Design and Desire (Love and Longing #2)

Chapter 1

Tessa

Should I get bangs after this?

I study my emotional support mannequin across the floor, but the hollow expression on her plastic face is impossible to read. It’s probably too early in the day for inanimate telepathy, anyway.

Sucking in a deep breath, I will my frazzled nerves to settle. I’m one intrusive thought away from tossing my design in the shredder and fleeing the fashion studio for the salon. At least I have a backup plan.

Fail in fashion.

Cut all my hair off.

Start a new life.

I hear an exasperated sigh at my back, and I turn to find another junior designer standing behind me, breathing heavily on my soon-to-be-chopped hair. “Subway was down. But I made it!”

I glance at my watch and give her a tight smile. “With nearly a minute to spare.”

The designer chuckles, but the rest of the group hovering around the table remains silent. It appears I’m not the only one marinating in anxiety. The familiar scent of crippling fear and knock-off perfume wafts off the others as we all wait for our renderings to be assessed.

Just as I start to reach for the lip gloss in my pocket to keep my hands busy, the brand’s namesake arrives and a collective gulp echoes among us. Even the mannequins seem to be disassociating.

Lamont’s red-tinted sunglasses cast a scarlet glow across his deep brown skin as he joins us.

His composed, brisk movements are a stark contrast to the frenzied, nervous shuffling of the design team.

He begins lazily leafing through the submissions in front of him, pausing on a sketch of a mid-length asymmetrical dress with a green toile pattern.

“If you plan to present patterns this loud in the future, do me the kindness of providing ear plugs. Undesirable, Austin.”

Our textile apprentice visibly droops like the plants I haven’t watered in my shoebox apartment. I didn’t even know succulents could wilt.

“Are your legs tired, Brooke?” Lamont’s voice is a hushed whisper, so Brooke leans in to hear him, her purple curls grazing the table.

“Um, from what?”

“Running away from good taste. Undesirable.”

Next to me, Peyton shifts nervously, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulders.

My muscles tighten as she launches into an explanation before Lamont can say anything.

“Okay, so, as you can see, I’m referencing culottes à la Miu Miu ‘02—the Fall/Winter couture? That seventies flair, but preppier and without the patch pockets, which I know you’ve been hating recently, so—”

“Streaming services were really onto something with the ‘Skip Intro’ button, don’t you think?” he muses, not bothering to look up from the sketch containing hours of work—and probably a few of Peyton’s tears. “Undesirable.”

A secondhand pang of disappointment aches in my chest as Peyton’s face falls.

As much as I want to be selected, I’d be thrilled if one of my friends’ designs were chosen.

I rise on my tiptoes to check on the number of sketches left for Lamont to incinerate, and panic courses through me.

Only four remain. Feeling very much like a piece of rotary sushi on a conveyer belt from Hell, I continue waiting in purgatory to meet my condemnation.

When Lamont holds up a design of a sleeveless yoke dress with a removable cape, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Not mine… yet.

Lamont sighs. “Shondra, is this your final sketch?”

I cringe at his most vicious critique yet. No designer would dare present something unfinished to Lamont. Shondra wordlessly nods, and I send up a silent prayer for her design, which will never see the light of day again.

“Undesirable.”

He always serves his critiques straight up with a shame chaser, but I’ve never heard Lamont quite this cutting.

It’s been sixteen hours since an insider informed him that Popova showed a gown similar to our planned finale look at their private salon show.

And with Milan Fashion Week looming, we only have three weeks to come up with something better.

Lamont doesn’t even bother to comment on the next two renderings, shuffling them to the side as if they’re cable bills.

Then, he pauses.

A pause means you’re only a mild inconvenience, not a complete catastrophe. A pause means you’re somewhat competent, not totally inept. A pause means you’re going to Milan Fashion Week.

Every single designer leans forward in anticipation. Whose is it?

“Tolerable, Tessa.” Lamont nods toward the design in front of him.

My design.

He lifts his chin and makes direct eye contact with me. Or, at least I think he does. Hard to tell behind the glasses. “The aquatic influence isn’t an insufferable direction. Inspired by Gianni’s Spring/Summer ‘92, no?”

More like Valentino Spring/Summer ‘15.

I vigorously nod, biting back the correction.

“It’s a bit wearable, though, don’t you think?” Tilting his head to the side, Lamont draws invisible circles with his finger on my rendering, a sign he’s considering something. I hold my breath, wondering if he’s already regretting his choice.

He flattens his hand on the sketch. “Embroidery.”

My stomach drops. God. No. Anything but embroidery. Anyone but him.

“I, um, specifically designed it with a pattern, given the time constraints, so embroidery wouldn’t be necessary,” I hedge.

“And that’s why it looks prêt-à-porter.”

Silence. Then… unwrapping? I turn toward the sound and find Peyton slowly lifting a piece of gum into her mouth, wide eyes darting between me and Lamont. I give her a quick “put the popcorn away” look before swiveling my attention back to my judge, jury, and executioner.

Lamont picks up my rendering and taps it on the surface of the desk. “Embroidery will elevate the look.”

As much as I want to disagree with him, I can’t deny that couture beading would look beautiful on the gown.

Fortunately for the brand, our tailor is an incredibly gifted embroidery specialist. Unfortunately for me, I’d rather be buried in a knock-off Juicy Couture tracksuit than spend time with him.

The weight of Lamont’s words sinks like a stone in my stomach.

Shifting on my feet, I make one last stitch effort to save myself from The Tailor of Terror.

“I’m happy to send your assistant a PDF of the rendering.

She can pass it along to him, and I can gather periodic status updates as he executes the embroidery. ”

He levels me with a look. “Three weeks, under normal circumstances, is a rush job. And you know how he hates to rush.”

I don’t think the word “rush” is even in our tailor’s vocabulary.

“If you want to go to Milan, you’ll be his shadow until we show. See to his every whim.”

And there it is. Milan Fashion Week. An invitation I won’t refuse.

Lamont hands me my design and slides the rest of the renderings across the table. “These would all get me mocked. Next time, less Sound of Music with the moods. This is New York, not the Abbey. Tessa, stay.”

He gives the group an indifferent wave of dismissal.

The other designers and apprentices file back to their workstations, a few of them glaring at me.

Peyton gives my arm a friendly squeeze, and Brooke mouths congrats.

The textile apprentice sulks past me with a haunted look on his face, heading straight for The Supply Closet of Broken Dreams, where he’ll probably stare into the abyss of paper reams until the abyss stares back at him.

Once Lamont and I are alone, I don my brightest smile. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

The corners of Lamont’s lips point downward. “Your designs have potential, but they need elevation. Working with Giovanni will be quite educational for you.”

I nod, but my blood starts to boil.

Giovanni Cattaneo would rather embroider an image of pineapple pizza on a tarp than educate me.

Lamont must be desperate, because he rarely makes big decisions without input from his prized tailor, and there’s no way Giovanni would readily agree to this plan. I’m confident that his unenthusiastic response to working with me remains unchanged.

I consider making one last appeal, but Lamont’s disinterested body language—checking his watch like I’m the one holding him hostage—tells me he’s done with this conversation. He walks back to his office, leaving me on the receiving end of the classic Lamont exit: no goodbye included.

Despite the blow of having to work closely with Giovanni, I’m still floating on a high from being chosen when I slip into my usual spot next to Peyton at the large table in our open office area.

“Congrats, Tess. The envy that’s consuming my body right now is extremely toxic. Girls supporting girls is bullshit. Keep one eye open.” She huffs, but her smile betrays her real feelings, fake silver freckles crinkling on her cheeks.

I snicker. “It’s okay to be jealous. As long as you don’t stab me with a fork in the break room like Joe did to Alyssa two years ago.”

“Well, she did steal his almond milk creamer twice. I’m pretty sure he milked those almonds himself. Definitely worth a stabbing in my opinion. At least a lil’ poke,” she deadpans.

I breathe out a laugh. These last five years would’ve been painful without her.

“I might prefer a light stabbing over working with Giovanni, to be honest,” I joke.

Peyton chews her piece of cinnamon gum. “I’m sorry, but I don’t get it.

He’s such a sweetheart. When you were off for your brother’s wedding last year, I ran errands for Lamont.

Giovanni was so appreciative, saying that junior designers are the ‘backbone’ of the fashion industry.

Not to mention his Italian accent is so freaking hot.

And one time, I literally saw him walk an old lady across the street. ”

I lean back in my chair. “Did you stay to see her reach the other side? Maybe he was slowly pushing her into moving traffic.”