8. Once Upon a Tennis Match #2
Her enthusiasm almost made her completely skip over the part of the conversation that suddenly let dread into her chest. She wanted to avoid it, wanted to cling to the camera, and maybe sidestep it entirely in her joy. But the cold held her, the numbness of it making her even more aware.
“Aoife… You said D&B are in trouble?” Her own voice sounded rusty, like she had forgotten how to speak, and Aoife’s head shot up from her work. She gave Vi a long stare, eyes narrowing before she returned to the sewing machine.
“Not the Lucci kind of trouble, because they’re just a different kind of breed, I think. Lucci just changed hands after whatshisface croaked…”
“You mean Santiago Lucci? The late, great Santi Lucci, inventor of no less than twenty variations of the pleated skirt? Like the one you’re stitching together right now?
” Vi gestured vaguely in the direction of the gown Aoife had been working on and brought the camera to her eye, happy to hide behind it, taking a precious picture of Aoife’s disgruntled face.
“Smartass. Didn’t know your Dior from your Chanel, your bootcut from your skinny and now you’re giving me fashion history lessons?
I know all that. And I also know that no one can sew this better than I can anyway, other than the person who designed this gown to begin with.
Speaking of which, she’s been making you read up on stuff, hasn’t she? ”
“She has, plus she just loves to talk about it. And I enjoy listening to her.” Vi felt her color rise as she stopped abruptly, wishing she could make herself scarce.
But Aoife just shook her head and let the comment slide without mocking her or warning her, or giving her any kind of lecture about crushing on a married woman.
Vi wondered if Aoife was well aware of how hopeless it was anyway, and wasn’t even a little bit concerned about Vi making a fool of herself by trying anything.
Not that Vi would. Ever. Try anything. She respected Chiara too much.
And she was well aware she had exactly zero chances, even if Chiara were single.
It was time to change the subject back to what was making the hairs on her neck stand up in suspicion and vague premonition. Thinking about it made the lump in her throat grow to the size of a baseball.
“So D&B are gonna fight this thing, whatever it is? Blackmail you said?”
“I’m not exactly sure what it is, but they haven’t pulled out of any of their planned events. Which might mean they will either pay to have the collection concepts safely returned to them. Or they have contacted the police…”
Vi’s heart stilled for a moment before going into overdrive. Her palms got sweaty, and she had to put the camera down on the desk next to herself for fear that it might slip from her fingers.
Police.
Vi gulped and tried to tamp down her anxiety.
“How do you know, Aoife?”
“Renate brought the news this morning. She didn’t tell you?”
“I don’t think Renate likes me very much.
” It had been on her mind ever since Renate intercepted her at Zizou’s for that impromptu breakfast. Sitting there, barely tasting her food under the steady unblinking gaze that seemed miles away yet still heavily present, Vi knew Renate had some suspicions. Things Vi didn’t even want to consider.
“Renate doesn’t particularly like anyone. But she pays our salaries and does so on time and they’re very generous, so why would I care? And why would you care, for that matter?”
Aoife sat back and gave Vi a long stare.
“I do though—”
“You shouldn’t. Take it from me, kiddo, don’t give a flying fuck what people think of you. It’s called being free. And always take yours. Always. Nobody will ever give you anything. You have to take it.” Aoife coughed, trying to mask the way her voice suddenly went gruff, but Vi heard it.
“You’ve been doing amazing work. The way you show ambition and cleverness, talent, too.
Manage to keep that up, and you’ll be fine.
Just don’t miss your big chance. Watch for it and don’t let it slip by.
Hasn’t Chiara taught you that much? Among all those fashion history lessons and photography classes? Freedom is underrated, Vi.”
In spite of her worries, Vi wanted to thank Aoife for the compliment, even if it felt not entirely earned, and tell her that yes, Chiara had strongly encouraged independence and not begging for scraps from anyone, her family included.
Right when she opened her mouth, Frankie staggered into the room smelling of cigarettes and something remarkably like cheap gin. Vi was all too familiar with the scent, since that was her father’s drink of choice when money was particularly tight.
Frankie’s clothes were rumpled and her boots looked like she’d walked through mud instead of being fresh off the plane.
Vi remembered Aoife mentioning some event in London at any rate.
Or was it Rome? All Vi knew was that Chiara never talked about her wife or her trips.
And that she herself tried to never, ever place any significance on that fact.
“And how goes—in your case overrated—freedom, Franziska?” Aoife’s acid-dripping tone interrupted Vi’s musings.
“Wonderful, Sully. Just wonderful. Milan was a blast, thank you very much for asking.”
Frankie leaned over Aoife’s desk and made a grab for her coffee.
She didn’t succeed as, to Vi’s astonishment, Aoife moved the mug and slapped Frankie’s hand.
For some reason, the smack sounded and looked like it was harder than the attempted thievery deserved.
But Frankie just flashed that charming grin of hers, and Vi sighed.
How many times had she asked herself what Chiara saw in this woman? She was rude, tactless, and often plain cruel and absolutely untempered in pretty much everything. And yet, there was a certain something about her that Vi couldn’t put her finger on.
“Milan now, was it? I thought you went to Rome.” Aoife challenged as Frankie just waved at her.
“You thought wrong, Sully.” Frankie flung off her jacket, then headed to the corner kitchen and made herself at home, opening then closing the refrigerator.
When she produced what looked suspiciously like Vi’s lunch and gobbled down half of it in two bites, Aoife looked poised to jump up, but Vi just shook her head.
There was no point in saying anything anymore.
“There is food in the kitchen in my studio, Frankie.” Chiara’s voice from the doorway made all three heads turn. Vi’s whirled around so abruptly, she felt the world spinning for a second. Or maybe it was just from how beautiful Chiara looked? Yes, Vi was a total goner.
That fresh, no-makeup face, the vivid lines of dark brows, and the sparkling eyes surrounded by the longest lashes. She was barefoot again, which meant she’d been working on the collection. Had she even gone home these past several days?
When Vi arrived in the morning, Chiara would already be at Lilien Haus, and she’d be there every night to push Vi out the door and on her way home through the dark, winding Paris streets.
The room was eerily silent for a few seconds, and only Vi’s stomach rumbling interrupted the tension, reminding everyone of the subject at hand.
“No fun in that, my love.” Frankie spoke around a mouthful of food and then bent her head to get another even bigger bite from what looked like an excellent croque-monsieur.
Zizou had been particularly magnanimous to her today, Vi thought.
Shame she wouldn’t get to enjoy the result of his generosity.
The response seemed to only upset Chiara more, as the down-turned lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. Vi watched emotions chase one another on that sculpted face before the mask of calmness slipped back on, and Chiara turned her eyes to her.
“Well, in that case, stop by the studio later, Ms. Courtenay. Lunch will be in the oven. I made lasagna last night. No olive oil.”
Chiara stepped further into the room and picked up Frankie’s discarded leather jacket from the floor. She folded it neatly, but before she could raise it to her face, seemingly to smell it, Frankie enveloped her in a massive hug and took it out of her hands.
“My wife has come down from her royal throne to lay down the law. Mere mortals, bow down to the Queen of Paris. I saw that article in Poise the other day, speculating how the once-reigning royalty of the catwalk is nowhere to be found these days. They even hypothesized whether you are feeding the hungry and the homeless now, Your Majesty.”
Vi could see Aoife ball her fists. The article had come out as part of a ‘Where Are They Now?’ series about former mega-stars of the fashion industry, be it models or designers, who had vanished from the public eye.
Vi thought it hadn’t been very well-researched for such a massive publication. Chiara, after all, wasn’t even hiding.
It was surreal that nobody knew she was, in fact, the genius behind every Lilien Haus creation, but she wasn’t exactly cloistered either.
If that wasn’t enough to anger Vi, Frankie’s ridicule and her mocking words in evident jealousy of the title the magazine had bestowed on Chiara were enough to set her teeth on edge.
But Chiara didn’t seem to be affected, merely walking up to Aoife’s workstation and tracing a line of stitching on the gown draped over it as she spoke. “Well, Ms. Courtenay deserves to have a meal.”
And now both Vi and Aoife watched the ongoing conversation as if they were watching a tennis match.
Serve. Parry.
“ Ms. Courtenay ,” Frankie almost sang the name, mocking Chiara’s inflection, “is a member of a royal family who can feed herself, surely. Dress herself, too. But I’m told you’ve been mostly undressing her these days.”
Vi flinched. Backhand across the court.
She wanted to disappear, her earlier desire to make herself scarce returning tenfold.
So Frankie knew about their modeling sessions.
And mocked those, too. She felt like the Queen Anne dress, stomped into dirt by Frankie’s massive boots.
Moments she treasured, moments she cherished, were smeared with mud, with malice on that sneering face.
Chiara, however, seemed unperturbed.
“And her standing in as a model has ensured the collection was finished in record time. I can only thank her for her dedication and largesse with her evenings, for which we are not paying her nearly enough.”
Another parry, coming much faster and diagonally, Frankie scrambling to keep up.
“Well, she has my thanks then as well.”
An appeasing cut to the net.
“And yet, all you do is eat her food. When my muse goes to Rome and comes back from Milan, I’m grateful for any and all assistance the Universe provides. You should be too, my love. It’s your name on the facade, after all.”
And with that devastating forehand to the back line, Chiara exited the studio, taking set, game and match in one strike.