1. Chapter One #3
“Totally.” She bounced free of my arm to climb into the Bronco.
The heat and hatred of the day seemed more bearable with Ivy Anne at my side.
When I struck it big not only would my mother and sisters come with me so would Ivy.
I couldn’t imagine life without her and the other wonderful women in my life at my side.
***
The pasta was a big hit although to be honest anytime you put spaghetti in front of ten year olds you were pretty much guaranteed a success.
Keira seemed less touchy this evening, although with the anniversary creeping up on us we’d all be feeling crabby and down as the day approached.
Kylie and she had grown bored of watching whatever was on network cable – there was no cash in the checking account for pay channels – and had went to their room to do homework.
Something I would check before lights out.
They were smart girls. Very smart. I’d not let them stumble with their education.
They were going to go to college if they wanted come hell or high water.
I’d sell my soul if needed to ensure it.
Filled with carbs Ivy and I were plundering the bags of clothes that had been bestowed to me. About fifty percent were useable in some way. Lots of prints which I loved. Street wear doesn’t have to be muted or neutral. It can be brash, loud, and present a vibrant aesthetic.
“Millie had a thing for zebra,” Ivy said while draping a black-and-white scarf around her neck.
“I love animal prints. I could see that dress cut into strips then reassembled into a shawl or poncho to be worn with the lacy white cowbell sleeve dress I made for you.”
“Ooooooo, I would so wear that out if there were anywhere around here people would appreciate the originality of the design. Everyone in town prays to denim and t-shirts.”
I sighed. The truth was painful. I’d once dreamed of opening a little shop on Main Street but that dream went up in smoke as I grew older.
This town was too steeped in its own stagnant bog to ever even try to crawl out of the swamp of cotton tees, red ballcaps, and worn jeans.
Not that I disliked denim. I loved it but there were more fabrics which could be worn on the lower half.
Maybe try a crisp chino, or cotton joggers, or even a corduroy which is making a comeback on many racks.
Tailored trousers. Shorts. Skorts. Culottes. Anything!
“I remember reading once blue jeans were inherently American. I think it was Edward Enninful who said it, and he’s right to an extent. I enjoy working with it but there are other ways to cover your ass.”
“Agreed.” She held up a shiny top I wrinkled my nose at. It was tossed into a pile to be delivered to the Goodwill. “This belt is cool.” She linked a chain of gold around her slim waist. I sat back, eyed it, and nodded.
“That could go with that huge striped button-down dress I made last weekend.”
“Yes! A short boot with some blingy earrings.”
“Exactly.”
“We are so good.” I chuckled. He phone alarm rang. “That’s the announcement from Claude.” She rummaged about under piles of clothes to find her cell. Once it was in hand she wiggled over to sit beside me on the floor, the battered sofa at our backs. “I wonder if he’s getting remarried.”
“Doubtful. He said he would never marry again,” I reminded her.
“Oh right. His ex must have fucked him over royally. Shh! Shh. There he is. Oo, I wonder where this is. Is that his place in Paris?”
“Maybe?”
We both sat there spellbound as the camera artfully captured Claude seated on a settee, his dog Monsieur Pamplemousse on his lap. Claude was in a light gray slim cut suit, the dog in a matching vest as it rested on his thigh.
“Bonjour.” His voice was refined and deep.
It made me half hard just hearing his lush French accent.
“Paris has always been a runway, but now it becomes the stage. I am thrilled to announce étoiles de Style, a daring new fashion reality series where emerging designers will battle beneath the lights of Paname to prove who truly understands style, spectacle, and soul, is about to debut. Expect impossible challenges, unforgettable couture, and more drama than a midnight fitting before Fashion Week.” He paused to settle those sinful blue-brown eyes on the camera as he patted his dog’s tiny head.
“Think you belong in the atelier? Auditions are now open. Submit a filmed five-minute video showcasing your designs, your creative vision, and the story behind your style to the email address shown after the announcement. Surprise me. Inspire me. Seduce the world with fashion. The grand prize winner will receive a full scholarship to the Barrons Fashion Academie, one million Euros, and international acclaim. Paris is ready. Are you?”
A small email address flashed across the now black screen.
I stared at the spot where Claude had been as I tired to form words. None would come. The entire time the rules and regulations flowed over the screen my brain was fogged up.
Ivy looked at me with eyes as wide as dinner plates. “We’re making a video.”