15. In a Faraway Land of Stormy Harbingers
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF STORMY HARBINGERS
C hiara Conti had never been in the eye of the storm, and thus her contact with tornadoes was rather limited. Finding herself swept up in one named Arabella Archibald Avant was a curious experience. With both Renate and Aoife making themselves scarce, Chiara had to endure the first contact alone.
The woman marched into the studio—there was no other way to describe the way she’d entered Chiaroscuro’s atelier—took exactly one cursory look around, inclined her head, and took her phone out of a purse probably big enough to fit the entirety of Chiara’s selection that was on display.
“Yes, Bene, scrap whatever you planned for the next issue. We will be doing Chiara Conti. Yes. The entire thing. No, you heard me. I realize we have less than two weeks to shoot and print. I do own a calendar, you know.” The voice dripped with so much sarcasm, Chiara tried to hide her smile.
She could practically see Benedict Stanley fainting in his tastefully decorated glass office.
Arabella's next outburst pulled her attention back to what was happening in her own studio.
“Have I asked who, Benedict Edmund Stanley? I was not aware I needed permission, you ridiculous man. Now find some smelling salts and get yourself together. Later, dearest.”
With enough flourish to break through the soft-looking leather, Arabella threw her phone back into her bag and finally turned around, her shrewd eyes on Chiara.
“So.”
And this time Chiara didn’t hide her reaction to the tornado making herself at home in her space. She raised an eyebrow and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, the stare down came to an abrupt conclusion when Arabella harrumphed and took a few steps closer to her.
“Oh, for crying out loud, will I have to spell everything out for you as well? Neve swears that you are some kind of genius. And having seen her wedding dresses—both of them—and looking at all this…,” the pale hands, weighed down by enough gold hardware to sink a ship, made a sweeping gesture around the atelier, “I tend to agree with the woman. She is so rarely wrong, after all.”
“Unless it’s men.” It really wasn’t any of her business whom Neve Blackthorne, of all people, married, but the joke just begged to be told. She braced herself for what would follow, but Arabella threw her head back and her raspy chuckle was contagious.
“Ha, like your spousal track record is stellar, my dear.” The words might have stung, but Arabella’s eyes were kind, so Chiara smiled.
“Touché.”
“But of course, touché, dear. Of course. And I say this with no malice. I’ve known your ex-wife for twenty years, and I’ve sat in the front row at her shows many times, and I’ve worn Lilien’s creations with pleasure…
But I am quite happy Franziska wasn’t the one designing them. Wild that one. And so here we are.”
Arabella’s eyes looked straight through her and Chiara felt a duality of both a touch of that pride, for the belated recognition of her talent, and a pang of fear of the spotlight.
“I never said—”
Chiara’s protest fell on deaf ears.
“Ah, child, lesser mortals may not have made the connection between Lilien Haus’ dismal collections over the past four years and your divorce, but I am no lesser mortal.
The spark? The genius? The talent? That was all you.
Spine too, from what I see. Obstinance. That’s fine. A genius has the right to be stubborn.”
She touched the bodice of the dress closest to her, rings glinting in tandem with the few strands of gold that ran through the embroidered flowers.
“You can be all these things, including stubborn and temperamental. But you cannot be oblivious. And I don’t think you are. Am I right?”
Pale eyes zeroed back in on her, and Chiara felt the power of them.
“I am familiar with you, Ms. Archibald Avant. And I am not a novice to the industry, no matter what my previous venture entailed or how big my exposure was. But I’m still not sure what it is you’re asking of me.”
“Asking…” Arabella laughed again. “Neve did say you were quite set in your ways. Good on you. As reclusive as your ways are.”
Still running her fingers along the bodice with considerable and surprising reverence, Arabella smiled. “I don’t blow smoke up people’s asses, Chiara Conti. I don’t need to. I come in, I look, and things fall in line.”
“I am not a thing . And I’m not entirely certain what line you’re talking about when it comes to Chiaroscuro. But this is personal to me.” Insulted, Chiara raised her eyebrow, and Arabella’s smile widened.
“That is understandable. If I am right about Franziska—and I am rarely wrong about people—you’ve never had much of a say, despite all of your talent and your sacrifices.
So of course, in that sense, you are a thing.
A commodity. We all are. And we all play our roles in the big scheme of those things.
But I will spare you the pretenses and platitudes—”
“Additional ones?” The teasing got Chiara another bark of laughter.
“Oh, I like you. I like you very much, Chiara Conti. And so here is what I want. Spelled out. You probably overheard me earlier anyway. Poise will scrap its entire special holiday issue this October and dedicate one to you. ‘Chiara Conti’s Big Return.’ As a supermodel, you were a star of massive proportions.
Unprecedented for your time. An out and proud lesbian walking the biggest catwalks.
” Arabella’s eyes shone with something akin to pride, and Chiara, once again, found herself wondering about the deeper motivation that ran as an undercurrent in this meeting.
With a graceful gesture around herself, Arabella continued.
“Right now, you are quietly taking the wedding gown market by storm. And I think all this stealthiness is paying off in some ways. Everyone is curious. Everyone is on the edge of their seats.” The pause was as theatrical as it was effective, and Chiara suspected Arabella knew it.
“And you and I will blow them all away.”
Chiara had to cross her arms over her chest to hide her shaking hands. It was suddenly all so real, so big. “You assume that this kind of fame is something I want, Ms. Archibald Avant.”
“You can call me Arabella, Chiara Conti. All those dusty names belong to my husbands, after all. And while I cherish the access and the comfort they provided, Arabella was and is who I actually am.”
“And yet, you call me by my full name.” Chiara pursed her lips and stared down the older woman.
“That’s right. Your full name, child. To remind you that you’re no longer a Lilienfeld. To underscore that you already crossed that line. And that it’s time to come out from under those murky shadows.”
Crafty witch. It was Chiara’s turn to concede, and she felt her lips stretch into a grin. So very cheeky. So very smart.
Arabella laughed along, presumably at her own astuteness, and the atmosphere in the studio lost its tension.
“An entire special issue?” Chiara narrowed her eyes.
She could see the possibilities. On the other hand, Chiaroscuro would be firmly thrust into the spotlight, and she would never be able to get out of it again.
It took the control over events away from her, and that sent a shiver down her spine.
But it would also bring all that glory Renate and Aoife so wanted for her.
Should she risk her privacy, her security in anonymity for the satisfaction of her friends?
Oh, who was she kidding? She’d walk to the ends of the earth for either of those two. And then there was her pride.
She met Arabella’s gaze head-on.
“I’m not averse to fame.”
“Good, because it’s already here. You cannot hide Chiaroscuro under a bushel anymore.
It’s too bright, despite its shadows, too full of light.
All the puns intended, dearest. And you deserve more than to just sit here in the safety of those shadows.
Nothing is guaranteed, ever, but I have a feeling that there will never be a ‘what if I fail?’ moment with you.
It will be all about ‘what if I soar?’ from now on.
And put quite like that, what’s the worst that could happen? ”
Unwittingly, Arabella had just uttered the most damaging thing possible. She’d used the exact same words as Frankie when she’d convinced Chiara and Renate to hire a Courtenay.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Well, so, so much, really.
The weights of the memories chained to her arms made it difficult to cross them around her chest, as she turned away from Arabella. It was getting so hard to breathe.
Binoche, as always sensing her distress, let out a disgruntled meow from the windowsill, and Chiara approached her cushion, grateful for the opportunity to put more space between herself and those wretched words.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Well, heartbreak for one. And betrayal. And the worst mistake of her life. How to explain this to this coiffed and styled woman, who probably never set a foot wrong in her life unless she intended to, that Chiara had crossed lines that should have never even been seen, not to mention touched?
Under her fingertips, Binoche stretched, and the warmth of her fur soothed, the sensation grounding Chiara.
For the millionth time, she wondered why she’d taken the cat who reminded her of nothing else except how she had done things she’d had no business doing, and how those things came back to haunt her.
She could have given Binoche away to a number of people who would have cared for her and loved her and been amazing humans to her. But Chiara held on to the cat, who now purred reluctantly under her caress.
What’s the worst that could happen?