Page 85 of Not You Again
“Yes.” Heidi nods. She gives me a slow smile. “She’s looking for someone to design her wedding dress.”
I whisper fiercely, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I called you three times and texted you twice,” she whispers back.
I stab my plastic fork into my cold lo mein and stuff my tongue into my cheek. Of all the days for me to not change out of my pajamas. Every gossip column in the world was abuzz with Odette’s engagement to a country music megastar who shall not be named. At least not here. Privacy is one of my business pillars. It has to be if I’m aiming to work with higher-profile brides.
“I’ve never seen a neckline like this.” Odette glances at me, her umber skin luminous in the sunlight. “It’s genius.”
I eye the dress; just moments ago it was laughing at my incompetence as a designer.
“Is this one making it into the show at Fashion Week?” Heidi asks me a leading question.
“Oh. Right.” I set my takeout container aside, ignoring that I’m in pajamas, and tell Odette, “I’m finalizing my lineup. There’s six more half-constructed over there.”
I open my mouth to suggest we take a look at those too, when two voices interrupt.
“Oh, those windows are gorgeous. This must be a source of inspiration.”
“The floors are clearly restored; she’s got an eye for history.”
We all turn to see who’s walked into my studio. I leave the door open during the day so brides and vendors can find me—or for Heidi to spring high-profile brides on me at the last minute, apparently.
There are two women in business attire eyeing my space. The one in red-framed glasses eyes the corner of my loft taken over by bolts of fabric. She opens up the leather portfolio she has clutched to her chest and scribbles something down as she tells the other one, “We could definitely use some shelves to display the bolts of fabric. Organize by color?”
“Nuh-uh,” the other woman shakes her head. She’s Black, wearing a great pair of high-waisted pants in a stunning magenta. “Organize by type of fabric.”
Panic stirs in my guts. “Excuse me. Can I help you?”
“Oh, sorry,” Red Glasses says with a smile. “I’m Catarina, and this is Ruby.”
When they don’t continue their introductions, the frustration I’ve fought all day rises to the surface. I tamp it down with a polite smile. These women are young, maybe just out of school. “I’m Andie, and this is a private studio.”
“Love those pants,” Odette tells Ruby over my shoulder. I don’t disagree, but if they even so much as ask for an autograph, I won’t be selling a dress to Odette. Or any other elite bride, when word gets out. I breathe in through my nose to remain calm.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I say, my fists clenching at my sides in an attempt to keep my temper on a tether, “what are you doing?”
“We’re here to help.” Ruby reaches into her bag. She presents a résumé on cardstock as she closes the space between us. “I graduated just last month from Georgia Tech. I double majored in fashion design and business administration. Last October, I interned with the board for Atlanta Fashion Week, and I spent a summer in New York with Lila Bennett.”
“Love her designs,” Odette sighs behind me.
“Same. They’re poetry in motion.”
Before I can get a handle on the situation, Catarina presents me with her résumé too. “I also graduated from Georgia Tech, with a degree in information systems and graphic design. I’ve spent the last few years working at the corporate level with DigiTech and Bonnie Mae Industries, restructuring their databases and redesigning everything from letterheads to their customer-facing websites and apps.”
“This is all very impressive”—I set the resumes aside—“but I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“Fashion Week,” Ruby says, matter-of-fact.
When I blink, still not sure what she’s talking about, Catarina adds, “Jamie told us to meet him here.”
Jamie? I slowly shake my head. “I don’t—”
Heavy footsteps enter my loft behind them, and my stomach ties itself in a knot to see Jamie strolling in, Cassidy and Steve on his heels. Camera on and aimed at me. I step in front of Odette, as if my faded reindeer flannel pants will hide who she is and why she’s here.
Fuck, fuck, and triple fuck.
As calmly as I can, I say through my teeth, “What are you doing here? I don’t remember any filming at my office on the docket today.” I’d have remembered. Cassidy would have given me timetables and met me earlier to strap on my mic.