Chapter 17
Seventeen
Min
I’m home!
Sam
Excellent!
Min
What are you working on now?
Sam
Munching on crisps and stripping all the old polish off my jackboots.
Min
Why? Aren’t you supposed to build on the old layers?
Sam
We are, except I’ve done such a shoddy job in the past that it’ll make my life easier if I start with a blank canvas.
Min
Ouch. How long is that going to take you to rectify?
Sam
All night. I need them for Wednesday.
Min
I hope you’ll manage to get at least a cat nap in.
Sam
That’s the hope.
My eyes are wide an hour later. “Sam! I didn’t think you’d pick up a video request!”
“I’m full of surprises.” He smirks at me. “Actually, we’re on the same wavelength. I was about this close”—he holds up his hand with his thumb and pointer finger together—“to calling you. It was going to be my reward for making it to the end of stage one.”
I cock my head to the side. “Stage one?”
“Ta-da.” Sam hold up his boots. “What do you think?”
“They’re, uh, nice and dull.”
“That’s exactly what I was going for.”
“What comes next?”
Placing the boots down, he holds up a tin of beeswax and polish. “Building up the base layers. What have you been up to?”
“Sketching?”
“Care to share?”
“As long as you don’t judge me.” I lower my voice.
“This is a judgement-free zone,” he insists.
Taking a breath, I flip the camera around and focus it on my sketch pad.
I hear a low whistle. He’s studying it intently. “Is that me? Because if it is, he’s way better looking than I am in person.”
“Thanks.” I cough.
“I mean it. He’s brilliant.”
I flip the camera back to my face. “I’m rusty when it comes to human subjects.”
“If you need a male model, I’m willing to sit for a portrait anytime.”
My body grows warm at the thought of Sam sitting for me shirtless in his breeches and riding boots, posing next to a horse, like Fabio or one of the men on a nineties romance book cover. I’m adding another image to my mental art gallery of Sam. At this rate, I’ll have to build another museum wing.
I clear my throat. “If you do that, you may come out looking like a Dr. Seuss character.”
“Sam I am. I am Sam,” he says, his voice jumping an octave. “I do not care for green eggs and ham.”
“That’s your new nickname in my phone, Sam I Am.” I giggle.
“As long as you never try to serve me green eggs and ham.” He sets the phone down and reaches for a long cloth, wrapping it around his two fingers. From my time with Mr. G, I know it’s a polishing cloth, and good ones can be like gold to a soldier.
“What is your stance on green ketchup?”
“Is there even such a thing?” He frowns.
“Oh ho, yes there is. Hold please! I’ll send you the link so you can read about it later.”
Another hour later, Sam rings me.
“Hi, Min.” He yawns. “I watched the video you sent me. That’s a half hour of my life I’ll never get back. Are you still sketching me?”
“Uh-huh.” I hold up my sketchbook. I’m working on trying to shade and contrast the different parts of Sam’s face.
“That handsome chap is coming along. Can I book you do one of Orpheus next?”
“If you send me a photo, sure.”
“Funnily enough, I don’t think I have one. I can describe him to you though. He’s seventeen-point-three hands tall and black.”
I face-palm. “That doesn’t help. All the cavalry horses are black.”
“Good point.” He shrugs.
“I have a better idea. What about this? The first shift you get to be in the horse box, I’ll come down and sketch you and whatever horse you’re on in person.”
His whole face lights up. “Can I convince you to use paints?”
“Sure.” I nod. “You can have free rein over whatever medium you want me to use. It’ll be your portrait.”
“Brilliant.” He claps his hands together. “That’s all the motivation I need to push ahead tonight.”
I hold the phone closer to me. “Don’t work too hard, Sam I Am.”
“I won’t.” He fights off another yawn.
“I’ll check on you in another hour.”
“Only if you’re awake.”
We disconnect the call.
Sam had no way of knowing how true his words would be. I passed out a few minutes after that final text.
“Crap, crap, crap,” I mutter, glancing at my watch again, even though it’s too dark to read it.
Next to me, a fellow female passenger wiggles her arm to eye level. “It’s nine forty,” she says flatly.
The people of the packed train car collectively groan.
“What is taking so darn long to sort the power cut?” a male voice exclaims. “It’s been more than an hour. I could’ve pushed the train out of the tunnel faster than that. I can see the bloody station lights ahead.”
A few voices murmur their agreement.
“I should’ve taken the bus,” someone moans.
This Tube car is becoming unbearably hot. It was the tail end of the morning rush hour when I jumped on the train. We’re packed so tightly together, there is no personal space.
Lifting my chin, I see an eerie bluish glow illuminating the faces of a few people who are seated, reading e-books on their phones and other tablet-sized devices.
It’s taking everything in me not to reach into my own pocket and attempt shooting off another text to Sam, Sonya, Liz, or somebody else.
I’ve tried, of course, but this train happens to be in a dead spot with no reception.
All I’ve managed to do is drain the battery.
At this point, I wonder why I even bothered getting out of bed this morning.
Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong.
I was out of coffee pods. There was no hot water in the building this morning.
My phone charger fell out of the wall socket during the night, leaving my phone with only fifty percent battery life.
The Tube line I normally take into Central London was down, so I had to make two transfers to get on a train that would take me to Notting Hill.
I wish they’d just open the doors and let us walk the remainder of the way, but someone was saying it isn’t safe.
Today was supposed to be a straightforward morning. I was going to meet Clarissa and Sonya and sell myself and my designs to them. Now, I’m already an hour late and I have no way of reaching them. What kills me the most is that my fashion hero is going to think I don’t care about her.
“Ladies and gents.” The conductor’s voice comes onto the speaker system. A hush grows over everyone in the train. “I just wanted to advise you that I still have not received any word from the—”
“Rubbish!” a man shouts. “Don’t update us if you have no update!”
“Here, here!”
My fellow occupants on the train car cheer.
I close my eyes. A few hours ago, I was living a real-life dream. I imagine Sam’s lips on my lips and his hands holding me against his broad chest. He’s the perfect escape from the nightmare.
Suddenly, the lights in the tunnel flicker. There is a jolt. Everyone crashes into one another.
“Attention passengers, please hold on tight. This train is about to move.”
Elated cheers fill the car. I grasp on to the nearest railing for dear life, and finally, after being trapped in an airless sardine can for over an hour, we’re free.
I jog as if my life depends on it to the Clarissa Lee Atelier on Portobello Road.
Normally, I’d love to stop and explore the area, especially the antique market.
It’s one of the largest, if not the largest, in the UK.
You can find anything in the shops and stalls set up here.
I love searching through the vintage clothing for rare and unusual treasures.
Today, however, I have to have tunnel vision. I’m late for a very, very important date. Breathless, I slow my pace as I approach the lilac facade of the building. A hand-painted sign contains swirly blue lettering and the logo for the shop.
My steps slow and turn into a brisk power walk, before I stop and stare at the stunning collection of spring dresses in the front display windows. They are bright, fun pastel colors—pink, baby blue, light green, and yellow—offered in a variety of silhouettes, lengths, and sizes.
While Clarissa earned her fame for creating evening and wedding wear for petite women, over the years, she’s branched out and has become the only premiere designer who promises a perfect-fitting gown for any customer who walks through her shop’s doors.
When something off the rack doesn’t work, the Clarissa Lees team steps in and offers alterations, pattern changes, and customizations free of charge.
Normally, that’s a type of service only the most expensive fashion houses like Chanel, Dior, Saint Laurent, Hermès, and Louis Vuitton offer.
But not Clarissa. She ensures her gowns stay affordable.
She wants the everyday woman to feel like they’re royalty.
That’s the type of designer I aspire to be.
Through the glass, I can see Sonya chatting to one of the sales associates near the bridal-wear samples.
I quickly use my hands to sweep my hair into a low bun.
The one hair tie and bobby pin I have will hopefully keep everything in place.
Once my mane is semi-secure, I square my shoulders, tuck my portfolio under my arm, and march through the front door.
“Hello, can I help you?” a female shop assistant clad in all black asks me.
“She’s here for me, Lottie,” Sonya replies, greeting me with a warm smile. In person, she is a giant. Okay, she’s not as tall as Sam, but she’s probably about five foot ten. She has long legs, blonde locks, and reminds me of Gwyneth Paltrow. I wonder if she’s ever modeled.
“Sonya, I apologize for being late.”
“I’m just happy you made it. Come with me. Clarissa is waiting for us.”
All I can do is bob my head up and down. Like Mary’s little lamb, I follow her. My throat goes dry, my breathing quickens, my legs quiver. I’m led to a snug office. Clarissa is sketching on an antique writing desk. She’s a petite Asian woman with jet-black hair.