Chapter Fourteen
“This is not what I was expecting,” Hailey said as she helped Neil get set up in Greta’s showroom. “I thought we were going to be in someone’s
kitchen.”
“Greta’s one of the top figure-skating and dance costume designers in the country,” I replied as I gazed around the familiar
space. “She’s got a team of eight under her, from an airbrush artist to a woman whose sole job is applying crystals to the
costumes. She is big-time.”
“Well, business must be booming.” Neil snapped a camera onto a tripod. “Because this is impressive.”
Greta’s studio took up three floors in the airy loft, and I felt like I’d financed a big part of it.
I glanced over to where Ben was laughing with the woman of the hour.
Greta Bouchard was a stunning Canadian gold medal ice dancer who’d never been able to find the types of cutting-edge costumes she wanted when she was competing, so she set out to make her own, using influences like Samba dancers from Brazil and drag queens.
Greta not only understood how to bring a shred of a concept to life, she also knew firsthand how a seam in the wrong spot or an uncomfortable arm hole could ruin a skater’s headspace before they even set foot on the ice.
Ben called me over to where he was chatting with Greta. “We were just talking about how we should capture this and we both
agree that sitting back and letting the magic happen will work best. I might shout some questions to you as you go through
the fitting, but we’re not going to do a formal sit down Q and A. You’re both too busy.”
“I’m back-to-back all day,” Greta agreed. “But this is going to be quick. Just a final modesty check.”
“Oh?” Ben suddenly looked very interested.
Greta snorted. “Yeah, the judges at Worlds thought Quinn looked too, um . . . naked in her short-program costume, so we need to Amish her up a little.”
“What, like put a turtleneck over top?” Ben laughed.
“Close!” Greta replied. “The chest area needed some additional beadwork, and we added some extra coverage in the tail region.
You’ve seen her costumes, right?”
I expected him to go a little sheepish at the question, but true to form, Ben acted like his lack of preparation was no big
deal.
“I actually haven’t,” he said cheerfully. “By design.”
“But how could you miss them?” Greta pushed, clearly a little shocked. “The gold one we’re fitting today was everywhere.”
It had been my very own “J.Lo in the green dress” moment. Jaws dropped, scandal followed.
I loved that my outfit sparked a debate, because I knew my mom was hating every second of it.
She didn’t give a shit about how revealing it was—the only reason she’d dressed me in pastel princess dresses was because it was the brand she’d decided fit me best, not for any modesty reasons—it was the fact that I’d cultivated this genre-shifting look all on my own.
“Sorry I’m late,” Mel burst in, weighed down with half a dozen bags of god knows what.
“How’s Caleb?’ I asked.
“Fine. He stuck a bead up his nose and I couldn’t get it out. My little genius. Are we good to go?”
Everyone turned to look at me. “Yup, I’m ready. Back in a sec.”
I could hear them all chattering away as I went into the fitting room. I was used to an audience of three people max when
I did fittings; Mel, Greta, and maybe one of her seamstresses. Now I felt like I was about to be on Say Yes to the Dress, with a camera crew and everything. I could hear them putting a mic on Greta and figuring out the lighting.
I stripped down and worked the surprisingly thick costume up my body. My mom had always told me that I looked better in silver.
Oh, the irony to be claiming gold for myself.
I studied Greta’s changes to the costume, which thankfully weren’t too obvious. A wave of gold crystals now splashed a little
higher on my chest, and the seat area was wider, so no scandalized grandmothers in Topeka could claim that I was wearing a
thong on the ice.
I pulled on the fingerless gloves dripping with gold beading, which made me look like I was controlling raindrops when I moved
my hands through the air. From a distance, I was basically nude and gleaming. The crystals scattered across my breasts and
from my hips down looked like dew that might fly off if I moved too quickly. There were strands of the same beading that cascaded
down from various parts of the costume, so that when I went into a spin they flared out around me, flapper dress–style.
I took a steadying breath and padded out to where everyone was waiting, purposely not looking at Ben.
“Absolute perfection,” Mel said from her spot just beyond Greta. “Incredible.”
“Thank you.” I did a little curtsey.
“Wow,” Neil said in a low voice.
“Marilyn Monroe!” Hailey chirped. “The Happy Birthday dress!”
Greta nodded as she strode toward me. “Yup, that was definitely part of the inspiration, along with Britney in the sparkly
nude Toxic bodysuit. But Quinn’s main vibe was Mitzi Gaynor’s nude illusion dress.”
“Who?” Hailey asked.
“An old-timey singer and actress,” I answered as I got up on the little podium in front of the three-way mirror. “Look up
the dress, you’ll see how close we came.”
Hailey dropped the equipment she was holding and whipped out her phone. “Oh, damn. That woman is naked.”
Greta started fussing with the butt area of my outfit. “Yeah, her dress was very sheer, but this costume is all an illusion.
Everything that looks like skin is stretchy flesh-toned fabric. Quinn is more covered up in this than in a bikini, but you’d
never think so because the color match is so perfect.”
“Hailey, the boom please?” Neil said in a pissy voice.
“Sorry,” she said as she shoved her phone in her back pocket and held the mic on a stick over our heads again.
“We didn’t want to put a mic on your outfit,” he explained. “Ben said that we can’t risk any beading damage.”
I finally allowed myself to glance over at him, to give him a grateful nod, but froze when I saw the way he was watching me.
The hunger in his expression was so unmistakable that I was almost embarrassed, like I needed to cross my arms to cover up my newly embellished boobs. He didn’t even try to hide it when our eyes snagged. My body sparked to life, like he’d just lit a fuse in my chest.
I wanted to look away but I couldn’t, because we were having a conversation without words from across the room. I didn’t have
to ask if my revised costume was okay. Ben’s face told me everything I needed to know.
“Quinn?”
I jumped and refocused on Greta. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Can you bend over? I want to check coverage from the back.”
Neil snickered.
“Hey Neil, swing the camera around front, please,” Ben said, anticipating the shot before Neil could get a close-up of my
seemingly nude and sparkly ass.
He did as instructed.
“Three steps back,” Ben instructed. “You’re in the way.”
Neil sighed and moved.
Mel started plucking at the beaded strands hanging down. “Swear to me that these aren’t going to fly off, Greta.”
I’d already competed in the costume without a problem but Mel was a worrier so I didn’t have to be. Not only would we get
hit with a deduction if any part of my outfit dropped onto the ice, there was the very real possibility of tripping over anything
that fell off.
I could tell that Greta was in her own world, running her hand down seams to check for any strings that might be poking me.
“My première d’atelier Manon would sooner hang up her scissors after forty years of sewing than let one of her pieces fail.
They’re triple reinforced.”
Greta and Mel walked me through a series of poses to check for comfort and possible wardrobe malfunctions, all while the camera captured every second. I’d expected Ben to be more involved but he hovered in the corner like he was uninvited. I opted to ignore him.
“Can we put the music on for a second?” Mel asked.
Two seconds later Hozier’s “Movement” flooded the room, and I reflexively started going through my choreo, watching myself
in the mirror.
“Fuck,” Ben said softly as went into a languorous backward arch.
“How does it feel?” Greta asked me, pulling my focus away from whatever Ben was going through. “Anything pinching?”
I stepped off the platform, readied myself, and did a quick double-double. “Nope, all good.”
“Damn! On dry land,” Ben exclaimed. “Did you get that?”
“I’m not missing a thing,” Neil answered. “Don’t worry.”
Ben was warming up to producer mode. He wasn’t bossy, but he seemed to have a vision for the piece despite his lack of preparation.
“And you’re still good with the gloves?” Mel asked me. “They’re not annoying?”
I swizzled my arms over my head. “There’s no way I’m giving these up. The drama.”
“A hundred percent,” Hailey quietly agreed.
“Okay, so I think we’re set with this one,” Greta said as she turned off the music. “I’m glad you’re pleased. Next.”
I gave myself one last look in the mirror. It was my vision, and it was perfect.
A few minutes later I was back on the little podium in my other costume, basking in more fawning.
“It’s like Versace and McQueen had a baby,” Hailey said with awestruck reverence.
Her on-the-nose take shocked me, because she didn’t look like she cared about fashion.
But then again, she was dressed for work that involved crawling on the floor and standing with her arms over her head for extended periods of time.
The unisex Henley and cargo pants with a million pockets were probably a job requirement.
“You nailed it,” I replied. “We were going for Versace’s safety-pin era mixed with McQueen’s overall fierceness.”
Ben was now standing beside Neil, more focused on the shot than me.
Which, rude. I might not be as naked, but the “Bulletproof” costume was just as hot.
“Do a slow pan down,” Ben coached in a quiet voice. “Make sure to get all the detailing in close-ups.”
There were plenty of amazing stylistic decisions to take in. While the gold one was over-the-top sexy, this one was sexy in
an angry way, like I was a dominatrix and my black skates were my weapons of choice. The slashes in the bodice made me look
like I’d been in a knife fight, and the remaining costume was barely being held together with swatches of sparkling oxblood
red whipstitching. My left arm was encased in black illusion netting from my shoulder to my wrist, while my right had strips
of black fabric crisscrossing around it. The bottom of the costume consisted of tatters of fabric, dotted with black crystals
that reflected the light. The effect of the thing was that I’d been through a battle and lived to tell.
Which was basically my life story.
“I added some detailing on the train,” Greta said as she fussed with the trailing pieces coming off the back. “A few more
layers of sheer fabric, plus extra crystals. Does it feel okay?”
“Honestly, I can’t even tell the difference.”
I smiled as I studied myself in the mirror. I liked this version of myself too. A soldier facing one last skirmish.
“It’s perfect,” I said. “Thank you.”
Greta moved closer to me. “Did you see the little addition in the bodice of both pieces?”
“No, I didn’t notice anything new,” I said, staring down at the front of the costume in the mirror.
“It’s on the inside, right here,” she said, crossing both of her hands over her chest. “I stitched a little heart in each
one, cut from my Turin costume. For good luck.”
My eyes welled, and I tried not to look at the camera because it would make me feel self-conscious. “You destroyed your Olympics
outfit for me? But it’s iconic. Greta, you shouldn’t have.”
She swished her hand at me. “The pieces are dime size, I didn’t destroy a thing. Just a little good luck token, so you’ll
know that we’re with you.”
I sniffled and nodded. I hated that I was already breaking down during what was only my second official taping with The Score. And at a freaking costume fitting, which wasn’t even dicey territory! How the hell was I going to act when Ben was firing
questions at me during the sit-down portion? And the home visit?
I knew shows lived for this kind of weepy content. I could already envision the promo shots featuring a close-up of my brimming
eyes.
But damn it, I couldn’t stop the tears.
“Thank you,” I said in a shaky voice. I reached out to grasp her hands. “What a gift.”
Greta’s chin trembled. She squeezed my hands. “You’re not just doing this for yourself. Your win is a win for all of us. And
we believe in you, Quinn.”
I hope that I managed to look stoic for the camera, because her offhanded comment woke up the doubt monster inside me.
I knew all too well that I had the world’s expectations on my shoulders once again.
My country. My teammates. My coaches and support team.
The skating governing organizations. I knew exactly what was expected of me, and how it felt to leave all of them disappointed by my performance.
“Hey, hey,” Greta chastised as she stepped up on the podium to give me a hug. “It’s okay, you’ve got this! Dry those eyes.”
I squeezed her back and turned my face so the camera couldn’t capture just how emotional I was feeling.
“You guys are making me cry,” Mel said. “Group hug!”
She ran over and we embraced on top of the podium, which was too small to fit the three of us comfortably. Our tears turned
to giggles as Mel fell off.
I tried to be in the moment, to laugh with the rest of them so I looked like I was having fun. I was victorious Quinn now,
not weeping Quinn.
But I couldn’t drown out the voice in my head, reminding me that if my win was a win for all of us, then so was a loss.
And I couldn’t let that happen again.