17. In a Faraway Land of Past Hurts and New Pain #2
“You can look around. I’m not entirely certain how many gowns are finished. Aoife and Renate will be able to give you those numbers.” She said it matter-of-factly, but Vi winced nonetheless.
“I really didn’t mean it that way, Chiara.” The regret hung in the air like a lead balloon about to drop and splash them both with poison.
“It’s okay. Really.” She knew her voice was warmer than she actually wanted it to sound and couldn’t help it.
“It’s the truth. I don’t know how many there are or how many have already been sold.
Some might still even be in New York, so perhaps we can bring a few of those back—along with the clients, if they would be willing. ”
Vi perked up, eyes calculating. “That would be great. I know at least two of them, and one… well, she might be amenable, if she’s still speaking to me after our little fling—” She closed her mouth abruptly, ending the oh-so-familiar barrage of words that always seemed to materialize when Vi was nervous or uncomfortable. Some things never changed.
Chiara knew, on some level, that Vi probably didn’t live like a nun, but to have it so casually thrown in her face, when she herself had remained untouched since that night, was jarring.
“The details of your exploits don’t interest me, Ms. Courtenay.” One more step, then another, and Chiara had used the space between them to compose herself again.
“I wasn’t about to give you any.” Exasperation colored Vi’s voice, but she didn’t make any attempts to come closer again. Instead, she turned away from Chiara, pulled out a leather notebook and went to work.
Chiara watched her murmur to herself as she walked through the room, counting the gowns and accessories on display in the atelier. She sensed a touch of pride swell inside her when Vi reverently ran her fingers over some of the veils.
More memories of that single-minded focus flooded Chiara. The way those eyes would turn on her, and nothing else existed, how they’d made Chiara feel. Special. Loved.
The sensation of something wet in the palm of her hand made her unclench the fist she was making. Blood. With all her determination to not think about what Vi had done to her all those years ago, she had pierced her own skin.
But she’d spilled that blood for nothing, since it didn’t stop her mind from returning there.
A loud, angry meow interrupted her self-recriminations and Binoche swaggered into the workshop, ignoring Vi’s presence entirely, which made Chiara smile.
The cat that didn’t like to be touched walked closer to her mistress and rubbed her compact body on her ankles, twisting and turning, very demonstratively meowing all the way.
Chiara had to laugh, a sound that seemed to surprise Vi, who was watching the cat with some amusement, but suddenly her eyes turned wistful and sad.
Chiara refused to analyze why, as she lifted the now loudly and showily purring cat to her face, giving her a nose kiss before setting Binoche on her pillow.
As she turned back to Vi, she buried her face back in her notebook.
“I will leave you to it then. And if I were you, I wouldn’t disturb Binoche. Though, if you do, just call loudly, and someone will bring you the first aid kit.”
With that, she turned away and slowly left the room. As she stood in the doorway, she took one last look. Vi had not raised her eyes from the notebook, but Chiara could see she’d been inching closer to the windowsill. No, Vi still didn’t know what was good for her. Or bad, for that matter.
* * *
The plans for the magazine turned out to be magnificent, especially in light of the very short amount of time they’d been given.
Chiara’s atelier felt crowded, with both Aoife and Renate in her space.
“So Benedict, Aoife and I talked Arabella off the ledge. She’s pushing the entire October issue back to make room for a special edition.
It will be released mid-month, so that gives us another two weeks.
Which, all things considered, is a relief, because Courtenay is insane. ”
Renate voice was a mix of excitement and exasperation as she paced the room, in what was now an all too familiar sight, while Aoife sat perched at Chiara’s elbow at the workstation, munching on handfuls of popcorn and watching the scene unfold with avid eyes. At Chiara’s glare, she shrugged.
“What? I might as well soothe myself. Had to be Vi Courtenay, of all the photographers in the world? This is a damn mess and I hate it, and I need to get enjoyment where I can.” Chiara couldn’t fault her. But when offered a handful of the treat, she shook her head.
A thought that she had forgotten to eat breakfast intruded, the next one on its heels being that she hadn’t eaten dinner the day before, either. Aoife didn’t seem to pay any attention as she reached over and wrote ‘order takeout once this goddamn meeting is over’ on a pink post-it note.
“Also, I want Renate to tell us more about how her so-called ‘work meetings’ with Arabella,” Aoife dragged the name into twenty suggestive syllables, “are going. ‘Cause that is just about as interesting as Chiara here pretending that Vi walking these hallowed halls is not bothering her.”
Renate turned, her hand raised and mouth open. Interrupting the impending invective, Chiara simply smacked Aoife on the knee.
“Can we please all act like adults? Nothing can be done about Vi. It’s not like we didn’t know she had made a huge name for herself as the best fashion photographer in this country of soggy-cardboard-bread.
” She took a deep, cleansing breath. “Though Aoife is not entirely wrong about everybody wanting to know how you are dealing with Arabella.”
She said it with a sly smile and could swear she could see Renate’s hair stand on end. How exceedingly interesting.
“And you’re the one asking us to act like adults?
Never mind Arabella. She is a professional, despite her many terrible qualities.
In any case, we all thought that four weeks is much better than two for what Courtenay has in mind.
And I have to say I like her proposal. It’s fashion at its most influential.
It’s classic, and both understated and grand. I like it. Damn her.”
“But how do you really feel?” Aoife chortled and Chiara simply closed her eyes.
So Vi had gotten her way after all. Two weeks were bad enough, but four?
How would she cope with that much exposure to Vi?
How would she keep tucking the awful tendrils of her guilt and anger away? It was such a dangerous cocktail.
* * *
Chiara didn’t know her thoughts were turning prophetic these days, because the entire cocktail turned Molotov on a dime when the interviews started. Ricarda O’Kelly, whose sensuous accent wrapped itself around her subjects like honey, charming and disarming them instantly, was a delight.
Beautiful, funny, with a smile that lit up a room, she joined Chiara and Vi for the cover shoot, observing and making notes.
“Don’t mind me, ladies. I just want to get a sense of the person whose name doesn’t leave Neve Blackthorne’s lips these days.
” Her eyes crinkled adorably at the corners, and Chiara found herself reciprocating the bright smile.
A sharp cough from behind the camera interrupted her, and in her line of vision, Vi frowned.
Ricarda didn’t seem to notice Chiara being charmed. “She really is full of so many nice things to say about you—”
Vi’s interruption was jarring, even though her voice was measured. “She should be full of nice things to say about her wife instead.” Chiara almost lost her footing as she moved from one prop to the next at Vi’s words, but Ricarda took everything in stride.
“Oh, she is. Those two are meant to be.”
“Good for them.” More pouty lips as the shutter clicked away.
“In any case, I was intrigued immediately when she mentioned you. And with all the work you have done these past few years, for the life of me, I cannot understand why your name has not been on more people’s lips. You’re magnificent.”
Ricarda gushed and Vi gnashed her teeth so loudly, Chiara heard the bone-on-bone sound resonate across the studio. Morag, the makeup artist, pretended to be engrossed in her phone.
“Thank you, Ms. O’Kelly.” Chiara tried to move as little as possible as she spoke, but a loud ‘tsk’ from Vi told her she hadn’t succeeded.
“Oh please, it’s Ricarda. We’re among friends here, aren’t we, Vi?” Chiara was certain she could hear Vi almost snap her leash.
However, when she spoke, the voice was steeped in that tone that caused Chiara to feel bile rise up her throat. The complete lack of inflection or emotion. “We are, Ricarda.”
“Well then, did I tell you I love this concept? I do! It’s gorgeous. I looked through all the previous covers of yours, Chiara, and I have to say, Vi here is going straight for the gold. It’ll be amazing. Although, I’m certain nothing with your face on it could be anything but fabulous.”
She flittered closer, and Vi moved to the left to get a few side shots, leaving Chiara feeling slightly exposed to the full frontal attack by the reporter.
“You know who else sings your praises? I had lunch with Livia Sabran-McMillan yesterday. My god, the woman is smitten. I’m off the record and am not looking for confirmation, but you’d make a great couple—”
“Ricarda!” Vi’s exclamation broke the positively copacetic atmosphere inside the studio.
In a totally unnecessary maneuver and with all eyes on her, she stepped in front of Ricarda and called for the makeup artist to touch up Chiara’s face.
The woman’s features as she rolled her eyes before applying a sponge to Chiara’s cheekbone spoke volumes about her thoughts on the matter.
As Ricarda stood speechless after Vi’s obvious attempt to shut her up, Vi shed her suit jacket, exposing a stylishly ratty t-shirt, those sinewy tattooed forearms, and honest-to-god suspenders, holding up another low slung pair of ankle length trousers.
By Chiara’s ear, the makeup artist uttered a quiet, “damn girl,” before giving out a low whistle.
It was perhaps the whistle that snapped Ricarda out of the insult, and she laughed quietly.
“Well, ‘damn girl’ is quite right. And for the record Vi, I’d be on the edge too, if two of my exes were married now and minor subjects in a massive special wedding issue, which I was both designing and shooting in its entirety.
But with your history, and the swaths you’ve cut in the lesbian population of this island, I’m not certain that could be avoided.
” The quiet chuckle was like nails on the board of Chiara’s already raw nerves.
Vi’s possessiveness and rudeness, Vi acting like Ricarda’s flirting was somehow illicit when she herself had… Chiara closed her eyes and mentally counted to ten. When that didn’t help, she opened her eyes to the gray ones burning holes in her, both angry and wounded.
Wounded? Chiara felt the short reins of her own temper—stretched tight ever since Vi stepped into Chiaroscuro just days ago and acted like nothing at all had happened between them—finally snap.
“Ricarda, Morag, I think we should all take lunch and reconvene in about an hour and a half.” She turned away, effectively dismissing both women.
As she stepped across the studio’s threshold, she threw a grenade over her shoulder and kept moving. “Ms. Courtenay, would you mind coming to my office? It seems there are loose ends to our previous conversation that need to be tended to.”