Читать книгу The Oysterville Sewing Circle - Susan Wiggs, Susan Wiggs - Страница 10

Caroline bumped her way down the stairs of her apartment, lugging an overstuffed suitcase. She always brought extra supplies to a show—fabric and thread, pins, scissors, touch-up for makeup, towels, a flashlight and double-sided tape, and wipes in case of model meltdowns … or designer meltdowns.

She was not going to have a meltdown today. Totally the opposite. Today was going to be a huge leap forward in her career. Finally, after so many abject failures and near misses, her Chrysalis line had been selected for the Emerging Talent program. The collection bearing her name would be showcased on the runway in front of all the fashion elite in the city.

If she impressed the right people, she would get her shot at creating apparel under her own name.

That, she knew, would be life-changing. People back home had never quite understood her aspirations. They had been kind enough. They were quick to say they appreciated her creativity. Yet they’d always been mystified by her life and work. Her entry-level jobs, most of them involving long hours and low pay, had struck them as thankless and unrewarding. Which was quite an indictment, coming from her family of restaurateurs.

But a line of apparel—that would be concrete proof that she’d set out on the right path. A ready-to-wear collection was a tangible achievement, something everyone could see. That alone was thrilling. It also gave Caroline the kind of fulfillment she’d always sought—the satisfaction of a particular creative hunger.

She had been focused on this goal for eight seasons of working for Mick Taylor. She’d learned a lot, but it wasn’t her dream. The dream was what she did after she went home, after she’d spent uncounted hours designing season after season of cutting-edge fashions under the keen eye of Rilla Stein. She’d learned to subsist on microwave burritos and too much caffeine, staying up long into the night to create something wholly her own, an exuberant expression of her unique aesthetic.

She pulled her gear along the sidewalk toward Illumination, dreaming of a day when she’d have assistants and stylists to help. Today’s show venue had a long runway and brilliant lighting, a waterfall backdrop, and tons of backstage monitors so she wouldn’t miss a moment. Every time she pictured her collection on display, she had to pinch herself.

She hoped her outfit was okay. She had opted for stark black and white, her usual work attire. The skinny black pants and boxy white top, chunky jewelry and flat shoes were well suited for rushing around the city.

The backstage was divided into two wings, east and west, separated by a folding wall. Caroline was assigned to the east side. In the staging area, a buzz of excitement vibrated through the air, which smelled of hair spray and aniline. She joined the flow of rushing designers, dressers, assistants, models, producers, photographers and their entourages, bloggers, and reporters. It was a ballet of barely controlled chaos as showtime approached. The established designers would show their collections, and Caroline’s debut would come at the very end.

She wove a path through the racks and found her station. She checked her notes and spotted Angelique standing on a riser and chatting with Orson Maynard, who was furiously taking notes.

“I heard a rumor that you’re responsible for all this lovely,” Orson said, regarding the fantasy ball gown Caroline had designed for Mick Taylor’s line.

“The garment’s my design, but all the lovely comes from Angelique.” Caroline noticed a raw edge peeking out of the bodice. “Hold still,” she said, swiftly threading a needle to tack it into place.

Daria arrived, huffing and puffing as she set down a box of accessories. She stepped back to admire Angelique. “Wow.”

“How are you feeling?” Caroline took a chunky cocktail ring from the box and tried it on Angelique.

“I’m good,” said Daria. “I’d rather be out on the runway, but you’re the only designer in need of a massively pregnant model.” She selected a makeup brush and touched up Angelique’s cheekbones.

“You both looked incredible at my presentation,” said Caroline.

Orson bustled forward with his notepad. “And …?” he asked.

Caroline had forgotten he was there. She ducked her head and busied herself by sorting through the accessories.

“You’re not supposed to have heard anything.” Caroline suppressed a riff of excitement.

“You know how the rumors fly,” he told her.

“What did you hear?”

“That your originals have been selected for the Emerging Talent program.”

She tried not to react. Tried not to hyperventilate. “Oh?”

“Stomp your foot once if it’s true, twice if it’s not.”

“It is true,” Angelique murmured between strokes of Daria’s makeup brush. “But you cannot say anything about it yet.”

“She’s right,” said Caroline. “This whole conversation has to be off the record.”

“Of course.” Orson put away his notes. “So I take it you’re stomping once.”

Caroline couldn’t keep the grin from her face. “The whole world will see at the end of today’s show.”

“It’s so awesome,” Daria said. “When I saw the work she submitted to the panel, I knew they’d pick her.”

“Now I’m salivating,” said Orson.

“I’ve barely been able to sleep or eat since I got the call.” Caroline was bursting. The moment she’d heard the news, her entire world had shifted on its axis.

“Can you set my phone by me?” Angelique asked. “I need to call my kids.”

Caroline propped the phone on a rack close by, and Angelique made a video call. Her daughter picked up, poking her face in close. “Maman,” she said in her little Minnie Mouse voice, and then asked something in Haitian Kreyòl.

“At the show, ti cheri mwen. Tell your brother to come.”

The picture tilted as Addie called for Flick. The two of them leaned in close, chattering to their mother in a rapid patois of French and English.

“Her kids are so danged cute,” Daria said.

Caroline poked her face next to Angelique’s. “Hi, guys! Remember me?”

“Caroline!” Addie clapped her hands. “You made me a hood with a mask.”

“That’s right. For when you need to hide from the paparazzi.”

“What’s paparazzi?” asked Flick.

“All the people who want to take your picture when you’re getting coffee,” said Caroline.

“I don’t like coffee,” Flick said.

“Then you probably don’t have to worry about the paparazzi,” said Angelique.

“When are you coming home, Maman?” asked Addie.

“After the show. After you’re asleep. Be good for Nila, okay?” She added something in French and blew them a kiss.

“They’re wonderful,” Caroline said.

Angelique smiled. “They’re my life.”

“I don’t know how you do it all, being a single mom and having this amazing career.”

Daria nodded. “It must be really hard. No idea how I could make it work if I didn’t have Layton.”

“I don’t wonder about these things,” said Angelique. “I do what must be done.”

Daria’s hand drifted to her distended belly. She gasped and moved her hand lower.

“Are you all right?” asked Caroline.

She nodded. “Braxton-Hicks contractions.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. Saw the doctor this morning.”

“Here we go,” a production manager called. “Five-minute warning!”

Caroline had to set aside her worry through the backstage frenzy of the show. Everyone pitched in to style the models and send them out to the percussive soundtrack that flowed through the speakers. Between hurried wardrobe changes, Caroline and Daria watched on the live-feed monitors set backstage. The buzziest stars and media types sat in the front rows along the runway. Plugged-in bloggers commented on the show in a constant stream, and the feed scrolled along the bottom of the monitors.

Even on the screens, the scene looked incredible. The theme of water and light worked beautifully. The models appeared to float along with the current projected on the surface of the runway.

“God, I love my job,” she murmured, watching a gaucho pants and midriff blouse ensemble she’d designed for Mick Taylor shimmer past the admiring crowd.

The accolades for the entire collection were enthusiastic, judging by the popping of cameras, the eruptions of applause, and the sight of critics and bloggers madly live-tweeting and broadcasting the show. She checked her phone’s live feed. The list that scrolled up the screen was filled with words of praise.

Daria high-fived her. “That was incredible. And we’re done here. The finale is coming from the other side of the stage. After that, it’s your moment.”

She shuddered with pleasure and nerves. “Cool. Let’s watch.”

Jostled by models hurrying to and fro to change, they found a spot by a large screen just as the final collection came from the opposite side of the stage. The soundtrack shifted to a haunting electronic version of Handel’s Water Music.

The lead model emerged, and a collective gasp issued from the audience. The live feed at the bottom of the screen immediately lit with comments. Caroline tilted her head up to watch. She blinked, then frowned in confusion. What the hell …?

The model, visibly and dramatically pregnant, was wearing a tunic. And not just any tunic. It was a piece Caroline had designed for her original line.

She grabbed Daria’s arm and dug her fingers in deep.

“Ouch! Hey—”

“Look at the runway,” Caroline said in a strangled whisper. At the far end, the model demonstrated the garment’s conversion from maternity tunic to nursing top, and the audience went crazy.

“Holy crap,” Daria said. “Is that …? Oh, God.”

“It’s my collection.” Caroline felt nauseous as her clothes paraded down the runway, garnering looks of admiration and bursts of applause. The garments were virtually indistinguishable from her designs. Her original designs. The samples were made from slightly different fabrics. More expensive headwear and footwear. Models she’d never seen before.

But the unique aspects of the clothing—the conversion from maternity to nursing to fashion, and even the stylized nautilus motif at the shoulder—had been lifted straight from Caroline’s own designs. A blatant, outright theft.

The collection was touted as Mick Taylor’s innovative new line called Cocoon.

Caroline crossed her arms in front of her middle as a wave of nausea reared up inside her. The sense of violation was as overwhelming as a physical assault, invasive and shocking. The live tweet feed at the bottom of the screen lit with more praise: Mick Taylor is back with a stunner of a collection.

Daria was saying something, but Caroline couldn’t hear through the roar of outrage in her ears. Her gaze stayed glued to the monitor, which now showed Mick Taylor at center stage, accepting accolades like a conquering hero.

All through the backstage area, the post-show rush continued to swirl like a tornado, but still she didn’t move. Yet her thoughts whirled around and around. Mick Taylor had copied her original collection, the one that was meant to launch her own career. The man she worked for, the man to whom she’d given her loyalty and hard work, had stolen her designs.

She staggered, dizzy with outrage. Angelique appeared at her side, bringing her to a stool. “Did you see?” Caroline asked, still too shocked to feel anything but numb disbelief.

“I’m so sorry. Come sit,” Angelique said.

“How completely shitty,” Daria said. “What an underhanded thing to do.”

Caroline took a deep breath. The numbness was wearing off and giving way to something more awful. Everyone knew what stealing looked like, but nothing could have prepared her for the shock of it. “I’m shaking. God, I feel so violated.”

“He is terrible,” said Angelique. “I’m ashamed to even know him.”

Caroline had to remind herself to breathe. This was a common occurrence in the fashion industry, happening at all levels. No one was safe. This particular situation was a virtual case study of a major label appropriating designs from an independent artist. Students in design school were told to expect it, and maybe on some level she had. The practice went by different names—“referencing,” “inspired by,” “an homage.”

Trying not to puke, she rocked back and forth on the stool. “No one is dead or injured,” she muttered. “No one has been given a cancer diagnosis. It’s not the end of the world.”

“That is right,” Angelique said. “You’re strong. You’ll get through this. You will go on to do great things.”

She tried to shake off the nausea. Tried to pull herself together. Her phone vibrated, the screen crowded with messages and notifications. After a few minutes, a new sensation coursed through her—a slow burn of anger. “Right,” she said. “I never got into this field because it was easy, did I?”

“Exactly,” said Daria.

“I’m going to go find him.”

“No,” said Angelique, her eyes widening. “Don’t do it, Caroline. Mick will—”

“He’ll what?” Caroline stood. The anger simmered like a fever, heightening her senses. “What will he do? Destroy my career? He’s already done that.” The reality shuddered through her: “I can’t show my collection now. I literally have nothing to lose.”

Daria and Angelique looked at each other. “I’m sorry,” Daria whispered.

Mick had planned the theft just right, Caroline realized. He had preempted her debut and sabotaged any attempt she might make to launch her line—with these designs, anyway. “I’ll survive,” she said with quiet conviction. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll go without a fight.”

To her utter mortification, an announcement was made, and her collection was sent out on the runway. The audience was expecting a big reveal of the Emerging Talent recipient. Caroline couldn’t bring herself to look at the monitors. She didn’t want to see the expressions on the faces of the attendees. Didn’t want to see them pointing and whispering, speculating about the rampant similarities between her designs and those of Mick Taylor. As far as the audience knew, she was the thief, not him.

It was the ultimate betrayal by a man she had trusted. She had a complicated relationship with him; for the past couple of years it had been the biggest relationship of her life, leaving little room for anything else. She owed her career to him. Yet today he’d stolen that and destroyed her in public. She felt duped and naive. How could she have trusted him? How had she not seen this coming?

Maybe she’d been dazzled by his fame, drawn in by his aw-shucks charm and charisma. Maybe she’d missed the signs.

Someone—a production assistant or intern—gave her a shove to follow the final model out onto the runway. What should have been a march of triumph had turned into a walk of shame. The applause was subdued, and instead of her prepared remarks about her inspiration and her expressed gratitude to Mick Taylor, she managed to choke out, “Thank you for the opportunity.”

There was a collective hush, followed by a scramble as the audience made for the exits. Caroline rushed backstage, on fire with a sense of betrayal.

“Caroline, wait.” Angelique reached for her.

Caroline shook her head, then wove a path through the crowd and made her way into the auditorium. It was emptying out slowly. The star designers were clustered near the runway, surrounded by their entourages, accepting congratulations, getting invited to after-parties, posing for photos, answering questions from the press.

Mick was easy enough to find, the center of an undulating cluster of reporters and photographers. He and Rilla were all smiles as they basked in the afterglow of the successful show.

Caroline jostled a path through the crowd. Rilla noticed her first. “Good show, Caroline,” she said. “The looks you worked on were so great.”

Caroline ignored her, even though Rilla was her mentor at work, the one who’d hired her and the supervisor she reported to. Rilla was supposed to protect her designers. But of course the design director’s first loyalty was to Mick.

Squeezing through an opening in the crowd, she planted herself directly in front of him. “You stole my designs,” she stated, speaking slowly and clearly.

He looked down at her, his brow quirked in a small frown. “Sorry, what?”

Several cameras snapped their picture.

She went up on tiptoe and said into his ear, “You copied my designs—your so-called Cocoon line.”

The frown deepened. His gaze flicked briefly to Rilla. Then he reacted with a patronizing smile. A few more camera flashes went off. “And what was your name again?”

Caroline knew the deliberate, direct cut was meant to put her in her place. Standing on tiptoe again, she cupped her hands and said with perfect articulation, “I’m about to be your worst nightmare. That’s who I am.”

His easy smile never wavered. Her bravado now felt like a curl of dread in her gut. Deep down, she knew what he was doing. “And five minutes from now,” Mick said, “no one will remember your name.”