10. Rickon
Chapter ten
Rickon
I used to love filming and dread all the action ending, but this time around I breathe a sigh of relief as the director approves the last scene take. Set pack-down begins immediately, even as the actors are still coming off the stage. We’re on schedule, but somehow it feels like it’s been longer than twelve weeks.
When did my job turn from something I loved to a chore? Probably around the same time I started working for this black-haired diva.
Lyra strides off the stage and throws her jacket at me. “Rick, I need a dress for the wrap-up gala.”
I freeze in place, staring at her. “I put that on your to-do list before filming began.”
She shrugs. “Well, I’ve been busy learning lines and shooting, haven’t I? Isn’t that your job, anyway? Nip down to Sorentito’s and find something they have left over from the Winter Collection.” She arches a brow. “Couture only.”
Chills run through me like I’m coming down with the flu. “There’ll be nothing left, Lyra, since literally everyone wants her formal wear.”
She huffs out a big breath and shakes her head. “Damn, Rick, why do you have to argue about everything? Do you even want to work?”
I swallow down all the sharp retorts that come to mind. “I’ll see what’s there.” Worry stirs in my stomach as I hand her clothes to the costume team and catch a bus uptown. I’m underdressed for a visit to Sorentito’s, since I needed to be comfortable on set. After a pit stop in a metro bathroom to comb my hair and check my eyeliner, I head into the showroom of Laversham’s top fashion designer.
As I expected, it’s crowded, all three private dressing rooms in use.
The sales attendant who comes to greet me assesses me with an unimpressed gaze. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”
I shake my head. “Unfortunately not. Can you squeeze me in?” She opens her mouth with what is undoubtedly a refusal, but I rush through. “It’s for Lyra Gray, for the end of filming gala.”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times. “For Saturday? That’s cutting it close.”
I sigh. “You’re telling me.”
A tall woman with platinum hair pinned up in a neat knot with an elaborate, dangling hair pin thrust through it comes out from a dressing rooms and spies me. “Rickon, dove! What are you doing here?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Years of fostering connections might pay off today. “Hello, Hannah. I’m in a pickle.”
After she hears my story, Hannah Sorentito tracks a finger down her cheek as if she’s tracing a tear. “Such a shame you don’t have a booking. If you wait for an hour, I’ll fit you in for fifteen minutes during my lunch break.”
“Has anyone told you you’re a saint?” I murmur, slumping in relief.
“Only daily, but it’s special coming from you.” She winks at me. “Have a look and see what catches your eye.” She turns on her heel and strides to the racks of gowns to select a handful for whoever’s inside the dressing room.
The first attendant brings me a rolling clothes rack and a pair of white gloves, and I work my way through the dresses, looking for something that might suit Lyra’s complexion and shape. With each formal gown being individually created, we have zero flexibility for sizing options, and Lyra’s a little wider in the hips than some of these allow for.
Only one dress from the Winter Collection catches my eye, a silver off-the-shoulder dress with a fishtail skirt. I hang it on my rack and move on to check the other collections.
Movement stirs as a pair I recognize exit the dressing room. Donna Feraski, the actress Lyra stole the leading role from, stiffens as she catches sight of me.
The smile she pastes on gives me the creeps. “Fancy running into you here. Shopping for Lyra?” she asks. She’s a talented actress, but Lyra mocks her for moving into TV shows.
“Yes.” I nod at the hint of pink tulle hanging out of the dress bag over her manager’s arm. “Looks like you found something nice.”
She sizes me up and down before snatching the silver dress off my rack. “Yes, but I have two events. I’ll take this one as well.”
“I’ve already reserved that one,” I inform her, resting my hand on the coat hanger and tugging.
“When’s your appointment?” she asks, fluttering her lashes.
“In an hour.”
Donna shrugs one elegant shoulder and smirks. “Too bad. House rules say those with an appointment get served first.” She pulls the hanger out of my grip and lays the dress over her attendant’s arm.
Hannah comes up behind the actress and flashes me a lopsided smile. “Sorry, dove, she’s right.”
All the wind knocks right out of my sails as I watch Donna sashay up to the cashier and flash her platinum credit card. Imagine being able to drop fifty grand on dresses like that, just to say “fuck you” to an actress you don’t like. Donna’s manager mouths sorry as they leave the showroom—while the divas wage war, we managers weave across the battlefield, dodging shrapnel.
I sigh as I turn back to the rack, already knowing the only thing left in the Winter Collection is a vanilla satin piece that would hang all wrong on Lyra.
By the time my appointment comes, I’m thoroughly discouraged. Hannah catches my disappointed look. “Nothing’s taken your fancy, has it?”
I force a smile for her sake. “They’re beautiful but won’t suit Lyra.”
She asks for Lyra’s size, and twirls her hand around while she thinks, and then beckons me with her head. “Come, come.”
I follow her through a staff door and my eyes widen as we step into the heart of her workrooms. This is my kind of place, bursting with fabrics, mannequins, and beautiful outfits. “We’re in the thick of planning for the Summer Collection right now, but I have something show you.”
“Seashells are in?” I muse, looking over the scalloped necklines and shell embellishments.
“Mm-hmm. Sea breeze is the catchword. Now, this isn’t a personal design, but I approved it as a signature piece.” She spins a mannequin around and my breath catches. The stiffened bodice looks like it has mother-of-pearl molded over it, and the side opens completely right down to the hip. It wouldn’t fit Lyra perfectly, but I could make it work.
“Radical, isn’t it?” Hannah says, watching my face.
“It’s stunning,” I murmur, holding the frothy white skirt out for inspection. The dual-tone threads shimmer from pale pink to cream depending on how the light hits them. “A clam and pearl?”
Hannah winks at me. “I knew you were a clever lad. I’m uncertain if Lyra Gray can pull it off, but I’ll give you a chance. In return, she needs to name drop and bring it back for the show.”
I nod. That’s a small price to pay for such a gorgeous dress, released before the official collection. “Do you have a matching headpiece to go with it?”
Hannah rests the back of her hand on my cheek. “Gorgeous and smart. You’re wasted in the film business, Rickon. You should catwalk for me.”
I chuckle. “We both know I’m a foot too short for that.”
“Pity,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “But no, we don’t have a hairpiece yet. We work on the accessories range after we get the dress lineup sorted.”
I smile. I’m sure I can cobble something nice together. “We’ll take the dress. You’ve saved my tush, Hannah.”
She eyes me up and down. “Well, we wouldn’t want to endanger that tush, would we? Pleasure doing business. I’ll get the early release contract.”
I’m feeling so smug, it takes two swipes of Lyra’s credit card through the EFTPOS machine before I realize something is very wrong as it beeps at me.
“Card declined,” the sales assistant says, a little louder than necessary. She takes the card out of my fingers and checks it. “This one expired yesterday.”
Heat burns in my cheeks. “One moment, please.” I speed dial Lyra.
“What?” she answers.
“Hi, Lyra. I’ve got a dress, but your card’s expired.”
“So? Just pay for it, and I’ll reimburse you.”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see it. I can’t recall the last time she reimbursed me for a coffee, let alone a dress worth thirty grand. I cup my hand round my mouth, trying to shield my words from the prying ears in the store. “I don’t have that kind of money lying around to spend on a dress.” Especially one I might never get reimbursed for. “Give us your credit card details over the phone.”
“I don’t have my purse with me, Rick.” Shit, I hate that name, especially the way she says it so curtly. I glance over at the desk, where the sales assistant stares at me with her mouth drawn tight.
“Oh my word, is this a Summer preview gown?” A woman I recognize as an actor’s wife picks up the tag hanging on my dress bag. My pulse stutters. What if I lose a second dress today?
Lyra snaps, “Get it done, Rick. I’m going into my yoga class now; I’ll sort it out with you after.”
Another stylish woman comes out of a dressing room, and suddenly the store feels overfull. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades as I bring up my banking app and transfer my house savings into my checking account and increase my daily spending limit.
I shouldn’t be doing this; every instinct says so, but it’s like I’m no longer in control of my body. All I can hear is my heartbeat pounding in my ears, telling me to hurry, hurry, hurry and get the hell out of here.
The bag drags heavily on my arm as I rush out of the store. I refuse to take such an expensive dress on the subway, so I wave down a cab and slide into the back, cradling the prize across my lap like it’s a living thing.
It’ll be okay. Lyra will pay me back, and she’ll be in awe of the fact I secured a preview dress just for her. I press a hand to my heart and breathe deep. Everything will be okay.
Everything is not okay.
“What the actual fuck is this?” Lyra’s rage sends ice down my spine. She hefts up the weighty dress and turns it side to side in her office at the agency.
I swallow hard, shoving down a sudden rush of terror. “It’s a Sorentito’s Summer preview dress. You’ll be the only person wearing a preview from her collection.”
Lyra holds out the skirt and scoffs. “This isn’t a dress; it’s a press scandal waiting to happen.” She touches the edge of the stiffened bodice. “Where’s the rest of the torso? I’ll fall out.”
I barely contain an eye roll and opt for patience instead. If I piss her off, Lyra will get real catty. “We’ll use a suction bra across the front and tape the sides. You won’t flash anyone.”
“We?” She arches her thin brows in disdain. “Why don’t you wear it then, Rick? You’re pretty enough to pull off a dress.” Her scathing tone cuts deep, and I take a step back. “And geez, did you choose the most expensive dress in the shop?” She flicks the tag away like it’s offensive, and the piece of card flutters helplessly on its ribbon, chained to the dress. Like me.
I roll my hands together. “You asked for a Sorentito’s, but they had nothing that would suit you left in the Winter Collection, not after Donna stole the only one I picked out.”
“That bitch!” Lyra curls her hands into fists, careless of the tulle in her grip.
I wince on behalf of the crushed fabric.
“She’s still nursing a grudge because she couldn’t hold on to this role.” Lyra scoffs under her breath and hangs the dress back on a hook with a decisive snap. “I have a spare Panquin’s gown at home; I’ll wear that instead.”
Shock freezes my blood. “Pardon?”
“I can’t wear this half-finished dress.”
I shake my head. This cannot be happening. “But I signed for a preview gown on the condition that you announce you’re wearing a Sorentito’s.”
She glares at me like I’m the problem in this equation. “Then you shouldn’t have signed for this monstrosity.”
I stare at her, my mouth falling open. It’s a preview gown that’ll look stunning on her. She’d be the talk of the town, which is something Lyra loves.
“You won’t fall out,” I promise. It’s not my first rodeo for taping a woman’s breasts into couture evening wear.
Lyra turns back to the dress and eyes it over, and her brow furrows. Could it be she’s not confident enough to pull it off? I’d never in a million years dream she’d back away from an opportunity like this.
I clear my throat, scrambling for answers. “We have time. I’ll sew in a sheer panel, or a band under the arm.” Not that an actress of her caliber needs to shy away from making a big statement, but right now I need to remove any obstacles.
She spins away, and a shiver runs through me as I recognize that determined body language. “No. I’m done here. I’ve got better things to do than sit around waiting for you to sew.”
The shock of digesting her reaction means it takes a moment for the real problem to sink in. Panic claws up my throat. “You’ll reimburse me for the cost, though?” I step closer, reaching for her in desperation. “You specifically asked me to pick a Sorentito’s dress.”
She tugs her sleeve out of my frozen fingers. “We’ll discuss it after the wind-up. I have an appointment to get to now.”
That’s not an outright no, which is good news, right? Sorentito’s is not some run-of-the-mill boutique where I can return a dress for a refund, and Hannah would never give me another chance like this. My reputation’s on the line as well.
“Are you sure—?”
She snaps her fingers at me. “Enough about it! Go home.” She flounces out, leaving me with a nose-ful of her synthetic perfume and the breath knocked out of me as surely as if I’d been punched.