put milk in their tea?” she asked.
I shook my head no.
“In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the china cups tea was served in were so delicate, they would crack from the heat of the tea. Milk was added to cool the liquid and stop the cups from fracturing.”
“You’d think I’d know that after all the time I’ve spent in London the last few years.”
Trini poured some for herself, leaned back in her chair, and folded her hands in her lap. “So, what’s going on, Georgica?”
I hesitated for a moment before all my frustrations came spilling out like a stream. “I put pencil to paper and nothing comes. It’s like the finale of Top Designer and my last few months at Diane von Furstenberg all over again, only now, the whole world is gonna find out I’m a big fraud.”
“Do you remember what I said to you all those years ago, when you were struggling with your final collection on Top Designer?”
“Figure it out?”
She laughed. “Yes, my annoyingly famous catchphrase, but I believe I said a bit more than that.”
I moistened my lips. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”
“No, I didn’t think you would.”
The waiter brought the two scones in a basket with butter and jams and set them down at the table. Trini reached in, split one in half, and covered it with strawberry jelly.
She took a bite and said, “You were deeply in love with that guy, but he was dating your good friend. As I recall, you went on Top Designer to get away from him.”
“I was trying to escape from a lot of things back then. Law school. My parents. Basically everything in my life, but yes, Joshua was the single biggest reason.”
Trini nodded as she continued to nibble on her scone. She laid it back down on her plate and brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “It was about six years ago we sat at the table in the back corner, and I tried to talk you off a ledge.”
“I didn’t realize this was the very same coffee house we met at during my Top Designer breakdown.”
“I’m not surprised. To say you were hysterical would be an understatement. You could’ve won your season. Easily. You know that, right?”
I shook my head. “There were so many talented people on the show with experience and education. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time.”
“Exactly. You worked completely on instinct and slayed each challenge. But then, right when you were at the finish line, you buckled.”
I clasped my hands together and rested my chin on top. “I remember.”
“At first, you blamed your creative block on the press, the time constraints of the show, a lack of technical training. But then you turned the conversation to Joshua and your friend. What was her name?”
“Alicia.”
“Right. Alicia. You told me all about how you met each other at camp as kids. How you’d been in love with Joshua your whole life, but he didn’t feel the same way. And as you prattled on and on about your perfect friend and perfect Joshua, I realized I wouldn’t be able to help you out of your hole. You’d already convinced yourself you were the runner-up long before we ever announced that Kharen Chen was the winner.”
I started to object, but she continued talking right over me.
“When I heard you’d started G. Malone, I hoped you could finally see yourself for the talented designer you are. But looking at you now, I still see that scared girl who didn’t believe she could possibly be anybody’s first choice.”
Trini’s words hung in the air as the waiter came by with a fresh kettle of hot water. I reached for it and burned the tip of my thumb and forefinger. Tears sprang to my eyes, the searing pain of the injury releasing all my pent-up emotions. Suddenly, I was sobbing. Trini came around to my side of the table and wiped my eyes with her cloth napkin. She knelt down and took my head in her hands.
“Georgica, my darling, you’re the only person standing in the way of your success,” she said in her soft Scottish accent.
I looked straight into her eyes. “If that’s true, how do I fix it?”
“What’d you do after Diane von Furstenberg?”
“I left the city. I left everything. Alicia. Joshua. I ran away.”
She pushed a piece of hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear. “Where’d you run?”
“My childhood summer camp. I needed a break from the background noise. I went looking for quiet.”
Trini returned to her seat. “I assume you found it?”
I nodded yes and thought of Perry. “That and a lot more.”
She looked at me, her eyes wide as if I’d just resolved my own predicament.
“I can’t go work as a counselor at Chinooka again,” I said.
“No, of course not. But go to that camp of yours for a few days. Clear your head. You can’t hear your own voice with all the chatter. Find that quiet again. You’ll come up with the design.”
“What if I can’t?”
“The world will keep on spinning. It’s just fashion, Gigi. Just a dress.”
“What would the Anna Wintour have to say if she heard you talking like this?”
She waved her hand in the air. “Oh, she’s heard me talk like this. Plenty of times.”
Trini stood up and threw down some money for the bill. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah, I think I am,” I said, already imagining the warm welcoming gates of Camp Chinooka. It was time I visited home.