Chapter 1 #2
“I was talking to them for an hour and a half?” I face-palm and glance down at my clothing.
I’m wearing a light-pink blouse with sheer lace sleeves and a pair of black trousers.
These clothes will have to do. There isn’t any time to waste.
“Give me two minutes.” I rush to my bedroom to collect my coat, my black clutch, and an umbrella.
“We have a thirty-minute window.” Liz laughs. “We’ll be fine.”
That may be true, but as a rule, I can’t stand being late. We had a saying at LABT. If you’re on time, you’re late. The last thing I need is to hear Artem’s nasty voice reverberating in my mind. I shiver involuntarily.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” I pull the lapels of my coat tighter around my body. “Just a chill.”
We take the lift down to the ground floor. As we approach the building’s front door, there is the sound of a heavy downpour thundering against the pavement. We glance at one another. “Make a run to the Tube station?” Liz asks.
I nod. “Let’s do it.”
“Pinch me,” I whisper to Liz, gripping her forearm.
“Is this real?” My eyes don’t know where to go.
Straight ahead, there is a wall-to-wall display of mannequins dressed in pastel-colored tweed suits.
Lining the staircase to my right are mannequins in vintage evening gowns.
Finally, as I spin around, there are two frocks from Chanel’s latest cruise collection in a plexiglass case.
“This is indeed real. You’re not dreaming.” Liz squeezes my hand to reassure me. “There are ten rooms for us to explore. We have plenty of time to see everything, don’t worry. We have all day. Breathe in and out.” I take a breath. “That’s it. Just like that.”
I don’t know what I would do without her level head.
“If I let go, are you going to be okay? You promise not to run off?”
I nod.
“Okay, then I’m letting go.”
Free from her grip, I make a beeline for the information plaque with a bold black number one. There’s a life-sized black-and-white photo of a young Gabrielle Chanel in a bucket hat and tailored black coat. If I had to take a guess, I’d say it’s probably from 1910?
“I never knew Chanel got her start in millinery,” Liz says as she joins me, skimming the plaque
“Uh-huh, she worked her way up to clothing. I’ve always admired that she started with something small and ended up turning her design business into one of the largest fashion houses in the world.”
“Mm-hmm,” Liz agrees. “And where does she rank among your all-time favorite fashion designers?”
That’s a difficult question. I like different designers for different reasons. Putting them up against one another is like comparing a Cinderella ball gown to plunging V-neck evening gown. “Top three?”
“After Clarissa Lee and . . .?”
“Christian Dior.”
She snaps her fingers together. “Right, Dior. I always forget about him.”
We slowly meander toward display number two. My fingers itch to touch the fabric of each garment. “All these early pieces were probably handmade by Chanel. I wish I could have one to study and deconstruct.”
“Don’t let any of the curators hear you say that.” She snorts. “Or else they may boot you out.” I glance around us. “You’re safe. The only museum employee I saw was the one at the front scanning tickets.”
I exhale and elbow her lightly in the ribs. “Don’t scare me like that.”
“It’s payback for giving me a hard time at the Art of Menswear exhibit we went to last month.”
Liz is a menswear designer, and a talented one at that.
As she explained to me, when you grow up with four brothers, you end up with a substantial number of hand-me-downs.
Her parents didn’t have the money to buy her many new clothes, so she taught herself how to tailor her brother’s castoffs to fit her tall frame out of necessity.
“Fair enough,” she says.
We spend about an hour and a half wandering around the small space until we’re back to where we started. From the landing overlooking the main entrance, I take a few extra moments to soak in all that we’ve seen. I feel like I’m inside a Barbie Dream House.
“Do you think you have enough inspiration to finish putting your portfolio together?” Liz asks, leaning against the stairwell railing.
“Actually, I have a small confession to make.” Heat sears through my cheeks.
Liz turns and studies me for a moment, her lips thin. “Min, don’t tell me . . . Have you scrapped everything you had and started again?”
I look away, bobbing my head up and down.
“Gah, you’re such a perfectionist.” She sighs. “I suppose that’s why we get on so well.”
“I think from what I’ve seen here today, I have enough ideas floating around my head to get started on a new collection.”
“And to finish it?”
“I’ll go to my usual place.”
“The National Portrait Gallery?” she asks.
“Uh-huh.”
We begin descending the stairs, staying to the right.
“Are you going to be able to finish before the deadline for the Clarissa Lee internship? It’s only two weeks away.”
I wave her off. “I have plenty of time. I can get it done.”
Liz mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “I hope so.”
“I will, I promise.”
Reaching into her pocket, she retrieves her phone. “I’ll set another reminder to myself to check in on you next week and the week after.”
“You’re the best. Have I ever told you that?”
She grins. “Yes, but not often enough.”
“Come on, let’s stop by the cafe and grab a tea before we head out. My treat.”
“How can I say no to that?”
We exit the exhibit to the main museum and walk toward the gift shop. A banner advertises a few exhibits coming to the museum later this spring. Liz grabs my sleeve and stops me in my tracks.
“Oy, Min, look, there’s an exhibit for the fiftieth anniversary of the Westminster Ballet in February. That looks like it’s right up your alley. Do you want to stop and book tickets for it while we’re here?”
I swallow hard as my stomach muscles clench.
It’s been four years since I was fired from the LABT.
I should be able to look at a dumb ol’ tutu and not become so emotional about it.
But I can’t. Artem managed to ruin the one thing I loved.
I may have moved to London, started a new career, and a new life, but I still can’t seem to let go of the past.
“No, I . . . I can’t,” I sputter.
Liz has never pushed me to talk about the past, but she knows that I used to dance professionally. As she reads my body language, her face softens. “Tea, then.”
Like a mother hen tucking me under her wing, she steers me toward the cafe and changes the subject. “Did I tell you that I have a few ideas for decorating my new flat? I’d love to hear your thoughts on it.”
“OK,” I croak.
Liz starts on about her bedroom, but my mind is still stuck on Artem. Will I ever be free from him?