I felt the beginnings of a blush heat my cheeks. "Yes, well, we'll see." I stood, grabbed her briefcase off the floor, and urged her to her feet. "You'd better get back to work if you want to be ready to do my job in two weeks."
She protested all the way to the door, insisting that she could at least stay to finish our chat. But I wanted to be alone with all the thoughts sloshing around in my head.
Besides, after a year of conflict, I was not quite prepared to bond with KY Kelly. Things can't change that fast.
I got her out into the hall, briefcase in hand, and was just about to shut the door when she shoved her foot in the way.
"Before I go," she panted, struggling against the weight of the door, "I just wanted to tell you that there isn't anything going on with me and Gavin. We're friends, that's all."
I scowled and pushed harder on the door. "Great. Thanks."
"The only woman he ever talks about," she added as the door closed on her flawless face, "is you."
The door clicked shut. Turning, I leaned my whole weight against it, sliding to the floor as my legs gave way.
Gavin talks about me.
As if I needed more life-altering news today.
"Good morning, dear."
Mom's cheerful voice was more pep than I was ready for at five o'clock on a Tuesday morning. Or any morning for that matter.
I mumbled something like mermig, hoping she would accept the slurred greeting, and tried desperately to get back into the dream where I was on a desert island with no one but a devoted cabana boy and an endless supply of Lemon Drops and coconut-scented suntan lotion.
"We're on the boat now. Your father insists we leave right at sunrise." She paused—perhaps noticing that I was not participating. She probably thought I fell back asleep. No such luck. "Lydia, dear, your father and I are setting sail in half an hour. The least you could do is wake up and tell us goodbye."
I bolted up in bed—knocking Dyllie off my chest and onto the floor with a squeak—instantly alert. In my whole life I had never heard Mom speak so sharply. To anyone, let alone me.
"I'm awake," I defended. "Of course I'm awake. You're leaving and I'm saying goodbye."
Silence.
"Mom," I ventured, "is everything okay? Are you okay?"
"Perfectly. Why wouldn't I be?" She sounded like the same, cheerful, never-upset-unless-she's-worried-about-me mom, but there had been no mistaking the tightness in her voice just seconds earlier. "I was just getting your attention."
For some reason—call it unexplainable daughter's intuition—I knew it was more than that.
I heard a muffled shout in the background about hoisting something and tying off something else. Sounded like Dad was really getting into the sailing thing. If they were about to sail around the world, then I guessed that was a good thing.
"I have to go," Mom stated, her words sounding distracted. "The deck hand just arrived."
If I didn't know better, I'd have thought she was grinding her teeth. That worried me.
"Okay, Mom. Do you want to give me a call before you—"
The drone of a dial tone buzzed in my ear as the call cut off. Mom had hung up on me. Now I knew something was up.
"Have you packed?" Fiona asked, reclining on my couch as I recounted the events of the past few days.
There was a lot to catch up on.
"For Milan? Not yet. We don't leave until Friday." I heard her mm-hmm around the piece of chocolate on her tongue.
When Fi showed up at my door with a 16-piece box of Vosges gourmet truffles I knew she'd had a tough day. Nothing but the roughest of days could induce her to bring out the big guns. And, although chocolate was not my personal favorite—if it's not gummied, sugared, sour, or caramelized, it's not really for me—we shared this indulgence once every black and blue moon.
Selecting a chili pepper truffle from the box, I leaned back into the chofa and bit into the sweet and spicy ball.
"Do you know what you're taking?" she asked when she had absorbed her first truffle.
"Huh-uh. Haven't even thought about it."
Too busy thinking about my life’s drastic change of direction. A change I still hadn't told Fiona about. Not for any particular reason—I just needed to ruminate on it a little more before I sent out the press release.
"Think about it now," she suggested. "Let's have a look at your wardrobe."
Fi was on her feet and heading through my bedroom door before I could answer. Slowly rising, I replaced the lid on the truffles box so Dyllie wouldn't get interested, and followed to my room.
Half my closet was draped across the bed. The half in the back that I was too chicken to wear.
"I am not taking any of that!"
"You have been hiding behind your Ann Taylor's and Liz Claiborne's for too long, sister. You have the perfect body to pull all these off. All you need is a little confidence."
I looked down at my scrawny self. Flat chest. Chicken legs. Protruding collarbone. My body was not perfect for anything. Hence the carefully concealing layers of Ann and Liz.
"These clothes," she added, holding up white eyelet Tocca sundress, "were designed for models with your figure."
"You mean your figure," I countered. Fiona had the perfect body: tall, lean but shapely, full-breasted. I had always envied her that.
And she had the fashion sense to show it all off. Right now she wore a red cashmere v-neck sweater that accentuated and displayed her pushed-up chest and a skintight black pencil skirt that molded her hips into seductive curves.
Only her face didn't fit the package. She looked exasperated that I would even argue this point. Without hesitation she pulled off her sweater, peeled off the skirt and tugged the sundress over her head.
Though we wear the same size, the dress stretched way-too-tight across her hips and chest. Her pushed-up breasts were pushed even more into view, nearly cut in half by the low v-neck of the dress.
"So one dress doesn't fit," I conceded. I held up my gunmetal gray Calvin Klein, knowing it would look better on her. "Try this one."
After struggling out of the tight cotton sundress, Fiona slipped into the slinky number. Like the sundress, this dress stretched tighter across the hips than it should, and her ample breasts pushed out on the panels of the halter top, leaving a gaping view of her bra and abdomen.
"Okay, so two dresses—"
"No," she interrupted, passionate in her argument. "All dresses. There isn't a single dress in my closet that hasn't been professionally altered to fit my figure. I probably spend as much on tailoring as I do on clothes. Maybe more. So trust me when I tell you, these clothes were designed for you."
Shocked, I stared at her like she had sprouted Sour Straws for hair. A candy-haired medusa.
"Really?" I finally ventured when I could speak.
Fi rolled her eyes dramatically before slinking out of the Calvin Klein and pulling her clothes back on. "Not that I would trade figures with you for anything—I happen to enjoy my full C-cups, thank you very much—but yours is the body type gracing all the runways and magazine spreads. So shove your poor body image into the garbage disposal and let's pack you a wowser wardrobe for Milan."
My courage bolstered, I headed for the closet and dug into the way back. "And this," I said, finding the hanger and lifting it off the bar, "is the first thing in."
Holding the strapless minidress up to my chest, I faced Fiona. Every golden bead and sequin sparkled in the bright light of my room.
Her beaming grin said everything.
I hung the dress on the valet hook next to my closet and reached for the silver-gray shoe box on the top shelf. "I even have a pair of killer heels to match."
Beneath the lid were 4-inch gold strappy Versace sandals a la Liz Hurley.
"You wear that outfit around any guy with eyes and you won't be wearing it very long." Fiona grinned when I threw a wad of tissue at her. Which only made her goad me more. "Better wax up that zipper."
I was just about to fo
rget the six-hundred dollar price tag and fling a shoe at her when the buzzer sounded.
And a good thing, too. That was six-hundred per shoe.
18
Q: When can an ant not be an ant?
A: When it's an uncle.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #120
"You may not quit."
Ferrero threw up his arms and marched into my apartment without preamble.
"Won't you come in," I offered to his back.
He whirled around on me as I closed the door. "A muse," he boomed, "cannot quit being a muse."
I sighed. Clearly Kelly had no sense of the sisterhood's bonds of silence. She probably called six people before she even left my building. And, though I doubted she called Ferrero herself, someone—with hip-length platinum hair and a heavy hand with the eyeliner—had shared the news with him.
He looked tired.
Fashion week was always stressful for him, and I had heard there were problems with suppliers and an embargo on a tiny Eastern European country that exported handmade glass beads. Top it off with the news that I was quitting and no wonder he appeared on my doorstep looking haggard and ordering me not to quit.
"I'm no—"
"Once a muse commits to being a muse," he continued, pacing nervously on my living room rug, "she must be a muse until the artist is no longer inspired by her."
"But I'm no—"
"It is an unwritten agreement. A verbal contract." Stopping in the center of the rug, Ferrero faced me with a determined set to his jaw. "I could sue you."
"Franco!" I shouted, finally getting his attention. "I'm not resigning as muse. Only as sales executive. I'll be your muse as long as you want me."
He was struck frozen for the space of two seconds before his lips spread into a beaming, cosmetically-whitened smile.
A yip from the direction of my bedroom drew my attention to Fiona standing in the doorway. From the scowl on her face I knew she had heard everything—and wondered why she hadn't heard this from me first.
Straightening her spine, she pasted on her own brilliant smile and strode into the room like she owned the place.
"I don't think we've met." She extended a hand to Ferrero. "I'm Fiona, a friend of Lydia's."
Oh yeah, that should clear things up, since Ferrero still didn't know my name. Still, he took her hand, lifting it to press a gentlemanly kiss on her knuckles.
"Miss Vanderwalk is an inspiration. And you," he said, lowering but not releasing her hand, "are a vision."
Fiona smiled politely, but lacking genuine warmth. She was well-versed with the social platitudes of the world of fashion. It was often her job to smooth the feathers of designer and model alike at a show-gone-bad.
"Thank you, Ferrero," she replied, and when he began to correct her she added, "Franco. You are very kind to say so."
Even though I had told her of Ferrero's Jersey "outing" she knew we stilled played the game. Frankie Ferris would stay buried in the annals of the high school yearbook.
Ferrero, adequately bolstered, turned his attention back on me. From the look on his face—one of bleak desperation and abject determination—I had a feeling he was not satisfied with my concession.
Fiona, ever one to read situations with startling clarity, stepped forward. "Actually, I was just about to leave. Lydia," she said, turning to face me and screwing her face into an apologetic-but-leaving-you-anyway look, "I think you have your packing under control."
She said her goodbye to Ferrero—presumably not giving him a similar look—and make quick on her exit out the door.
Leaving me alone with a fuming Ferrero and a whining Dyllie. Unfortunately, Ferrero blocked my path to the bedroom so I had to hope that whatever she needed could wait. And that whatever she needed wouldn't end up as a stain on my bedroom rug.
"Miss Vanderwalk," he began, hands planted on hips and staring me down like a gunfighter, "I will not accept your resignation in any form."
"But I—"
When I started to protest his face softened and he looked more like a concerned father than a fuming boss.
"If you are not happy with the sales position then perhaps we can find something more..." He twirled his index fingers in the air, as if trying to swirl up the right word like he might swirl cotton candy onto a cone. Finally he found the word he was looking for. "...creative."
"But really I—"
"Stop." He quieted me with a wave of his hand. "Do not answer in haste. Think about this offer. You may give me your answer when we return from Milan."
He was serious. And right. No one should dismiss a career opportunity without ample consideration.
"Alright," I agreed. "After Milan."
"Good." Ferrero nodded in approval. Glancing briefly over his shoulder, he smiled broadly and came forward to shake my hand. "And, since it appears your little angel needs to be relieved, I will take my leave."
I peered around him to find Dyllie doing the potty dance, whimpering and tapping her little toenails on the wooden floor of the hall like rapid-fire Pop Rocks. Based on previous calculations, I figured I had about ninety seconds to get her outside before she decided that the chofa seat was as good a spot as any.
"I'll see you out," I threw at Ferrero as I ran to the front door and grabbed the leash. Dyllie dashed for the door, pausing only to wait for the click of the lobster clasp snapping onto her collar.
For a little dog, she sure had a heck-of-a-lotta power in those tiny legs. If the floors of the main hallway hadn't been tile, she probably could have pulled me all the way to the elevator.
As it was, Ferrero and I made our way accompanied by the sliding clicks of doggie toenails and desperate whimpering. The elevator arrived promptly and within moments we were crossing the lobby and onto the sidewalk, searching out the nearest patch of dirt.
Ferrero signaled his driver who immediately emerged from the limo and opened the rear door. Before lowering into the seat, Ferrero called my name. "Lydia," he said when he had my attention, using my first name for the first time, "you are an inspiration to the entire company. I will make whatever concessions I must to keep you. But, if you decide to leave I will help you in any way I can. Sometimes influence is the only thing separating success from failure."
His white head ducked into the car before I could respond.
I stood there, on the sidewalk of 76th Street, long after the limo pulled away and Dyllie began tugging on her leash to go back inside. I wasn't a fool, I knew what Ferrero had just done. By taking away the disadvantages of either option, he had just forced me to make an actual decision.
For good or bad, I had to choose which path I wanted to take. And, as I let Dyllie lead me back through the lobby, I knew that was not going to be an easy decision to make.
Did I really want to start my own jewelry line?
Or did I want to stay on at Ferrero in a more creative capacity?
Dyllie looked up sympathetically when I sighed.
"Well," I asked her, "what would you do?"
Just like a dog. She stuck out her tongue and looked away.
When the buzzing sounded at six a.m. on Friday morning I picked up the phone and groggily told whoever was calling, "I'm packed, really. Just about to get up."
Silence was my first clue. The continued buzzing—coming from the area around the front door—was the second.
"Good&Plenty," I muttered as I stumbled out of bed and hurried to the front door. Pressing the intercom button, I asked, "Hello?"
"Helloooo!!!" Two cheerful voices screeched through the speaker, jolting me out of whatever sleep haze remained.
I jabbed at the door release button, letting Fiona and Bethany in against my better judgment. They sounded much too cheerful for so early in the morning. If I didn't know they both had work today, I'd think they hadn't gone to bed at all last night.
They showed up at my door, laden with shopping bags and Fiona's suitcase-sized make-up case.
"Buongiorno!" Bethany squealed, dropping her shoppin
g bags and flinging her arms around my neck. "Are you ready?"
"For what?" I asked around her tight embrace.
"Italy, silly," Fiona answered. She set her case down on the kitchen counter before adding herself to the hug.
"Yeth. All packed." It was a little difficult to speak through Fiona's fuchsia feather boa.
"Not quite." Bethany eased away, grabbing the shopping bags and holding them into view. "We brought some last-minute extras."
Each girl took me by an arm and led me to the couch, pushing me down until I sat. They moved in front of me, Fiona holding the shopping bags as Bethany prepared to display everything inside.
Under Where was not where I usually shopped for lingerie. I was more of a simple Victoria's Secret girl. Give me a pair of cotton bikinis and a full-coverage bra any day.
The first thing Bethany pulled from the bag looked more like a Barbie dress than underwear for a grown woman. Tiny and turquoise with gold accents; there was no way that was designed to fit an adult.
"La Perla," Bethany announced, tossing the scrap into my lap.
"The very best," Fiona added, eyeing the bit of lace with undisguised envy.
I inspected the g-string thong, shocked to find a tag identifying it as an adult small. The thing barely fit across my hips, let along cover— "Oh no," I announced, "there is no way I'm wearing this. Ever."
Fiona frowned, clearly disappointed.
Bethany, however, looked determined. Digging into the bag again, she pulled out a matching bra. She flung the coordinating scrap at me, admonishing, "Just try it on."
Looking from one friend to the other, I read their unrelenting determination. Reluctantly, I headed for the privacy of my bedroom, chased by the promise that I would like it once I tried it on.
Stepping out of the candy-hearts flannels, I turned the thong around every which way until I finally found what must be the right orientation. As I pulled the undies up into place, I was shocked to realize I didn't feel a thing. No uncomfortable wedgie sensation I'd read about in magazines. I could hardly feel the satin and lace that barely covered parts I'd always left under a solid layer of cotton.