Chapter 3
KEALY
Had someone just punched me in the stomach?
Because it sure felt like it.
The show had come off without a hitch, in part because people like me worked our asses off around the clock in the days leading up to the event. Even better, Forest’s latest collection was met with raucous cheers and applause. I was thrilled for him, for me, for the whole company. He’d be all over the style pages for days, just like he always was. The press, celebrities, big shots from the luxury stores—they all loved him.
And during the brief interlude when I’d sneaked into the audience, I’d had the chance to see a couple of the men’s outfits presented by our gorgeous male models. Forest had a talent for choosing guys who would make his clothes look awesome. Today was no exception.
The mood for this show was on the rough and tumble side, with the guys walking the runway with mean-ish scowls, messy hair, and an almost violent stomp, stomp of their feet. In any other setting, it would have looked like cheesy over-acting, but in the context of a short fashion show, when you had only minutes to make an impression, it somehow worked.
What didn’t work for me, however, were the models who threw their clothes on the floor when they were changing back into their jeans and T-shirts. What the hell?
Anyway, I turned my ear to listen to Forest being interviewed by someone from Women’s Wear.
“Forest, you knocked it out of the park, again, with this fabulous new collection. How do you do it? What is your secret?” the reporter asked.
Forest looked in my direction with a grateful smile and held his hand for me to join him.
My heart started to pound. I’d never spoken to a reporter before. And cripes, I looked like shit because I’d been up almost all night and had been running all day. But he didn’t seem to have a camera with him, so maybe I could just say something brilliant and those who later read my words would just assume I was as gorgeous as the model who’d just stepped on a pile of clothing in her hurry to get out of the place.
But at that moment in time, the bitchy, slobby models meant nothing to me. If their haughty attitudes were the price to pay for our—well, Forest’s success—then I could stomach a little humiliation. I hustled over to my boss and Women’s Wear, quickly organizing my thoughts about what had inspired the season’s collection and what we thought it meant to the fashion world at large.
I mean, what Forest thought it meant to the fashion world at large.
Anyway.
I put my hand in his open one, and I saw tears in his eyes. That gave way to a bit of wateriness in my own. I took a deep breath and readied myself for the reporter’s first question.
But for some reason, he just kept looking right at my boss.
Like I wasn’t even there.
“Forest, the fabrics you chose for this season were beyond sumptuous. Can you tell us a bit about them?”
“Well, we started by traveling to the far corners of the Earth to see what cottage industries—you know, tiny little villages and such—were able to produce. We came across the most beautiful silks and woolens I’d seen in my entire career when we were in India and Pakistan. I mean to tell you, I nearly cried with joy when we found these scarce treasures…”
Forest continued clasping my fingers while he told his story. I stood there with an idiotic smile on my face, nodding politely to back up his bullshit story about traveling halfway around the world—the furthest he ever ventured was to Fire Island in the summer—while I patiently waited my turn. When he paused to take a breath, I cleared my throat and prepared to jump in.
But I wasn’t fast enough.
“And Forest, where did your inspiration for the unique diagonal opening on the men’s trouser come from? I mean, it looked like something that might have come from Napoleon’s era. I love how you embraced that rather than designing the pant with the typical vertical fly zipper.”
Okay then. They’d called out the most unique design detail of the whole show, and this was what I was prepared to comment on.
My brainchild. My baby.
“Well, thank you for your kind words—” I started, ready to explain why I’d added this particular flourish.
But Forest beat me to it. Again.
“The credit for that, my friend,” he said to the reporter, “goes to my assistant designer right here—”
I loved that man and the way he was cool about sharing credit.
“Muse? Muse? Are you still here?” he called over the racks of clothes.
What? Why was he calling my coworker Muse?
“Oh, hey boss,” Muse sang out as he skipped toward us with a huge grin, his signature bowtie slightly cock-eyed.
“Muse, this is the reporter from Women’s Wear, and he wants to hear about the origin of the diagonal buttoning on our trousers,” Forest said, throwing his free arm around Muse’s shoulders.
Something like confusion and then anger, roared through my head. If Muse had answered the question, I hadn’t heard him. What the fucking fuck was screaming through my brain like a goddamn broken record. I wanted to wrest my fingers out of Forest’s grip but he was squeezing them so tightly, my hand hurt.
But Muse blathered on, and Forest watched him with adoring eyes. It was as if I wasn’t even there.
He must have said something funny, because Forest finally released my hand to bring his to his forehead to feign something scandalous being said.
That was my opportunity to escape, which I did with great speed. I ran to the other side of the backstage area and lowered myself to the floor in between a couple rolling racks. And it just so happened that hanging right in front of me were all the trousers with the diagonal openings. Yes, the design detail Muse and Forest were gushing about with the reporter I’d just run away from.
The design detail that I had developed.
Not Muse.
Not Forest.
Me.
* * *