Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Karl’s Fabric Emporium was only a half dozen blocks from Camille’s studio. An easy stroll by French standards. But by New York standards, close to an impossibility. The crowded sidewalk soon had her dancing in and out of the way of other pedestrians.
She grabbed two coffees en route, and by the time her fabric dealer answered the buzzer on his door, Camille had somehow managed to find her smile. Karl had no tolerance for grumpy people. You never showed up to his doorstep without a smile on your dial.
He took the coffee tray from Camille’s hands. “Fabulous, just what I need.” His gaze went briefly to her other hand, then he sighed. “I was half hoping you might have picked up a cookie or two.”
Camille could just imagine how that particular conversation would have gone.
Oh you shouldn’t have. I’m on a diet. I can’t eat sweet treats.
Well ok, I won’t offer them to you. I will take the cookies home.
Like hell you are keeping them all to yourself my girl.
“I didn’t buy any food, because if you don’t look stunning in your photoshoot you will look for someone to blame. And I have more than enough problems on my plate this morning,” she replied.
She followed a grumbling Karl into the back of his fabric warehouse. Every time he took a sip of his bitter black coffee, he muttered something about how it tasted like dirt without sweetener.
Camille had visited many fabric suppliers over the years, but no one else came close to being able to capture the magic contained in this out-of-the-way fabric emporium. Karl Thomas was somehow able to source unique designs that no other company could offer.
He stopped at a large silver metal cutting table, setting his coffee cup down with yet another dramatic sigh. “I’ll be so glad when I can get off this diet, and go back to having my daily donut. My wife says I shouldn’t be crying over sweet treats, and I know she is right. But I do miss the joy of the glaze.”
Camille grinned at him. “I’m sure you’ll survive the diet, but if it gets really tough just think of how gorgeous you will look in your Alexander McQueen suit on the fashion week website.”
“Speaking of how I will look in my photographs. What do you think about me having my hair dyed?”
Karl’s short black hair, had a salt and pepper thing happening. A natural part of him being on the other side of forty.
“I’m going to have to go with a no vote on that one Karl. I like a man who looks his age. Not tired, just—experienced.”
“Yeah. My wife said that Millennials needed honest representation.”
“Besides, you rock the silver fox look,” said Camille.
Her gaze shifted from Karl to the piles of fabric which sat in the middle of the cutting table. She’d been waiting months for these special prints to arrive from the textile company in North Carolina.
Karl lifted the top piece off the pile and spread it out on the table. The fabric which was a mix of midnight blue shot with gold thread was beyond Camille’s wildest dreams.
One dark winter’s night earlier this year, when she’d been feeling low and more than a little homesick, Camille had designed this fabric. Now seeing her vision come to life, emotion clogged her throat. This fabric had been born out of her isolation and heartache—an embodiment of her loneliness. Unexpectedly overwhelmed Camille fought back tears.
“It is stunning,” muttered Karl.
“Almost too perfect.”
She would have to create a garment worthy of the material. Camille stepped forward and picked up the edge of the light cotton fabric. She gasped. “Oh.”
It was so delicate in her hands. For a moment she was suddenly gripped with doubt. Could she actually do this piece of cloth justice?
As if reading her thoughts, Karl gave a reassuring nod. “You know how to work with all the different qualities of materials, Camille. There are few designers in New York who could cut this fabric and make real magic with it, and you are one of them. Your father might well be a pain in your ass, but he trained you well.”
A brief shrug was all she could manage this morning. One day she might be able to talk to her father and thank him for having taught her the fine art of tailoring, but until Francois accepted that her choice of design career was as worthy as his in haute couture , they would remain at odds.
This beautiful piece of divine fabric was at her disposal. But Camille sensed that the time to create something with it wasn’t now. She would wait for the inspiration to come find her.
Camille stirred from her thoughts as Karl pointed to the other items on the cutting table. “Now the rest of the samples are in these two canvas tote bags, and I have wrapped the bigger swatches in brown paper, and string as instructed,” said Karl. He gave her a look which she understood only too well.
Paper and string was considered seriously old school in NYC, but those in the Royal family who dealt in suiting and tailoring had always worked this way with fabric. She was simply carrying on the family tradition.
Karl picked up the large bundles and Camille the tote bags. He nodded at the clearly heavy fabric pile in his arms. “Do you have a car waiting for you outside?”
Camille shook her head. She hadn’t realized the stack would be so big.
“I’ll grab a cab out front.” Worst case she would have to wait a few minutes before finding one that was headed in the right direction. “Maybe my next PA should be a hulky guy who can carry all this stuff. I’m going to need someone strong in the lead up to my fashion week runway show.”
“Fashion week runway show! What?”
She giggled with delight. “Yep. They have offered me a runway show. You’ll have to come. I’ll make sure you and your wife have VIP seats.”
“That is fantastic news, and so well deserved. Do you know any details about the show?” he replied.
“Thank you. I only got the email last night, so I don’t have a lot of details. All I know at this juncture is that I’m going to present a runway show before Jilly G’s new season collection is launched.”
At the mention of Jilly G, Karl screwed up his nose. Jilly G was a top designer, but she also had a reputation for using badly printed fabrics, ones which didn’t last.
“Well I’m sure your collection will look better than hers. And more original.”
Stealing other designers designs was rampant in the industry but she didn’t want to get into that topic of conversation. Since her arrival in New York, Camille had made a point of not engaging in spiteful gossip. She knew full well that what came around tended to come back around and bite you on the ass.
Outside in the street, weighed down by both fabric bundles and expectations, Camille quickly came to the realization that she hadn’t planned this trip all that well.
Finding a cab this morning on the street was proving beyond hopeless. In the end she waited for ten minutes outside Karl’s Fabric Emporium, before deciding that walking home might be her only real option. Half way down the block she began to regret having gone with a killer pair of heels. They’d looked great when she’d left home, but now they just pinched her heels.
And her fellow New Yorkers didn’t seem all that interested in helping her either, as not one person made the slightest effort to get out of her way. Apparently, a woman staggering along the sidewalk carrying an armful of fabric swatches and two large tote bags was fair game. She was the one they expected to get out of their way.
It was Wednesday morning, and everyone seemed to have woken up on hump day in a foul mood. No matter how polite Camille was no one was prepared to yield an inch of the sidewalk.
“Excuse me.”
“Pardonnez-moi.”
“Seriously? Did you just deliberately stick out your elbow?”
People. What is wrong with you?
Humanity seemed to have left its human side at home today, and instead opted to go full evil.
Camille sidestepped another oncoming pedestrian who made no effort to make room. She stopped and adjusted the pile of fabric in her arms. It was so high, she could barely see above the top of it.
This walking a pile of fabrics through the streets of New York on a warm summer’s day had to be the Olympic champion of stupid ideas. But Camille was nothing if not stubbornly determined to prove she could do things for herself.
One more block and then I’m there.
She couldn’t wait to escape the Manhattan madness. Her tired arms, aching back, and swelling feet would be counting every painful step she took toward home.
“Yeah, and then he basically threw me out the door. And get this, he said he was doing me a favor. That one day I will thank him.”
Liam’s string of expletives trickled down the line to Ryan. His brother was as angry as Ryan was about how Simon had treated him.
After all the time he’d worked at Java Junction , all Ryan had to show for his efforts was a gift certificate for an Italian restaurant and a check for his entitlements. So much for his grand plans.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Right now?” snorted Ryan. “Right now, I’m on my way home. The second I get off the train, Operation Pity Party is go for launch.”
Which meant he would soon be lying on the couch drinking a case of cold beer and generally feeling sorry for himself. There was a long standing agreement between them, that if either of them was let go from a job or in Liam’s case a photo assignment, they were granted a full twenty four hours to wallow in misery. After that they’d dust themselves off and get on with the business of finding a new job.
“Ok, sounds like a plan. See you soon.”
Time to go home and wallow in beer-addled despair. I should have asked Liam to get some bags of corn chips.
Ryan lifted his head, and a large brown thing wrapped up with string filled his entire field of vision. He made a move to his left. Whoever was carrying the big brown thing mirrored him. He took a step back, anything to avoid the inevitable collision.
The next thing he knew, the mountain of brown paper and string had launched itself at him. Someone squealed in panic.
It might have been him, but he wasn’t sure.
Arms flailing out at the side, his feet went out from under him and Ryan went down. His back hit the pavement, followed quickly by his head. This time he was certain he was the one who let out a loud, “Ooof!”
He was still trying to figure out which way was up, when out of nowhere pieces of fabric began to rain down upon him.
Ryan saw red.
Then blue.
Then white.
Then red with white spots.
A second later a body landed on top of him. The owner of the body let out, a heavily accented, “Fucking merde!”
Ryan lifted a hand to his stomach. Something sharp was pressing into the front of his shirt. Was that a stiletto?
“Oh, mon Dieu! Are you alright?” said a female voice.
The sharp thing mercifully shifted from his stomach. When the weight of the body lifted off him, Ryan was granted instant relief.
He looked up and for a brief moment he saw only the blue of the New York City sky. At least it had stopped raining colors.
And then a beautiful face appeared in front of him. It was like looking at an angel. Pale skin, and with a halo of blonde hair. And those eyes. So perfectly blue they couldn’t be real. The sight of this ethereal creature could only mean one thing.
“If you are an angel, does that mean I’m dead?”
She let out the most non-ethereal like splutter. “I’m no angel, just a clumsy French woman. One whose day has already been bad enough without adding a murder charge to it.”
Ryan slowly came round to his senses, taking in his surroundings. He was lying on the sidewalk. There were one or two people gathered about, or was that above, him? Some guy in a dark blue business suit was busy videoing everything.
Don’t bother offering to help buddy, just keep filming. Asshole.
Ryan had a splitting headache. His back and stomach both hurt. And there was all this fabric, and brown paper strewn everywhere.
The angel who’d declared she wasn’t an angel smiled down at him. “Do you think you could sit up, or do you need me to call an ambulance?”
His body was in a world of pain, but his mind was clear. “Yes, I think so. And no, whatever you do, don’t call for an ambulance or a doctor.”
He’d been fired and his cheap medical insurance had probably already lapsed.
The other onlookers moved aside as Ryan rolled over on the sidewalk and struggled to his knees. He frowned at the large brown package which lay close to him on the pavement. It was split open on one side revealing some sort of blue cotton.
His brain finally made the connection. The brown stringy thing that had attacked him was actually a large brown paper parcel of fabric.
A gentle hand now rubbed over his back. He found it surprisingly soothing.
“I am so sorry. I tried to move out of your way, but you followed my move. And then the big package on the very top of my pile slipped and I couldn’t stop it. I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you stand.”
“Just give me a moment. I think I might have smacked my head on the sidewalk when I fell.”
While the woman continued to offer up her frantic apologies, Ryan slowly got to his feet. His legs swayed unsteadily as he fully righted himself. His angelic assailant as he’d now dubbed her, took a hold of his arm. “Just stand there for a moment, and let the blood flow come back to your head. I’d hate for you to faint.”
Yeah, so would I.
His head slowly cleared, and the pain mercifully subsided enough that he could breathe easily once more. There would be bruises aplenty tomorrow, but from the look of things he’d been spared major bodily damage.
Ryan was still blinking himself back to rights, when the woman let go of his arm. He felt the loss of her touch immediately.
She bent and began picking up her brown paper parcels and various bags. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted several people taking photos. The guy in the suit was still videoing. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” asked Ryan. The businessman shrugged in response, but he stopped filming.
The one kind stranger in the midst of Manhattan handed Ryan back his cell phone. Or at least what remained of it. The glass screen had a large impact circle in the middle, along with a crack which ran from one corner to the other. He tapped on the screen. Nothing happened. The phone was dead. Ryan put it into his jacket pocket.
Great, now I’m up for hundreds of dollars to repair my phone.
The pretty blonde finally stuffed the last of her fabric swatches back into a tote bag, and returned to Ryan’s side. She held out a small business card to him.
“That’s my lawyer’s card. But I should let you know, he will expect to see your death certificate before he even thinks to cut you a check.”
Ryan scowled at her. “Why the heck would I want your lawyer’s business card?”
A perplexed expression appeared on her face. “A matter of seconds ago I knocked you down in the street. So it goes without saying that you’ll be suing me.”
The only logical reason he could think of as to why he would want to sue this woman was so he could sit in meetings with her and her legal people and listen to her soft sensual accent while she discussed terms. Heck, she could read the subway timetable to him, and he’d be more than happy.
He went to shake his throbbing head, then thought the better of it. “No, I won’t be suing you. Despite what you might have heard about the US, not everyone here goes for the big legal case when they have a small accident.”
“But you banged your head. And I stuck my heel into your stomach when I tried to get up. I must have caused you serious pain and distress. And loss of income.”
She sounded like she’d watched one too many of those tv commercials which the local networks ran late at night. The ones where they offered to get you the maximum financial settlement or you didn’t pay them a cent. Shameless ambulance chasers in his opinion.
She stopped speaking for a moment, and he sensed she was thinking carefully about what she should say next. “So you have my lawyer’s card if you need it.”
From those last few words it appeared she’d finally realized the potential legalities of admitting personal liability, but she also seemed genuinely concerned about him. The conflicted expression on her face said it all. She was torn between doing what was right, and what her legal representatives would expect of her.
“I don’t need a lawyer, or any medical attention thank you,” replied Ryan, suddenly keen to reassure this woman that he was ok.
The stunning blonde—and she was stunning, even with her lovely hair and red and white polka dot dress all mussed up—held out her hand to him. “Well then, if you don’t want get anyone else involved, how about we settle this the Parisian way. Would you please come with me.”
He hesitated. “Where?”
She nodded toward a red brick building a couple of doors up from where they stood, and gave him a shy smile. “That’s where I work and live. My office is upstairs. The least I can do is to give you somewhere to rest for a little while, and perhaps find some food and drink for you.”
I must have smacked my head hard. No one ever offers to take a stranger into their private space in New York City.
Either that, or this beautiful woman planned to lure him upstairs and solve any potential future legal issues by simply bumping him off.
I’ve got to stop watching those murder mystery shows.
Ryan moved toward the side of the street, out of the way of the bustling crowd which continued passing them by. The small gathering of interested onlookers who had initially stopped when he and the woman had collided was now long gone.
He could only hope that since there’d been no blood, no drama, the people who had taken photos—along with the weirdo in the suit who’d been videoing him— would decide it wasn’t worth their effort to post about the incident on social media.
I don’t need the world to know that this is what my life has become. From reality star to getting knocked over in the street by a stranger.
“I can make you a coffee, and then see what food I have in the fridge,” she offered.
He couldn’t resist her politeness, or that soft as silk accent. “Food and a few minutes to recover sounds great, thank you,” said Ryan.
Rubbing the back of his still aching head, he followed the woman up the street to the red brick building. He glanced up. It had a classic 1920’s facade but the building itself looked well maintained.
At the front entrance, she tapped a card to a security pad, then hip checked the glass door and pushed it open. Ryan silently chastised himself for not having offered to help with her parcels. Once inside, she ushered him to an elevator bank, tapped her security card to another pad, then pressed the button.
“I like to take the stairs, but with all these fabrics, and you having suffered such a nasty fall, I think we will take the elevator.”
He held out his hands. “Can I take some of those?”
She gave him a look which all but said her attorney would have a pink fit if she let him do any sort of manual tasks. “No. I’m fine. I carried these all the way from Broadway, so I think I can manage the last few meters. Just as long as you don’t get in the way.”
He caught the hint of a tease in her voice. That accent. It would be the death of him.
Ryan ventured a cautious question. “Is there someone else in your office? I mean you don’t even know my name, so aren’t you taking a bit of a risk in inviting me upstairs?”
She smiled at him and heat raced straight to his cheeks.
I really must have hit my head hard.
“No it’s just me here. But you don’t strike me as the creepy type. Besides, I’ve had elite level combat training. I’m fairly confident I could take you down with a quick kick punch combo. You’d be unconscious before you hit the floor.”
When she turned away from him, he could have sworn her shoulders shook with laugher.
“Which level are you on?” he asked.
“The sixth, which is really the fifth. You Americans count the ground as the first floor, which to my European brain makes no sense, but there you have it.”
She hurriedly pressed the button for the 6 th floor several more times. It was cute, watching her do it, as if that was going to help make the elevator arrive any faster.
“French?” he asked.
“Oui, but I have been here in New York for over four years,” she replied. She growled and bashed the elevator button once more. “And a lot of that of time has been spent waiting for this stupid elevator.”
Ryan laughed. “Yeah. I worked in a hotel in Chicago one summer, and the elevator often took forty minutes to reach the top floors. The number of guests who left bad reviews because of it.” He paused. “I’m Ryan, by the way.”
She looked surprised. “And I am thoughtless and rude. “Camille. Camille Royal. It’s a pleasure to meet you Ryan, though I wish it had been under less painful circumstances. How’s your head?”
A loud ding announced the arrival of the elevator. Ryan trailed Camille and her bags of fabric and broken brown paper parcels inside. He pointed at her packages. “Do you work for a fashion house?”
Her face lit up and she smiled. “Ryan, I am the fashion house. Does your girlfriend happen to shop at Saks Fifth Avenue?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever gone out with a woman who could afford to shop at Saks,” he replied, carefully avoiding the subject of his ongoing state of non-attachment. His love life had become a never ending drought.
“That’s a pity. Because if you did, then you would be able to tell her that you had met the creative talent behind Camille Royal Designs. Saks Fifth Avenue carries my full collection.” A smiling Camille juggled her parcels and by some miracle, managed to make a love heart sign with her hands. “And your girlfriend would then tell you that she adores all my amazing clothes.”
Her grin grew wider, and a wicked chuckle escaped. “C'est scandaleux! My mother would be horrified to hear me speak of my work in such a grand way.” She shrugged. “But this is New York City; and you Americans always say it pays to blow your own trumpet.”
“Because no one else will,” he replied.
And don’t I know it.
The elevator stopped at the sixth floor, and Camille stepped out into a small, elegant foyer. Ryan took in the luxurious space as he followed her. Cream walls were perfectly matched with a pale beige trim. The floor was polished concrete, which looked to be original.
When he glanced at her she offered a cheeky grin. “This building dates back to nineteen seventeen. It’s been a garment warehouse, a bridal emporium, and now it’s a series of private apartments and studios. And I love it.”
Camille must be doing really well if she could afford to rent a place like this in Manhattan. Ryan didn’t want to think how much the monthly lease would cost.
A darn sight more than what Liam and I are paying in East Orange.
A sharp pang of jealousy tested Ryan’s hold on his good humor. This woman was everything he wasn’t. She had a real career. She was a success.
While I’ve just got fired.
Across the foyer Camille tapped a keycard to a lock, then pushed open a heavy wooden door. Ryan hurried to hold it back for her while she took her bags and paper parcels inside. The least he could give her was his best manners. They didn’t cost anything.
On the other side of the door was a design studio. It was sparsely furnished, and the cream painted walls were bare. In the center of the room was situated two large glass topped desks facing one another. They both had laptops and monitors on them, along with piles of papers.
A long green couch, sofa thing which looked comfortable enough to sleep on sat in a corner over on the far right. Close to it was a large metal table on wheels. Ryan took in the neat row of six dress maker models on stands which were lined up along the opposite wall. They were a serious upgrade to the mannequins his mom had in her craft room at home.
And from the stunning array of fabrics which were pinned to the various models it was clear Camille’s creations were far removed from the cotton summer shorts which Ryan’s mom made.
Camille pushed aside the laptop which sat on the desk farthest away, then dropped her parcels and bags onto it. She carefully stepped out of her high heels. Wriggling her toes she muttered. “Oh, c'est mieux. Much better.”
She turned to face him. “What a morning we’ve both had, Ryan… sorry, I didn’t quite catch your surname.”
You didn’t catch it because I didn’t give it to you. But here goes nothing.
He held out his hand. “Ryan Collins.”
She gave him an odd look. It was the same one he often received from people who upon hearing his name, took a minute or two to recognize him from the tv show. The shock of shoulder length white hair was long gone, but his face was still the same. And once people realized who he was; they often liked to share their own take on the show, and who’d been their particular favorite to win.
He’d never understood why complete strangers felt it necessary to offer up their uninvited opinions on the subject of who should have won Kaylee’s heart. Despite his best endeavors to not give a damn about the opinions of others, the pain of his public humiliation and heartbreak continued to simmer in his soul.
To Ryan’s bone deep relief Camille didn’t say anything at the mention of his surname, she merely took his hand, and they shook. As they did, he recalled what she’d said about her time in the US.
If Camille had been in New York for four years, then there was a pretty good chance she hadn’t even heard of Bachelors on the Beach .
She was probably too busy getting her business set up to worry about a stupid reality tv show.
At least he would be spared that uncomfortable conversation. Considering the kind of day he was having, he’d take any small win he could. Any time he was able to avoid reliving the most embarrassing moment of his life was a blessing.
Camille flipped her hair back over her shoulders and smiled at him. “Now what can I tempt you to eat, Ryan?”
Ryan really liked the way Camille said tempt.