14. In a Faraway Land of Thorny Memories #3
Even as she drew a Queen Anne bodice on a gown she already knew would be spectacular, Chiara chose not to think about the fact that, after years of trying to find herself, it was Vi’s unique vision and perceptiveness that had given her a direction, a breakthrough into what she was meant to do.
Chiara had a little help from her friends.
Neve Blackthorne and Princess Allegra of Savoy had steadfastly stood beside her through her tribulations.
And the diamond-encrusted mermaid-line gown worn by the second bride of King Aleric of Savoy—or was it his third?
—had landed with the effect of a nuclear detonation, blowing the fashion world’s collective minds.
Chiara deliberately shied away from the spotlight, keeping herself in the shadows, creating a sense of mystery about Chiaroscuro.
That boon aside, she felt comfortable on the sidelines, having to worry about the creation and not being the face of something she had yet to fully flesh out.
Some days, she looked back at her years with Lilien and had a reluctant moment of appreciation of Frankie taking all that attention upon herself.
It wasn’t easy. And it wasn’t all roses, being the public front of a fashion brand.
After the royal wedding, commissions soared, and Renate had put her foot down. No more nomadic lifestyle. No more hotels. No more rental work space. They were going to settle down. They were going to put down roots someplace where they would find their permanence.
Paris was out of the question. With Brexit, London did not appeal. So there was only one sensible destination. The land of the aforementioned subpar coffee, microwave tea and spongy bread. But all that aside, it was and still remained the land of opportunity.
That was how Chiara had found herself in front of the four-story brick, late nineteenth century townhouse in Lower Manhattan, between the Balenciaga and Schiaparelli flagship stores.
As she’d taken in her surroundings, the bustling, loud and always busy Mercer Street, she knew that she had found her place again.
Her first thought had been to hide her new endeavor. To keep it amidst coffee shops and less fashion-forward brands. To avoid the limelight. But she was also proud. Of every stitch and every piece of lace. Of every cut and every veil.
Chiaroscuro wedding gowns were taking the world by storm, and the queue for them spanned years in advance. Renate would figure out that aspect of the business, but Chiara liked the exclusivity, the fact that nothing she created was mass-produced, and everything held her touch.
When all was said and done, the three of them were an unbeatable trio.
And so she’d stepped into the Mercer Street townhouse with her head held high and pictured the store on the ground floor and her atelier under the skylights. Then she made the realtor’s day, nay year, by taking one sweeping walk around and saying ‘yes.’
These days, she found herself saying ‘yes’ to a lot of things, and as she put the finishing touches on Renate’s sketch, she felt that one of those ‘yeses’ was about to bite her in the ass. Because Renate’s eyes were shrewd, and Aoife’s arms were holding all that ivory lace after all.
“So are you ready for the Grand Dame?” Aoife didn’t hide her awe when she spoke the appellation as if it was sanctified.
The Grand Dame in question was none other than the owner of Poise Magazine and dozens of other fashion- and art enterprises and ruler of the New York social scene, the one and only Arabella Archibald Avant.
A week ago, the phone had rung and without preamble, a raspy, no-nonsense voice had stated, “Arabella here. I want you in Poise,” and that was that.
Chiara hadn’t really had much to say on the matter, because apparently, when Arabella Archibald Avant wanted something, it had to be done. Preferably without delay and any other such nonsense.
And Chiara would have probably acquiesced right away, but the moment she’d opened her mouth, Renate shook her head and in an equally brooking-no-argument tone answered, “Ms. Conti’s week is booked. Please get back to us in a few days, and we will see about fitting you in.”
Aoife had spilled her coffee and Chiara smiled.
Because Renate was right, Chiara should always remember her value.
And her position. Five years sadly hadn’t cured her of her self-doubt or patched up her self-confidence.
Though that, if she ever went into counseling again, would be something her potential therapist would have a field day with.
Lo-and-behold, Arabella’s assistant had called Renate a few days later, and the appointment was made. For today, in fact. And so both Renate and Aoife were in her office, where she’d been doodling and drawing portraits instead of focusing on the tasks at hand. So what else was new?
“I’m as ready for her as I will be, Aoife. We don’t even know what she really wants.”
Chiara tugged on her long sleeve, her gray knit dress hugging her pleasantly, warding off the chill of the early New York fall, offering one more layer of soft armor among the sensory overload that was slowly creeping in.
“Bah, what could that old biddy want?” Uncharacteristically, Renate threw her hands up in the air.
Chiara’s antennae quivered. Her friend was on edge, and wasn’t that curious?
Did she know Arabella? Was that the real reason she’d put roadblocks in front of the socialite?
Even if they’d also been entirely justifiable.
“I am not really sure, Renate, but do you think I should be worried? After all, I know the Editor-In-Chief fairly well. I don’t think Benedict would screw me over.
And honestly, even if he and Arabella are up to no good, our outstanding orders are years long.
I’m thoroughly uninterested in the glory of it, and you know it. ”
Chiara almost choked on the lie and wondered at herself.
Why deny that she wanted everything? Maybe because it scared her so much.
And maybe because the last time she’d put herself out there, had opened herself up, the ensuing betrayal had been witnessed by millions of newspaper readers and internet dwellers.
And no, she wasn’t thinking about her ex wife's proclivities. Rather, Vi’s knife was still sticking out from her back.
Renate scoffed and ran her fingers through her hair, and now Chiara knew she was holding something back. Nobody touched that pristine coif.
“Arabella may have changed some of her fair-weather ways. And Benedict was always upfront and aboveboard in his dealings with Lilien. So no, I don’t think either of them will try anything underhanded.
But I do want recognition for you. If only to throw a Poise cover in quite a number of people’s faces. ”
“Ah, so it’s revenge then.” Chiara stood up and handed Renate the finished sketch, making her friend purse her lips and Aoife laugh out loud.
Chiara shook her head. “I can’t say that I care all that much about either. I’m…” She wanted to say happy. But the lie didn’t roll off her tongue as smoothly as she may have wanted it to in order to convince either Renate or Aoife. So she settled on something closer to the truth.
“I’m content. And I’m busy. Or will be once we get this show on the road and dispense with the prophetic and the fanciful. Arabella will be here soon enough, and then we’ll know. And we’ll deal with it. As we have the past years. One step at the time. One stitch after the other.”
Aoife nodded, and Renate simply held the sketch and shook her head. So much for being convincing then.
As her friends filed out of the studio, something twisted in Chiara’s chest, a thin splinter of something long lost, long abandoned.
Something that had been keeping her heart sewn together with fragile threads of old yarn was being pulled apart, a stitch at a time, the yarn no match for the sharp edged splinter.
She touched her sternum, absentmindedly, foolishly trying to allay the ache, as the early fall wind played with the red leaves on the street below her.
A stitch gave out, and she sensed that something was coming her way. Arabella was just the harbinger.