Back in New York, white winter continues.
“You must be excited,” Gareth comments as the private plane touches down on the tarmac.
“Um. What?” My thoughts are a tangled ball of yarn. Chad Tate in a wooden box. My father’s wooden expression. The fight at the funeral. Gareth and I don’t discuss these things. They’re part of a future that probably won’t exist. Working out the details doesn’t matter.
“The press junkets. The microshow,” Gareth explains with a casual wave of his hand. The microshow. This is what his people are calling the presentation of our plus-size collection. Old habits die hard and I’m pretty sure that Gareth is making “big clothes, small show” jokes behind my back. Well, whatever it is, it’s happening in a week.
“Darcy’s got a great model call set up for tomorrow. She thinks you’ll get some strong material.”
I nod. This was one of the facets of the project that excited me from the very beginning. We’ll be calling top plus-size models. I get to help choose who walks, the music we use and what the set looks like. I’ve managed to convince Gareth to use a series of images shot at his ranch in Argentina instead of his usual white walls.
I smile at Gareth and try to act excited about what’s coming. But he’s become strangely detached from our show. I can’t help but feel like my life has gone off the rails somehow, like I’m further away than ever from those images of Claire McCardell and her girls from the pages of old Time magazines.
Gareth slides into the back of the Town Car and immediately begins to review spreadsheets on his iPad. He isn’t bothered about his bags. Someone will pick them up. Someone will take him home. I wonder if the Gary who rode the bus into Spanish Harlem for cheap burritos and fabric inspiration is in there somewhere. Or if Lydia Moreno is right. That now there’s only Gareth Miller. A man who makes things to be worn and sold and thrown away in an endless cycle that exists without love or passion or bliss.
Darcy’s staged the event at the Morgan Library, an old building in Murray Hill that used to be a place for old-timey robber baron banker, Pierpont Morgan, to store all his books. “We’re going for something, you know, kind of different,” Darcy says.
Gareth will host a presentation in the library’s auditorium. I’ll wave and smile and blog. Afterward, there will be a Q&A with top fashion journalists in “Mr. Morgan’s Library,” the ultraopulent reading room.
The week is supposed to be exciting. This is, after all, my first real show. The first one that isn’t taking place in my living room with Grandma and her church friends as the audience.
But there are a couple weird things going on.
My phone buzzes with a new email from my dad. I don’t answer. He’s tried to contact me several times since Chad Tate’s funeral. I can sort of tell he’s hoping I’ll apologize for what I said.
Don’t hold your breath, Dad.
Nobody’s seen Mom since the wake at the church. I guess because he’s determined to be the biggest idiot on the planet, Dad’s on a mission to find her. He hires a private investigator to help and sends me status updates in his emails. Dad actually seems surprised when the PI reports that Mom made it safe and sound back to New York, taking up at the Carlyle. She’s probably hoping to run into Woody Allen.
Setting off for NYC tomorrow. I’ll find your mother. Don’t worry.
I’m not worried. Mom’s great at only one thing. Taking care of Mom.
The other thing is that there’s something going on at G Studios.
Darcy makes a big show of getting my opinion on major issues. We listen to a ton of fusion music and spend a whole day selecting shoes to match the collection. I blog about the model fittings and keep tweeting how excited I am about the show. But when I’m walking through the studio, certain doors get closed and people cover certain things on their desks as I pass. I try to tell myself this is business as usual. I mean, it’s probably normal not to show all the private details of a multi-million-dollar corporation to a twenty-year-old blogger, right?
As I’m staring out into space, Darcy pushes two credit-card-sized pieces of plastic into my hand.
“Uh. What’s this?”
She smoothes down her dark purple hair and rolls her eyes. She must have already told me what these things are. “Tickets.”
When I stare blankly, she snorts and goes on. “To the show. I thought you might want to invite your friend. That Australian girl. What’s her name?”
Piper.
Maybe I should invite her.
For some reason, I don’t.
Friday.
The day of the show arrives fast. Gareth’s people keep us on a tight schedule. They send him to the library early for a few meetings. I’m supposed to make a series of posts on my blog and host a Twitter chat with Lucy from NutriMin Water. Darcy’s got me scheduled to arrive at the venue a few minutes before the show starts.
There’s my first clue, Sherlock.
I’ve also got a huge block of time designated for me to “get ready” at Gareth’s apartment. GM sends a hairstylist, a makeup artist and wardrobe stylist as well as a massive rack of clothes from Gareth’s Fall collection. For most of the day, I’m basically living through a reality TV makeover segment. All that’s missing is some montage music, like “Eye of the Tiger” or “Walking on Sunshine.”
It’s around four in the afternoon by the time I take the car over to the Morgan Library. Darcy meets me at the entrance.
She leads me into “Mr. Morgan’s study.” In our short, GM black dresses, we both contrast sharply with the plush Victorian-style furnishings of the red room. After sitting on the velvet sofa for a few minutes, I pace the room and wait for Gareth. I try to imagine life as Pierpont Morgan, whom the museum describes as a banker of vast wealth who divided his time between hunting down rare books and having dinner with Thomas Edison. I notice that someone has left a half-crumpled brochure on one of the low bookcases.
There’s a picture of a blond-haired, size-two model on the front with the caption, Poción de Amor. Love potion in Spanish.
It’s my mom. On the cover. Wearing a slightly sexier version of one of the skirt-and-blouse designs Gareth and I patterned together.
I quickly flip through the booklet. It’s all the same. Standard-size versions of the clothes I helped design with the words Also available in plus-size in tiny letters underneath. There’s a huge picture of Gareth in the inside jacket, but my name isn’t mentioned once.
To see our work that way—the indigos and umbers of our nights in Salta, the verdant greens and dusty browns of the days at Camino a Seclantas—is worse than a slap in the face or a punch in the gut. It’s like someone reaching into my chest and digging their fingernails right into my heart.
Suddenly, the brochure is made of needles. I drop it and turn on Darcy. “This isn’t a presentation of the plus-size capsule collection, is it?”
She fidgets with her purple hair and tucks a loose strand behind her ear. “We’re doing everything we talked about, Cookie. All the models you chose are walking. The music. The backgrounds.”
And suddenly everything makes sense. “My mom’s doing the show.”
Darcy doesn’t answer.
I leave Mr. Morgan’s study. Everything in the room is red, but even in the white halls, everything I see is still red. Darcy’s heels click on the tile floor as she runs behind me. I’ve got almost a foot on her, and her tiny little legs are in overdrive.
“Cookie. For God’s sake,” she huffs from behind me. “Try to see it from our perspective. We already sold through the plus-size merch you guys created.”
“When you say ‘we,’ are you referring to yourself and the guy that’s supposed to be my boyfriend?” I call back.
“The editors...the buyers...they were in love with the stuff. It only made sense to launch it in all sizes, to do a fuller collection.” We’re nearing the museum entrance, where crowds of people are clustered together, waiting for the doors to the auditorium to open.
“Cookie. Cookie,” Darcy is whispering frantically and puffing, out of breath. “Please. Stop for one minute. One minute.”
I whirl around to face her. She jumps back, taken a bit off guard by the intensity I can feel radiating from my body. “This collection was supposed to be about something. About showing people who usually get treated like crap by the world of fashion that they really do matter. Instead, it’s...it’s...” It’s people like my mother getting everything they want at other people’s expense.
I’ll say one thing for Darcy, she keeps her cool. Her face stays neutral. Even as I’m towering over her, she puts her hands on her hips and delivers this speech.
“It’s not about you. Or even Gareth, for that matter. We’re taking a financial bloodbath on that last collection. We need a hit. Or we’d be talking layoffs. Store closures. This sets us up nicely for Resort and Spring.”
“And my mother?” I ask.
Darcy’s hands fall slack by her side. “Nathan said it was too late to cancel the contract. We would’ve had to pay her anyway. Might as well use her. And after Tate’s death...the PR value...”
I can’t figure out if I want to laugh or cry or throw up. My brain is so busy processing emotions, I probably have sparks coming out my ears. “Use her? You used me. I am such an idiot.”
As I resume walking, she calls out, “No. No, you’re not.”
We both know that I am and so I don’t stop. “I hope you got what you needed,” I say to no one in particular. Darcy doesn’t follow me any farther.
I run through the bright and airy court in the center of the library, passing Gareth, who’s deep in conversation with Par Donna editor Celine Stanford. I move through the glass doors facing Madison Avenue.
There’s a beautiful, dark-haired girl crouching down near the entrance, crying into her hands. I almost trip over her as I leave the library building.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” the girl says, trying to stifle another sob.
The voice is familiar. Way too familiar.
Of course it’s Kennes.
“What are you doing here?” I’m pretty sure God has sent Kennes as one final fuck you. She’s probably about to hand me a wedding invitation and tell me that she and Tommy will be getting hitched on Richard Branson’s private island and riding off in his personal submarine.
I can’t take it. Not today.
Kennes looks up at me for a second in her normal, snotty way, but that expression fades immediately, replaced by a mouth that sags downward and squinty eyes with tears rolling out of them. With her perfectly shaped bob hairdo and glossy nails, she looks like a super sad little doll.
I don’t know why, but she gives me a real answer.
“Um...SoScottsdale. I’m supposed to... Marlene told me to come here and ask you for tickets to the show... I was too embarrassed... I tried...I tried to sneak in... I’m such a total screwup.” She breaks into another round of sobs.
I’m startled, shaken for a minute from my own self-pity and I find myself saying, “No. No, you’re not.”
Kennes rubs her eyes, trying to stop the waterworks. “You’re a terrible liar. You know, nobody...nobody expects me to do anything. I’m supposed to be polished up like a trophy, trying to figure out how to marry a Mellon or Rothschild. Even my own father...he wishes you were his daughter.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I say with an indignant grunt.
“‘There’s a girl who knows what she’s doing,’” Kennes says in an imitation of Jameson Butterfield’s baritone voice. “That’s what he said. He thought you were right. To stand up to me. That day at the office. You’re a lot like him. When he was young.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. And I’m sure your dad loves you, Kennes.” It’s weird to be in this position. To be offering aid to the enemy. But I do. Because I’ve never seen anyone quite so lost and pathetic.
She stops crying. “You and I both know there’s a difference between liking someone and loving them.”
Yes.
Yes, we do.
I reach into my GM by Gareth Miller handbag and fish out the two plastic tickets from Darcy. “Here.”
She stares at them and doesn’t reach out.
“They’re tickets. To the show. At least you can cover it for SoScottsdale.” She still doesn’t take them, so I roll my eyes. “Or don’t. I won’t force you to take them.”
I’m about to tuck the tickets back in my bag when she takes them.
“No. I do. I want them.” There’s a pause. “Thanks.”
Kennes rises from where she’s kneeling on the concrete steps. “Why are you helping me?”
I shrug. I’m not sure I even understand myself. Maybe because I don’t want to be trapped in one, big, never-ending cycle of what goes around, comes around. Maybe because, at some point, I have to get out of the revenge business. “You seem like you need it.”
I’m about to turn toward Madison Avenue when she says, “About what I said. What I did. I’m sorry. I was mean. I was...going through something and...”
“It’s okay, Kennes. It’s going to be okay.”
This is what I tell myself. It will be okay.
“Cookie, about the internship at Stella Jupiter. I’m sure you’ll get it.”
I think for a second. “May the best designer win, Kennes. And if that’s you, I’m okay with it.” As the words come out, I hope they’ll be true.
She smiles and moves through the library door. Behind me, I hear it close with a quiet click. It opens as I’m walking away, and Gareth calls, “Cookie!” He catches up with me a few paces later.
“Cookie.” He grabs me by my shoulders. There’s a strange mixture of anger and fear on his face. But it’s not the right kind of fear. He’s not afraid of me leaving. He’s afraid of being exposed as a fraud. Or being alone. “It’s business. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything. It has nothing to do with you and me. I need you. Come on. Stay.”
I shake free of him and resume walking.
“Where the hell are you going? The show starts in five minutes.”
I stop and turn around. I feel certain that this is the last time I’ll be seeing his perfect, chiseled features, his dark moody eyes, his thin lips, somewhere other than in the pages of a magazine.
“Home,” I say.
I’m going home.