Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“I give up,” Ivy moaned, staring at the pile of clothes on her bed a week later.
Her flight was in a little over twelve hours, and right now it looked like she’d be arriving in New York either naked or carrying every piece of clothing she owned.
Em rolled her eyes. She’d arrived an hour ago carrying a giant Ikea bag full of boots and warm weather gear, and forced Ivy to take a break to eat dinner before they tackled the task of packing.
Em loved clothes and never left the house in an outfit that didn’t feel one hundred percent her.
She’d once explained to Ivy that it was something she’d had to learn to do once she quit dancing and didn’t have to spend all her energy trying her damnedest to look like everyone else in her ballet class.
Now, she only wanted to look exactly like herself, which meant she always looked absolutely fabulous.
Yesterday, as Ivy’s pile of possible clothes ballooned, she’d begged Em to come over and help her decide out what to pack.
“Oh, stop panicking. You have a coat,” Em said now, pointing at the sumptuous deep navy wool overcoat she’d brought over, “and everything else is just a question of coordination and layers.”
Easy for Em to say, Ivy thought. She was one of the most stylish people Ivy had ever met, and she had corporate law money to pour into her wardrobe.
She’d poured a lot of it into that coat.
It had a wide shawl collar, and was made of the softest lambswool, lined with watery cobalt silk.
It was a little roomy on Ivy, because Em was a size or two bigger than her, but when Ivy had tried it on over her cut-offs, she’d cinched the belt tight at her waist and instantly felt like Audrey Hepburn. Or better yet, Katharine Hepburn.
“I don’t even know where to start,” Ivy sighed.
“Let’s start with day wear,” Em said, approaching Mount Closet and picking a few garments off the top. “You’ll be at the theater all day, or walking around the city, so you need to be chic and comfortable. And warm.”
“Chic, comfortable, and warm,” Ivy repeated, watching as Em pulled a few jumpers and a long knit skirt off the pile, then dug a pair of elegant black leather riding boots out of her bag. She held them up for Ivy to inspect. Thank god they wore the same shoe size.
“Love them. But no heels,” Ivy said glumly.
“No heels,” Em confirmed. “I don’t think you want to traipse all over New York in the snow and ice in a pair of heeled boots.”
“I guess not,” Ivy sighed, as Em dropped the boots on top of the several outfits she’d magically assembled out of the chaos on the bed.
“For evenings, you need warm dresses and you can probably get away with some heels. How about… these?” She pulled a pair of stiletto ankle booties out of the bag, black suede with pointed toes. Even by Ivy’s standards they were precarious, but she reached for them longingly anyway.
“I love these ones, I’ve wanted to wear them since the day you bought them.”
“Temporary loan,” Em warned. “I know where you live, Page.”
“Yeah, yeah. So, dresses?”
“The warmest ones you’ve got. I’ve got a wool wrap dress that will fit in a pinch, and you’ve got some long-sleeved ones around here somewhere, I saw them somewhere near the bottom of the pile.”
Ivy nodded and dug out the dresses, then set them on the pile with the booties. It was starting to look like a week-and-a-half’s worth of clothes.
“And what about closing night? We’ve got a cocktail reception thing after the show.
” After the company took its final bows at Lincoln Center, they’d all change into dresses and tuxes and mill around in the promenade of the theater, mingling with the press and the who’s who of the New York dance scene.
“Easy. That amazing black dress you wore to your 30th,” Em replied, folding a white cashmere scarf Ivy had always coveted and placing it neatly on the “to pack” pile.
Ivy turned to the closet and pulled out the dress in question, one of the few garments that hadn’t ended up on the bed.
She’d bought it especially for her birthday party last year, but she hadn’t had a chance to wear it since.
It was a black crepe sheath with a demure boatneck at the front, but the back had a deep square scoop that went all the way down to her waist. It definitely wasn’t warm, but she’d only have to wear it inside, and it would look incredible with Em’s booties.
She held it up and imagined wearing it as she chatted with the biggest names in American ballet in that dress, a glass of champagne in her hand, Justin by her side.
Not because he wanted to be there, she reminded herself, but because he’d have no choice.
He’d have to stick by her side all day, every day—those were the terms of their agreement.
The thought made her stomach flutter with nerves.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, the dress clutched in her hands.
“You okay?” Em asked, eyeing her with concern.
Ivy bit her lip. “Yeah, it’s just… this feels like my last chance to get this right. This job, I mean.”
If something went wrong in New York, if she didn’t do a good job on this tour, there’d be no avoiding the reality that she’d made a terrible mistake.
She’d leave the company in disgrace and be left with no career, not in journalism and not in PR.
Even with her leverage over Justin, with his promises to stick to her side and behave himself, there was no guarantee the company would get the coverage it needed to make this tour the kind of success Peter was envisioning.
“So get it right,” Em shrugged.
Ivy let out a weak scoff. “It’s that simple, is it?”
“Well, yes. I know there have been some doubts about whether this job is a good fit for you, but—”
This time Ivy’s scoff was louder. “Could you say that in a more passive voice, lawyer-y way? Doubts were had? Doubting allegedly occurred?”
Em rolled her eyes. “Fine. I know I had some doubts about you taking this job. But you’re here now, and you’re doing it. And you’re going to do it well.”
Ivy looked into her best friend’s face searchingly, needing her to be right. “You think so?”
“I know so. Have you ever failed at something you set your mind to, and that you were willing to work hard at?”
“Yeah, Em. Ballet.”
She watched as Em resisted another eye roll.
“I’ve told you a hundred times. You didn’t fail at ballet.
Ballet failed you. Ballet decided it’s more important to have a corps where every woman looks exactly the same than a corps where every woman is as talented and driven as possible.
So it missed out on the girls who were short, and tall, and curvy, and dark skinned, and that sucks for all of us who worked our asses off only to be told there was no place for us. But we did not fail.”
Ivy smiled reluctantly. She’d heard some version of this talking-to, maybe not a hundred times, but at least dozens, and some days she believed it.
Other days, though, it was hard to forget the deep, waterlogged depression that had dragged her under in the weeks and months after she got all those rejections from all those companies.
It was hard to look at the tall, willowy women of ANB and without thinking if only.
If only she hadn’t been too short, she could have had this.
If only ballet hadn’t been too short-sighted, Em would correct her. It could have had you.
“Fine. I didn’t fail at ballet. But I did fail at journalism.” Ivy fiddled with the zipper at the side of the dress.
“No you fucking didn’t! You did great work until your useless editor in chief stopped you from doing it! Please stop calling my best friend a failure, it hurts my feelings,” Em pouted dramatically.
Ivy couldn’t contain a small smile. Em was the kind of best friend everyone deserved.
Supportive, generous, and fiercely loyal.
Throw in fabulously stylish and fucking profane, and Ivy had won the best friend lottery.
Even if sometimes, like with her family, she wondered if she was worthy of all the faith Em seemed to have in her.
“Sorry to hurt your feelings,” she said. “Your best friend is not a failure, she is the perfect height, and tomorrow morning she’s getting on a plane to New York.”
“Damn right. And she’s going to be chic as hell the whole time.”
“Damn right!” Ivy agreed with a firm nod.
She folded the dress and placed it on the pile. Once she decided what to wear on the twenty-hour plane ride, she’d be ready. She took a deep breath and started arranging the clothes in her suitcase, taking special care with Em's coat, and within a few minutes, she was done.
She was going to New York. Nothing could be more exciting.
The trip to New York was long and almost unthinkably boring.
For someone who hated sitting still, a journey this long was low-grade torture.
The last time Justin had made this trip with the company, he’d been young and impressed by everything.
It had only been his second time leaving the country and his first time going to the States, and everything had been new and thrilling.
The free drinks, the airline-branded sleeping socks, the pilot’s southern American accent that sounded straight out of a Hollywood movie.
It was all so grown up and glamorous that the hours of sitting had barely bothered him.
Now, he’d toured enough that it felt routine, and nothing about it felt glamorous.
The flight from Sydney to LA was one of the longest in the world, and when they landed, they had only a few hours to stretch their legs before getting back on the plane to New York.
By the time they arrived, they’d spent almost 30 hours in transit, and his body was simultaneously exhausted and antsy from all that sitting still.
When the plane finally landed at JFK, he wanted to stand up and cheer.