6. Kate
Chapter Six
KATE
The next day, I ride over to my London boutique, and the memory of the photo shoot has already started to fade like a distant daydream. Which is all it was or ever will be—a fantasy. In reality, my focus needs to be one hundred percent on keeping my store and my brand viable. And not killing myself to do it.
The town car driver pulls up to a row of quaint-looking, four-story brick buildings in the West End. This is the most fabulous block, and I almost couldn’t believe it when a space opened up just as we were looking for a storefront almost three years ago. Kate Golden Lingerie is placed beautifully between a trendy designer store and a fine leather handbag and shoe store.
My stomach flips as I push my way through the glass entrance doors. I quickly scan every inch of the store for anything that’s changed in the last thirteen months since I’ve been here. Everything’s exactly the same. Even the pieces on the racks.
Looking at it now, it’s even more beautiful than I remember. Flecks of gold in the marble flooring reflect off of the elegant floating chandelier, ivory molding frames the lingerie displayed on the walls, and a black and white portrait of a lace-clad model hangs behind the counter.
“Kate, you’ve arrived!” Layla, the store manager I handpicked before the opening, walks over. Her deep black hair is swept over one shoulder of her fitted emerald dress with an asymmetrical neckline. “It’s been so long. How are you feeling?” she asks, pecking polite air kisses near my cheeks.
“I’m well!” I say with enough oomph to convince the both of us. Glancing around the store, I remember how it felt two years ago on opening night when Layla and I clinked our champagne glasses together as we toasted to the success of the new store. Owning a store that bears my name, all the way across the Atlantic, is a dream come true. Now I have to save that dream. “How’re things here?”
“We had a pretty good day yesterday. You were mentioned in a few London fashion blogs yesterday, so I think that helped.”
“Really? What are they saying?” That I’ve gotten desperate enough to pose in my own designs to promote my company?
Garret marches toward us from the back of the store wearing a paisley-patterned shirt buttoned up to his Adam’s apple and staring at his phone. “They’re saying the fabulous Kate Golden has arrived in London Town and was last seen leaving Nina Savoy’s mansion party. Early.” He draws the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated frown like a sad emoji.
Layla gasps, bringing her hand to her chest. “You went to a party at Nina Savoy’s house? And left early?”
“Yeah.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, then turn to Garret, snatching the phone from his hands. “And it doesn’t say that.” Instead, it’s a headline that reads Kate Golden’s Comeback: This Better Be Good.
My chest gets tight, and my hands tremble. I’ll be premiering my new line at the London Intimates Fashion Show next week. This better be good?
Thanks, London. No pressure or anything.
The headline pulls at the thread that is my is my delicate ego. What if my designs lack the creativity that got me this store? I stiffen my upper lip and hand back his phone. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”
“Of course, Danika from Lux will be here to interview you any moment. I think it’s good for me to hang around. This feature is a huge deal.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Layla flashes her bright teeth. “How was the photo shoot?”
My mind flashes back to the moment Drew slipped his finger over the top of my stocking, and suddenly, the memory is fresh again. My stomach tenses and tingles.
Garret shoots a knowing look. “It was hot. I can’t wait to see the pictures. Kate’s totally a model now. Aren’t you, Kate?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” I’m not a model unless it’s Drew’s photo shoot, then I’ll play model. I’ll play whatever role he wants me to play.
“Kate Golden?” A woman’s voice calls behind me, and I turn around.
“Yes?” I ask, taking in the woman casually dressed in ripped jeans, suede ankle boots, a loose top, and a light-colored blazer with the sleeves pushed up to the crooks of her elbows. Her dark-root, golden-highlighted hair’s pulled back in a messy ponytail, with strands falling around her oversized glasses.
“I’m Danika Dyer from Lux Magazine . So nice to meet you.” She offers a handshake and chomps away at her bubble gum.
“Danika!” I beam. “Welcome to my store.” We share English air kisses, then I offer her a tour of the store. We finally find ourselves on the lavishly soft, blush-pink velvet bench I found at an antique store in Kensington back before we first opened.
“I love your pieces. They’re classically erotic with a hint of an edge. Gorgeous knickers,” she says, and I sniffle a giggle at the word knickers. “What inspired you to design lingerie in the first place?”
“Well, my stepmother was a lingerie model in the ‘90s. I remember browsing the catalogs as a little girl and falling in love with teddies and garter belts. I thought she and the other models looked so powerful and sexy.”
“Who is your stepmum?” Danika asks.
“Lisa Lake.”
The fashion journalist’s jaw drops. “The Lisa Lake who’s been on the cover of Lux Magazine twelve times?”
“That’s her.” To the rest of the world, Lisa is a supermodel. But to me, she’s the woman who dressed my scraped knees with band-aids, sliced apples at the kitchen island for me after school, and showed me how to use a pad the day I got my first period at my tennis lesson.
“How fabulous! So you always knew you wanted to design intimates?”
“No, I wanted to be like Calvin Klein. Clean. Simple. That’s why I went to FIT, but I couldn’t quite find my voice in that realm. Instead, I was encouraged to go into merchandising but I didn’t want to give up my dream of having a luxury brand that made women feel better in their own skin.
“So, during my summer break, I toured Europe with Lisa. One evening we had dinner with Lucia Delmonico, the genius behind Opal. She offered me a summer internship in her design studio and the rest is history.”
Garret hovers nearby, and I know he’s listening to every word, but surprisingly, he never interjects.
“Fabulous,” she says, scribbling notes. “And what is it that inspires you now? A man, perhaps?”
I know she’s trying to get a bigger scoop on my love life, which is nonexistent. Unless you count the two highly-charged encounters with Drew. Another flashback to the photo shoot.
Lights. Camera. Passion.
I wonder what kind of lingerie would bring Drew to his knees?
“Kate?” Danika brings me back to reality.
“Yes! I mean, no. No man currently. I’m just inspired by . . . by.” Now that I think about it. I really haven’t been inspired. But I can’t say that. Not to Lux Magazine . So I pull something out of my lace-covered ass. “The women. I’m inspired by their innate sexy strength.”
“So what can we expect from your new line?”
I resist the urge to say same old, same old and instead offer, “Just like you said, classic with a hint of edge.” That’s a bald-faced lie. There’s nothing edgy about my new pieces. And in a week, she’ll know. Everyone will know. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I shouldn’t be making a comeback. Maybe this is the end of Kate Golden Lingerie.
“Would you excuse me for a minute,” I ask with an exaggerated smile, hoping to cover up the panic attack I’m moments from having.
“Sure.”
I start for the bathroom. My three-inch booties echo against the stone floor as I pull out my phone for my trusted meditation app. When I open the lock screen, I immediately see an email from the potential investor.
Kate,
Looking forward to meeting you after the show.
See you there?—
BAM!
My forehead jams into some guy’s rock-hard chest. My phone somersaults out of my hand, crashing to the ground with a loud smack . I immediately drop to my knees to rescue it, not caring whether my own knickers are peeking out of my short, flared, red dress. A web of cracked glass spreads across the screen of my beloved device.
“Shit!” I’ve never cracked my screen before. Ever. My phone’s been fully protected with a shock-absorbing case. Or at least I thought it was safe. My cheeks flush in irritation at the thought of having a broken screen for the next couple of weeks while I’m in a foreign place.
“Ouch,” a deep, familiar voice says. I look forward, finding myself faced with a decent bulge in a pair of dark jeans, and inhaling a sweet, musky cologne. My eyes trace up to his dark gray shirt covered with a black leather jacket.
He flashes me that breathtaking smile of his. “Hello, again.”