twenty-three
The silence in our loft space was so pronounced, we could hear each individual tick of the second hand on the big train clock. I had stopped pacing, finally, when Eleanor had rolled a design chair over the floor, its casters bumping with her speed, and had pointed to it. “Stop. Please,” she’d said, and I had stopped. And sat.
The room was sparkling. We’d finished final production the day before, and we’d stayed late into the evening sweeping, wiping, fussing, polishing, and perfecting until the room was worthy of the clothes displayed on a long line of mannequins in the center of the room. We waited as the clock pushed onward. Already-hot morning sun poured through the windows as we watched the elevator doors for the arrival of James and the buyers from Solomon’s, one of New York’s oldest, most venerated, and most fashionable department store chains.
Chase was biting his nails and kept nervously pushing up his oversize black frames. Eleanor stood to the side of the mannequins, every now and then reaching out to trim a minuscule thread or brush off nonexistent lint. Moira sat with perfect posture next to a table loaded with pastries, bagels, spreads, muffins, and fruit. She had stacked vintage cake plates, all variations of white, and cascades of summer flowers spilled down the sides. A bevy of glistening champagne flutes was waiting for her to fill with mango mimosas, and two pots of hot liquid, one tea and one coffee, stood sentry with her at the end of the table. The table was a marvel, and I’d told Moira so when I’d arrived at seven and she was putting on the finishing touches. I did not mention that she’d gathered enough food for eighty people.
Better to have too much rather than too little, Gigi always said, and my heart skipped to think of her. I’d promised to call when I knew the outcome of today’s meeting. Acting on reflex, I pulled my phone from the deep pocket of my skirt, a just-finished midi that flared at the perfect length and showcased a new pair of ankle-strap heels I’d found on the way back to the Gansevoort the day before. My phone showed just one new message, from Gigi. It read:
Break a log! I am so proud of you and can’t wart to heal about the meat today! You’re going to knock their songs off, honey!
I smiled and reminded myself (again) not to feel anything but fine that Tucker hadn’t texted. Tucker was not going to text. I was not going to text Tucker. We were done, just as it needed to be, and today I had no room for extra distractions. I slipped my phone out of sight into the new Saffron handbag James had brought down for me during our cleaning frenzy the day before. I ran my hand across the smooth leather, loving the way it felt on my fingertips, and made a mental note to thank James again when the chaos of the day died down.
The light above the elevator door lit up and I heard Chase take a sharp breath. Before the doors could open I spoke quickly to my team. “You three are outstanding. Be confident. You deserve to be.” Eleanor nodded, Chase looked like he was going to pass out, and Moira looked like she was ready to call 911 and drive the ambulance if Chase passed out.
The doors opened slowly and the first leg out was clad in the most exquisite, perfectly tailored pair of trousers I’d seen on a real human. I was pretty sure they were Valentino, I was pretty sure I’d salivated over them in the last Vogue, and I was pretty sure they weren’t even available to the general public yet. The woman wearing those pants, I realized with a gulp, knew beautiful clothes. She was not going to get distracted by a story about a few sweet grandmas and a converted barn. I would need to know my stuff.
I crossed the room to her, James, and the two other people in their group. One appeared to be the woman’s Moira, only this assistant was so busy studying the phone in her hand, she barely looked up. The final member of the party was a man with a bow tie, shaved head, and smart seersucker suit. His oversize tortoiseshell glasses were so prominent on his face, I had to concentrate to get past them to his eyes.
James made the introductions as I held out my hand, first to the woman in Valentino.
“Grace Kleren, meet Hedda Lind.” James’s eyebrows were doing a lambada, and I ignored them the best I could while shaking Hedda’s hand. It took me a beat to realize this was Hedda Lind, as in the daughter of Lionel Lind, the owner of Solomon’s and patriarch of one of the wealthiest families in the city. James had told us that Solomon’s senior fashion buyer, Aaron De Castro, would be the one we were sweating to impress today. De Castro had a fierce reputation as having a searingly accurate view of how fashion moved and what inventory to acquire. He was enough of a force to have James popping Tums like candy for the last three days. If he’d known Hedda Lind herself was going to stop by instead, he might have needed a quick trip to urgent care, just to get a grip.
“Ms. Lind,” I said, more confidently than I felt. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
She dipped her chin gracefully, as if to acknowledge that yes, it was an honor to meet her. She let my hand drop almost as quickly as she grasped it, already looking behind me to the mannequins. I could feel her quiet impatience as I met her assistant, Agnes, and the seersucker man, Claude, who was Solomon’s accounting guru. He brandished a sleek, monogrammed calculator while we were still introducing our team and was so absorbed in cleaning off its screen with a microfiber cloth that he didn’t acknowledge the profound crack in Chase’s voice when he spoke.
James cleared his throat, still wagging his eyebrows at me whenever Hedda was looking the other way, and offered Moira’s magnificent table of refreshments to the party.
Hedda waved one slender, manicured hand in the direction of a rhubarb muffin. She shook her head. “Cleansing,” she explained.
I caught Moira’s eye and tried to convey to her my deep appreciation for the rhubarb and everything else on that table. She kept her face neutral, a reminder of why Moira was going to do very well in her life. James’s eyebrows could have taken a page from Moira’s poise.
“Shall we, then?” he said, leading us to the line. I walked in step with the group, eyes narrowed on the clothes. Hedda Lind, I knew, would not suffer mistakes of any kind. I glanced at James and saw tension radiating in his posture and face.
Hedda led the way, soon striding ahead, her eyes on the clothes. Hands on each bony hip, she came to a stop in front of the first piece, a dress with a fitted skirt that followed a woman’s natural curves down to just below the knee, a curved slit making its way prettily up to the lower part of the thigh. Hedda gathered a handful of the skirt fabric, let it fall. She touched the bodice fabric, a coquettish eyelet, and cocked her head as she took in the entire look. After a long beat, she moved on. She walked slowly from left to right, giving each piece her full and focused attention. When, halfway down the line, James asked if she had any questions or wanted to hear more about the story behind the brand, she shook her head slightly, saying only, “No words, please.”
James clamped his mouth shut, eager to please. I glimpsed Chase out of the corner of my eye. His head was in his hands. Eleanor was close enough to Hedda to be dissecting with her gaze the way Hedda’s own haute couture blouse was moving as she walked. I stifled a smile, feeling the same giddiness underneath my nerves. Normal people, even people within the fashion industry, didn’t often get the chance to see clothes like Hedda’s up close and personal. I knew Eleanor was thinking what I was thinking, that we would have loved to hold the blouse, the pants, the shoes, the belt, in our hands and read the stitching and construction like a map of buried treasure. Of course, asking Hedda Lind to remove her clothing would likely not help us close the deal for Flyover. I swallowed hard as she finished her progression down the row that represented a decade of dreaming and an insane number of hours over the last two weeks.
Hedda finished her perusal of the clothes and kept walking at a measured pace toward the window. She stood there, looking out at the busy street below, for what felt like an entire lifetime. I stole a glance at Claude, seeking clues of how normal this behavior was, but he had co-opted a nearby desk chair and was sitting, seersucker pant legs crossed, eyes closed, and head tipped back slightly. Claude appeared to be either meditating or napping, I wasn’t sure which. Agnes the assistant had followed a few steps behind Hedda as she’d inspected the garments, but she had not followed Hedda to the window and was instead standing next to the blown-up photo of New York, hands behind her back as if she were in a museum on a lazy Saturday afternoon.
I shifted in my shoes, feeling my toes slip toward the front of the heels. I heard my stomach growl, finally waking up after so many nerves that morning and so many meals at odd hours that it was never quite sure anymore when average people ate. Hedda had been standing in silence for so long, I was seriously considering tiptoeing to Moira’s table and snagging a bagel when Hedda finally turned on one very expensive Blahnik.
“USP.” She said the three letters and waited, eyes on me.
I paused and opened my mouth to speak, but James beat me to it.
“Flyover’s unique selling point? I really think—”
Hedda silenced James with a hand and the look on her face. “I ask this question of Grace.” She returned her gaze to me. “Tell me what makes these clothes worthy of my customers’ hard-earned money.”
“These clothes,” I began, and then cleared my throat, starting over and forcing the timidity out of my voice. “These clothes are about feeling beautiful effortlessly. The fabrics, the lines, the silhouettes, the movement—everything points to ease and elegance without trying too hard. My team and I have worked hard to create garments that make sense on a woman’s body. The curve of that skirt, the gentle arc on the back of that blouse, the pretty dip in the neckline of that dress . . .” I pointed as I talked, feeling a fresh wave of pride in what we—what I—had built from scratch. “Those are not just design details meant to look great on a mannequin. Those are details meant to make a woman feel gorgeous. These clothes fit today’s woman, and not just because the measurements are sound. They are inspired by women in my hometown. Hardworking, smart, funny women who love to look pretty and don’t take themselves too seriously.” I could feel my eyes stinging. “This company is all about joy. I want joy to come out in the designs, in the wearing of the garments, even in the moment in the dressing room when a girl sees herself for real and likes what she sees. That’s the unique selling point. Clothes from the full, boisterous hearts of real women. Women who know the value of true joy.”
Hedda watched my face, still taking in my expression even when the words had stopped. I met her gaze, completely sure that no matter her decision, no matter if she decided to take on Flyover for her stores, I had spoken the truth. So much truth, in fact, that I knew Gigi and the girls would be applauding if they had borne witness.
Hedda frowned, her deep red lipstick pulling down the porcelain skin around her mouth. “Thank you for your time.” She held out her hand for me to shake, which I did, despite her uninterrupted forward motion, eyes on the elevator. Agnes scurried ahead to press the down button.
My shoulders sank. Chase made a soft whimpering sound.
James looked panicked. He walked quickly to catch up with Hedda. “Let’s talk later this week—does that sound all right? We can get into market position, some price points, maybe think about cross merch opportunities.” His voice was getting unnaturally loud. When he got to Claude, still steps away from Hedda, Claude stopped him with a firm hand on the shoulder.
“No need to get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Campbell. Our office will be in touch.” Claude held the door for the women and waited as they stepped over the threshold.
“Right,” James said, not even hiding the defeat on his face. “Definitely stay in touch.”
Hedda furrowed her brow. “What is the matter with you?” She sounded like a prickly schoolteacher correcting her student. She shook her head at James. “Such a face.”
I stepped within view of the party, just as Claude entered the elevator and pressed the button to close the door. The doors began to slide shut as Hedda called, eyes on me, “We are taking it all. You should be happy!”
The face she got, I realized after the door closed completely, was one of shock: eyes big, mouth slack, hands paused in midair. I turned to James and saw he wasn’t much better.
“All of it?” I finally said, barely daring to utter the words in case I’d misunderstood.
James whooped, ran over to me, and picked me up. He spun in a crazy circle, and I could hear the laughter from Moira, Chase, and Eleanor, tentative at first and then giddy. James spun me until I pounded on his back to put me down, breathless from giggling.
“All of it,” I said, shaking my head, disbelief merging deliciously with victory. “I can’t believe it.”
“I can,” James said, all traces of panic fully erased as he strode to Moira’s buffet table. He scooped up empty champagne glasses and began filling them sloppily with bubbly and a splash of mango juice. He passed them around our little circle and toasted to our success.
“To flyover country. And to Hedda. And to Grace, the fearless.” His eyes shone as we took turns clinking glasses. He tipped his toward me before his first swig. “I knew you could do it. I knew I’d called the right girl.”
I smiled, basking in the moment. I stopped short of sipping and set down my glass in a hurry. “Wait,” I said, going to retrieve my phone. “We need to capture this.”
We posed with glasses raised, each with at least one bagel or muffin in our mouths, grins barely able to convey the relief and thrill of the conquest. I sent the photo to Goldie, asking her to spread the news that we’d won.
Flyover, I typed, is going big.