two
My phone alarm must have been ringing forever because it was close to six when I forced my eyelids open and realized *NSYNC wasn’t actually singing “Bye Bye Bye” at my thirteenth birthday party, as they had been moments ago in my dream. I fumbled around until Justin and Joey became louder and I located the phone to shut it off. After a few moments of silence, the inky blackness of the room beckoning me back to deep sleep, I sat up with a jolt of recognition and remembered: today was Nancy Day.
I threw off the covers, my feet hitting the worn wood floors of my studio apartment. I groped in the dark, fingers outstretched, until I found the bedside lamp. The light cast long shadows in the room, and I rubbed my eyes, still swollen and heavy from sleep. My meeting with Nancy was scheduled for eight sharp, and I pushed myself up to a wobbly standing position, mindful that there would be no fuzzy socks or coffee over the Times this morning. Straight to the shower and straight to the rest of my life.
A half hour later, showered, makeup on, and hair coaxed into long waves, I rounded the corner to my tiny kitchen and tapped my feet impatiently while I waited for the coffee to brew and a bagel to toast. Still munching on the bagel, I tiptoed across the cold floor to my closet, pulling my robe tight around me as I walked. I passed the framed black-and-white photo that stood on the bookshelf near the kitchen, and I stopped, unable to ignore the image. I picked up the photo and felt my heart rise in my throat. My mom and dad, laughing at something the little girl in their laps said or did the moment before the shutter snapped shut. I closed my eyes, wishing for the millionth time I could call them, talk with them, relate to them every detail of what I was about to do and hear them cheer me on. I set down the photo gently, a thought lingering that I could call Gigi, that she would likely have the right words to say or at least make me laugh while she looked for them. No time, I assured myself, and instead I reached for a new dress I’d just finished working up a few days prior. I unwrapped it gently from the hanger and felt the black fabric run through my hands before slipping it on. I tugged up the exposed side zipper and took a step back, narrowing my eyes at my full-length reflection. I nodded, satisfied. It was perfect. Stunning and chic with just the right amount of edge. And it did what great clothes were meant to do: it made me feel beautifully ready for anything.
Pleased with myself, I threw on a red lip and grabbed my bag, still holding the overdrawn account notice within.
“Not for long,” I said out loud, squaring my shoulders before letting the heavy door swing shut behind me.
The waiting atrium for Nancy Strang’s office was roughly eighteen times larger than my entire cubicle five floors below. I sat on the edge of one of the midcentury modern chairs that lined the wall and tried against all odds to relax. I’d been waiting close to a half hour, and all the cool and confident self-talk I’d been spouting in my head all morning (and out loud during the empty elevator ride up) had dissipated into fragmented, nervous thoughts. Did I have all of my notes? I checked again. Yes. Design boards? Yes. USB for the digital part of the presentation? Yes. Index cards in my pocket with bullet points in case I got lost or panicked? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, my eyes on Buckley, Nancy’s admin. He sat at a circular desk in the middle of the large room, his blank gaze trained on a computer screen.
“Busy day?” I said aloud. I was dying to ask just how many hopeful designers were presenting to Nancy today, but I didn’t know if Buckley would appreciate such a direct question.
He didn’t even look away from the screen. “Not any busier than the other three hundred and sixty-four.”
“Right,” I said. “I’m sure you see plenty of traffic up here. All sorts, probably. The hopeful, the shamed, the stylish, the dowdy looking for inspiration. Maybe a celebrity or two.” I stopped abruptly, Buckley’s disdainful expression making me bite my lower lip to stop the flow of words coming out of my mouth. It was the stress. Stress made me revert to my roots, chatting up the people around me as if I were not in a Manhattan fashion house but instead still in the farmers’ co-op in Silver Creek, Iowa, sharing bad coffee and town gossip over a linoleum-topped table. I tried smiling at Buckley and biting my lip at the same time but was fairly sure the end result was more like a grimace.
He spoke quietly into his headset and then looked at me. “Ms. Strang will see you.” Turning back to his screen, he added, “She prefers a less-is-more approach when it comes to words. Maybe tuck that little hint into your back pocket.”
I nodded and stood, gathering my presentation materials and new resolve. I pushed open the towering white door into Nancy’s office and was struck immediately by the expansive windows offering a stunner of a Midtown view. I hadn’t seen this much of New York from an aerial perch since I was a tourist on the top of Rockefeller Center. I cleared my throat and walked toward the view and Nancy, who sat behind a long Lucite desk.
I offered my hand. “Ms. Strang, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
She offered a small smile. Nancy was a petite woman, seemingly at odds with such vaulted ceilings and expansive views. She did not compete but she sure did fill the space with her direct gaze, not to mention a formidable reputation. This was Nancy’s twenty-fifth year at Milano, and the years before those had been spent resurrecting Gucci from a post-eighties slump. Nancy Strang was a force, and to the outside world at least, it appeared that everything she touched in the fashion industry turned instantly to retail gold.
“Grace,” she said. Her close-cropped black hair was a trademark, as were the round, colored frames on her glasses. The color changed with the season, and today the frames were a bold spring green. “Welcome. If you don’t mind, we’ll just skip the chitchat and get right to the business at hand. I’m sure you are well prepared for this meeting.”
I stood in silence for a beat before realizing she would not be saying any more. I cleared my throat and spread out my design boards on the easels provided. Turning back to Nancy, I began my rehearsed intro.
“Winter. A blanket of fresh snow, the stark beauty of leafless trees, the long angles of early twilight . . . Winter is a distinct mix of minimalism and indulgence. Clean lines and long hours. The pale winter sky and the raucous palette of the holidays. Milano’s winter line should reflect this unexpected harmony.” I stopped, my heart racing and making my voice shake. I wet my lips with my tongue and began again, willing my voice to be less timid. “I’ve designed these pieces as a nod to our long tradition of exquisite, clean tailoring and luxurious fabrics while also bringing a fresh burst of color and modern lines to the silhouette.”
The boards were perfectly executed, my digital files loaded without a hitch, and the longer I spoke, the more comfortable I felt. I never even touched the cheat sheet index cards in my pocket, much less consulted them. I knew it all by heart. My designs were on trend, clean, and completely fitting with the long history at Milano. The shapes, colors, textures: everything screamed Milano. I felt my shoulders relax, confident I was hitting the right notes at the right times.
I finished my presentation and stood in silence, waiting for questions. I felt my smile grow a bit as I waited, so happy with the result of all my effort. Images of late nights doing grunt work flickered through my thoughts, all the times I’d been overworked and underappreciated, all the moments when I’d wondered if it had been worth it to put up with the order forms, the photocopying, the sewing of individual sequins on an accessory that was soon to be discarded by the designer in charge anyway. It had been worth it, just to get to this point, just to finally have the chance to show one of the most powerful women in the fashion industry, face-to-face, what I could do.
The silence began to stretch, and I shifted slightly in my heels, the blisters from the day before starting to pinch. After what felt like ten minutes of silence, Nancy looked up from the designs I had laid before her.
“Grace.” She said my name as a declaration.
I smiled.
She fixed her large brown eyes on mine. “I appreciate all the time and effort you have put into this presentation. It’s clear you are conscientious, thoughtful, responsible . . . all the things that make a great assistant.
“However,” Nancy said, folding her French-manicured fingers over her desk, “I’m afraid I’m not catching the vision here.”
My mind started to spin. Catch the vision? The vision was straight-up Milano! The vision was Nancy’s vision!
“Grace, I believe in being direct. No one does anyone any favors by being nice. Lying is not nice. So, Grace, I’m sorry but I just don’t see you having a design future here at Milano. I wish I had better news.”
I froze, my eyes becoming dry before I remembered to blink. When I tried to swallow, I realized my mouth was slightly open and I shut it, hard. No design future?
I cleared my throat, my thoughts starting to ricochet. “You’re looking for something different? I can change it. Is it the jacket? Maybe it needs to be cropped—” I shuffled the boards, looking for the jacket that was probably too long, but Nancy interrupted me.
“This is not a matter of one hem that can be tweaked.” Nancy remained still, her face composed, the apple green in her glasses frames the only counterpoint of color against her black-and-white long coat. “I know you’ve been here a few years—”
“Six,” I said, more roughly than I intended. “I’ve been here six years.”
One of Nancy’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Indeed. And you’ve done great work in your current position. Perhaps you should stick with what you know. Grace, not everyone can be a designer.”
I shook my head slowly, slowly, back and forth, willing my thoughts to stop spinning. “I graduated first in my class at FIT. People were scared of me there . . .” I cleared my throat after realizing I was mumbling. Raising my voice, I continued, “I was offered all sorts of jobs that last year of school, but I picked Milano. I picked you.” I pointed to Nancy, my fingers trembling. “I picked you because you’re Nancy Strang! You’re brilliant! You’re a legend! I wanted to work at a legendary house for a legendary woman!”
I saw Nancy shift in her chair, but I barely paused to breathe. “I came here because I thought after putting in my time, clocking in at the bottom of the ladder, the very bottom rung, I might add, I knew I would move up. I knew it because I’m a good designer! I am not a photocopier! I am not an errand runner or a coffee maker or a sheep holder! I am a designer!”
By this point, I had reached a shriek. I knew this because my final words rang back at me from the soaring glass, and I heard the pitch. The pitch was definitely a shriek.
“Ms. Kleren, perhaps you should—”
I matched Nancy’s measured tone with a good, old-fashioned yell. “Perhaps I should not! Perhaps I’m sick of doing what I should and getting absolutely nowhere for it!”
When the room stopped throbbing, I realized Buckley had, at some point, opened the door to Nancy’s office and was waiting at the threshold. I looked at him, disoriented.
“Thank you for your presentation, Ms. Kleren.” Nancy’s tone was cold and dismissive. She turned in her chair, away from me, toward her laptop and her bazillion-dollar view.
I stood, rooted to my spot. My limbs felt heavy and numb after the sudden rush and release of adrenaline. Buckley said my name softly, and I dragged my gaze from Nancy’s back to his face. Spidery lines creased his typically smooth forehead.
“This way, please,” he said, propping open the door as wide as it would go.
“Thank you,” I said, so quietly I was sure no one heard but the carpet. I gathered my boards from the floor and walked through the door Buckley held for me. When I heard him shut it quietly behind us, I turned to him.
“I probably could have edited some of that out,” I said, still shaking.
“Probably, yes,” Buckley said, striding ahead of me to push the elevator down button. “I believe I did mention less was more. You appear to have chosen a different tactic.”
My shoulders slumped as I shuffled into the elevator, holding my design boards so tightly, I could feel them cutting into my hands. The doors closed on Buckley and opened a moment later on my floor. I kept my head down as I walked to my desk, dropped my things onto my chair, and hurried as quickly as I could manage to the small restroom at the back. Mercifully, it was empty, and I collapsed against the door as I locked it. The sobs came easily and with a vengeance. I jumped with both blistered feet into what my grandma would have called a “pity extravaganza.” I had blown it, had squandered so much precious time, not only on my presentation, which I had thought was phenomenal, but also on the last ten years of my life. It was a total waste, I thought as I cried bitterly. One long, exhausting, unfulfilling waste.
Hot tears fell as if racing each other down my cheeks, and I sat down hard on the floor, shame and embarrassment flooding me. What kind of person had an emotional meltdown in front of one of the most powerful people in fashion? Promotion or not, I had a job to do, and indulging in my hissy fit had likely knocked me back to the bottom of the Milano totem pole. A rough sob escaped when I realized that for once I was glad I had no parents to tell. I wouldn’t have been able to stand their disappointment in me.
Slips of rough commercial toilet paper were my only tissues, and as I used them to blot my tears, I could feel my cheeks getting raw. I cried through the paper, through the raw, through the knocks on the door from Isa, who sounded increasingly concerned. When I’d spent every tear immediately available to me, I stood shakily and turned toward the small mirror above the sink. My eyes were puffy and an angry red I hadn’t seen in years, since a time of my life when tears were a constant companion. My dress, so fresh and innovative an hour before, looked rumpled and ridiculous, like something a little girl would wear while playing dress-up in her mommy’s closet.
Maybe it’s a metaphor, I thought as I swallowed the bile creeping into my throat. I splashed water on my face in an effort to resurrect some part of my appearance. Maybe I looked like I was playing dress-up because I was a total fake. Maybe I didn’t belong in this industry after all. I’d had ten years to try and this was where I’d ended up? In a cramped bathroom, crying like a toddler and dressed like one too?
“Grace, please. Open up.” Isa sounded a little frantic, though she had the kindness to continue using a muted voice. I shuddered, thinking about all the people at work in the room beyond that door and how Isa was sparing me their inspection.
I swallowed hard and opened the door an inch. I could see Isa’s trademark cat eye through the crack.
“Grace, honey, open the door.” She sounded like she was part of a hostage negotiation. “Come on out. It’s going to be okay.”
I sighed and opened the door. I took a step back when I saw James next to Isa. He looked very uncomfortable. Beyond our little group, I glimpsed people standing at their desks, paused in their work to watch the three of us.
I lifted my chin, scrambling for any semblance of self-possession. “I’m fine,” I said, a bit too loudly. “Just a rough morning. We can all get back to work.”
I took a step forward but James stopped me. Following Isa’s gaze, I looked to the floor. Next to James’s polished, custom lace-ups sat a cardboard box.
Filled with all the contents from my desk.
I looked up at James’s face, disbelieving.
“I’m sorry,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “When Nancy makes a decision . . .”
“Wait,” I sputtered. “James, you know me—”
He shook his head quickly. “There was nothing I could do. Grace, you’re fired.”