Authors: Leah Marie Brown
“So,” she says, taking a deep breath, “did Calder tell you he loved you back?”
I blink several times.
We have been best friends for several years now, but Vivian’s habit of changing topics with vertiginous speed still leaves me feeling disoriented.
“Shut up!” She leans closer and forces me to look at her. “Are you really telling me that Calder ‘Lucky to have someone as hot as you’ freaking MacFarlane listened to you profess your feelings for him and he said nothing in return? Nada. Zip. Zilch?”
“He might not have heard me,” I lie, breaking eye contact. “I mean, I whispered it, and we were at an airport, with helicopters and planes taking off.”
“Oh,” she sighs. “That’s it, then. He just didn’t hear you. Why don’t you text him now and tell him you love him?”
“No! I am not texting him.”
“Why not?”
“Texting is impersonal and perfunctory. It’s not the way I want to tell someone I love him for the first time.”
“True that, but…”
“But?”
“Technically, you’ve already told him you love him.”
“But he doesn’t know that.”
“Yeah.” She grabs me and pulls me into her arms in a spontaneous over-eager hug. “I am just so proud of you for telling him you love him. This is a big milestone, my little one.”
She lets go of me.
“What do you mean?”
“This is the first time you have told a man you loved him.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I think I told Sean the Midget I loved him.”
“Nope.”
“What about William?”
“The proctologist that wanted you to have anal? Yeah, I’m pretty sure you didn’t tell him you loved him.”
I flip through my mental address book of previous lovers and realize she is right; I have never told a man that I loved him.
“You’re right.”
“Yes, I am!” She fist pumps the air. “You know what this means, right?”
I shake my head.
“Calder popped your I Love You cherry.”
“Eww! That’s such a gross saying.”
“Puh-leez! Spare me the innocent act, sistah!” She forms a circle with her fingers and holds them over her head like a halo. “You just had crazy monkey sex in a jeep that was parked in a public parking lot. I think your dirty, nasty little ears can handle hearing about cherry popping.”
I don’t want to laugh, because cherry popping is a disgusting saying, but I can’t help myself.
“I’ve missed you, Vivian!”
“Aw!” She opens her arms. “Bring it here. Come on. Bring me one of those reluctant, slightly-stiff, but deep down you really want it, hugs.”
I hug her extra tight and even do one of those back rub/pat things.
“Okay,” I say, pulling back. “That’s enough.”
Vivian laughs and pulls away.
“I am going to miss you when I leave tomorrow,” she says, her voice catching and her eyes filling with tears. “I wish we still lived in the same time zone.”
“Me too.”
“You too? Which part? The missing me or the time zone thing?”
“All of it, you big dork.” I grab her hand and give it a little squeeze. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you flew all of this way to cheer me up. You really are the best friend in the world.”
“Yes, I am!”
Getting My Boney On
Text from Curtis Bower:
Oh my god! I am so sorry you were mauled by a bear. How long will you be in the hospital?
Text to Curtis Bower:
WTF? I wasn’t mauled by a bear.
Text from Curtis Bower:
Oh, my bad. When you didn’t respond to my insanely good news, I just naturally assumed it was because some wild animal was using your skinny bones as toothpicks. What other reason could you possibly have for not responding to my text about Véronique Laroque?
Text to Curtis Bower:
I was having hot sex.
Text from Curtis Bower:
Forgiven.
The next few weeks pass in a blur.
My days are spent teaching pattern making, color theory, designing for different proportions, and building a portfolio. I assigned the students a project. Each student is responsible for producing a garment or accessory to be sold at an auction to be held at the end of the term. Several of the students show great promise. Share’s handbag designs are truly innovative. Maddy’s hand-painted textiles could be framed and hung in the Musée d’Art Moderne. But the student with the most promise, the most vexing promise, is Nolee. As Vivian would say, the girl has mad skills. Her designs are couture meets street. Totally Parsons-worthy.
My evenings are spent with Calder. We go for walks around the lake, catch Laney’s performances at Ernie D’s, prepare dinner for his flying mates, sip wine on his deck, and make love, lots and lots of crazy, sweaty love.
So when the email from Véronique Laroche, Vice President of Marketing for Chanel Paris, hit my in-box early this morning, I didn’t know what to feel.
I open the email and read it again.
To: Stéphanie Moreau
From: Véronique Laroche
Subj: Employment
Dear Mademoiselle Moreau:
In the words of the inimitable Coco Chanel, “In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different.” As Vice President of Marketing for Chanel, Paris Fashion Division, I have let Coco’s words guide me these last two years, as I assembled an irreplaceable team.
I would like you to be a part of our team. I perused your Curriculum Vitae and was impressed by your academic achievements: top of your class at Parsons and the Academy of Art. Bravo! I was also impressed to learn you were one of fifteen candidates chosen to attend the summer programs at the School of Material, Royal College of Art.
However, the achievement I found most laudable wasn’t listed on your CV. Your mission statement urging designers to include philanthropy in the management and operation of their houses was brilliant. It is that kind of out-of-the-box thinking I would like you to bring to our team.
Your supervisor at L’Heure, Monsieur Bower, assured me…
The words blur as tears fill my eyes. I can’t believe I have been offered a job at Chanel! Not a boutique manager in Nowhere, North America, but in Paris at the historic headquarters on Rue Cambon! Paris, the epicenter of the universe, the fount from which everything truly luxurious and fashionable flows, eventually trickling to the rest of the world. Paris, the place of my birth.
I am finally going home!
I will return to my hometown not as an embarrassing failure, but as a victorious warrior in the world of fashion. I feel as triumphant as Julius Caesar and his Romans, as triumphant as King Philippe-Auguste and his crusaders. I feel as triumphant as Napoleon and his Grand Armée.
I have never been prone to grandiose thinking before today, but scoring a gig as fabulous as Director of Event Marketing for Chanel in Paris is pretty damned grand.
I have to call Vivian!
I open my contacts, find her name, and choose her mobile number. It is seven o’clock in the evening in the South of France. Vivian and Luc will probably be opening a bottle of wine to let it breathe before dinner.
The line rings three times before Vivian answers.
“Yes, I would be happy to.”
“Vivian?”
“
Oui, c’est moi!
”
I shouldn’t be startled by Vivian’s
outré
greeting, but I am. It takes me a second to gather my thoughts.
“You would be happy to do what?”
“Serve as your matron of honor.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I had a powerful vision earlier today of you in a vintage Dior gown, standing in an ancient stone church somewhere in the Highlands. Calder was there, too. He was wearing a kilt and his wicked grin.”
“That is an awfully detailed daydream,” I say, chuckling.
“That’s because it wasn’t a daydream. It was a vision.”
“Remind me to limit your time with Laney,” I say, lowering my voice so Laney doesn’t hear me. “Next you will be reading my aura and asking if I want to channel a dead aunt.”
“Boo! Spoilsport. Vision crusher.” She blows a raspberry into the phone. “Okay, so if you aren’t calling to tell me Hottie McScottie asked you to marry him in a stone church in the Highlands, what are you calling about?”
“Guess what?”
“I don’t know what. That’s why I asked you.”
“I got an email today.”
“That is very nice, Fanny, but electronic mail technology has been around for two decades.” I hear her tap the keys on a keyboard. “Don’t get excited, but I just sent you another newfangled digital message.”
“Very funny.”
Vivian, clearly humored by her own sarcasm, laughs.
“Let me know when you are finished,” I say, sighing.
She stops laughing.
“I am sorry, Fan. Tell me who sent you the email.”
“Véronique Laroque.”
“Nothing,” Vivian says. “I got nothing. The name doesn’t even ring a tiny bell. Should I know Véronique Laroque?”
“She is only the Vice President of Marketing for Chanel in Paris. Paris, France!”
“I know where Paris is, Fanny.” Vivian laughs. “Okay, so what did Madame Vice President want?”
“She offered me a job!” My voice is unnaturally high. “At Chanel headquarters on rue Cambon. In Paris!”
“Are you serious?”
“
Oui
!”
“Get out!”
“I know, right? I am dying here. I have a million things to do: put my apartment on the market, ship all of my stuff to Paris, find a place to live, supplement my wardrobe with a few Chanel pieces—”
“So you’re definitely going to accept the job?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know,” she says, hesitating. “I thought you were on a fashion fast.”
“I was, but fasts are temporary. I never said I was going to swear off fashion forever. Besides—” A knot of anxiety is twisting inside my stomach. I need my best friend to cheer my victorious return to the world of fashion, not poke holes in my battle plan. “This is an amazing opportunity, too amazing to pass up.”
“What about Calder?”
“What about him?”
“I thought you loved him?”
“I do.”
“But you’re going to leave him there by himself?”
“It’s Alaska, Vivian, not outer Siberia,” I snap. “Besides, he is a big, strong military man. I think he can fend for himself for a few months.”
“So you are going to do the long distance thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean you haven’t told him yet?”
“I got the email, read it a dozen times, and called you.”
Vivian makes a noise that sounds a lot like a grunt of disapproval. “What about your assignment with Each One, Teach One? I thought you enjoyed working with your students.”
“I do.”
“And you’re still going to leave them?”
“The class ends in two weeks,” I say, ignoring the prickly sensation of guilt I am feeling. “I’ll stay until then, but they will just have to find someone else to teach the second class.”
Vivian doesn’t say anything. The line crackles.
“I thought you would be happy for me.”
“I am happy for you, Fanny. If this is really what you want, if it is truly the passion you feel you are meant to pursue, I am happy for you.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“Don’t project your feelings on to me, Frenchie,” she says, her tone more gentle than her words. “I said I am happy, and I meant it.”
“You’re happy for me, but disappointed by my decision.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What then?”
“Honestly?”
“
Bien sûr
.” I exhale sharply. “I wouldn’t want you to lie to me.”
“Okay,” she says, the word coming out as a breathy exhalation. “Do you remember what you said to me a year ago, when I was considering choosing my career over Jean-Luc?”
“No. What?”
“You said you had never seen me as happy as I was when I was with Luc. You told me I would be a fool to choose a job over a man like Luc, a man who was loyal and truly loved me. You told me to choose love and let the rest work itself out.”
I snort. “I said that?”
“Yes, my dear, wise friend. You said that.”
“And?”
“And now I am saying it to you. I have never heard you as happy as you have been since you started seeing Calder. I have never seen you as content as you were teaching your students. You looked like a woman who had finally found her groove.” She lowers her voice. “I love you like a sister, Fanny. I want to support you as you chase your dreams, but I just want to make sure you are chasing the right ones, the ones that leave you feeling truly happy and content.”
“Fashion makes me happy.”
“Fashion made you miserable. You were wound up tighter than a Cartier tank watch, stressed and borderline postal.”
I think back to my days at L’Heure, but can only recall the titillation I felt when I walked into the store or when a new shipment of gowns arrived. If there were bad days, I have forgotten them.
I know Vivian means well—she always means well—but she doesn’t understand my true feelings, not really. I am the only one who understands my feelings, and I am feeling a need to redeem myself, to prove that I am couture-worthy. I will never prove I am couture-worthy if I open a little boutique in Strathpeffer, Scotland—as appealing as that dream may be.
“I love you, Vivian. I know you want me to be happy, and I really, really think taking this job and moving back to Paris will make me happy.” Calder’s face appears in my mind and the adrenaline surging through my veins dissipates. “If Calder and I are meant to be together, we will be together.”
Au revoir or Adieu?
Later that afternoon, I am helping Nolee with a pattern when I look up and find Calder standing in the doorway, still wearing his flight suit, and my heart skips a symphony of beats. He dropped in on my class once before, to bring me a bouquet of flowers, but this time his lips are pressed together in a grim line and his blue eyes have lost their twinkle.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Nolee.