Authors: Leah Marie Brown
“You’re the list girl,” Vivian says in an encouraging voice, talking me down off my mental ledge. “Make a list.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything you have ever wanted to do.”
“Working at Dior is all I have ever wanted to do.”
“That’s not an option. So what’s next?”
“I don’t know,” I snap. “I don’t have a Plan B.”
“Bullshit! You always have a Plan B, and a Plan C and D and….” There’s silence, and then I hear her snap her fingers. “What about that charity?”
“What charity?”
“The one you mentioned in your mission statement.”
“Each One, Teach One? What about it?”
“Why not work for them?”
“Doing what? What could I possibly have to offer a charity?” I laugh ruefully. “I know, I could teach impoverished Somalians how to tie a Zara scarf or how to spot a fake Hermès. Useful skills.”
Vivian doesn’t respond, and I worry we’ve had a dropped call. It’s not like her to be so quiet for so long.
“Vivian?”
“Are you finished?” Comes her immediate response. “Because if you want to keep holding that shitty pity party for one, I will just put the phone down and go do something important, like buff my nails or organize my paperclips…”
“I am finished.”
“
Bon
,” she says. “Remember what you told me after Nathan broke up with me?”
“Don’t fall in love with another sanctimonious douchebag?”
“No.”
“Keep the ring? Take the honeymoon? What?”
“You told me that I set my price tag too low, and now it is time for me to return that sage advice by telling you that you have set your price tag too low. Like, Dollar General low. Like, Salvation Army low. Each One, Teach One would be lucky to hook a catch as smart and capable as you. See what I did there…with the reference to fishing?”
“Yes, Vivian.” I chuckle, despite the churning acid in my belly and the panic squeezing my chest like an iron band. “I see what you did there.”
“Call them.”
“
Au revoir
, Vivian.”
“Wait!” She cries. “Fanny?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve helped me pick up the pieces of my shattered life twice. I owe you big time. If you need me to fly back to San Francisco, I’m just a G6 away. I gotcher back, Boo.”
“I’m good,” I lie. “But you can do me one favor.”
“Name it, girl!”
“Stay away from Urban Dictionary.”
She laughs. “Don’t be a hater.”
After we hang up, my best friend’s final words replay in my head, like a bad
Punk’d
marathon.
Don’t be a hater. Don’t be a hater. Don’t be a hater.
Work Those Dickies
Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
Did you know Christian Dior’s sister fought in the French Resistance? He was designing gowns for the wives of Nazi officers while she was fighting to liberate their country from tyranny. Call me crazy, but I think Sister had her priorities right. Forget Dior. Find your purpose.
Monday morning dawns gray and watery, with thick fog circling the bridge and hanging low over the Bay. The melancholy scene reminds me of the cheap watercolor paintings hawked by street vendors outside Ghirardelli Square. It’s bleak and tragic, like a Brontë novel, like my life.
I am reaching for the remote that operates my electric blinds, when I remember the list I made after talking to Vivian. Taking my best friend’s advice, I made a list of things I have always wanted to do, like open a boutique, fall in love, make friends, deepen my relationship with my dad, push my boundaries, go on an adventure, and be buried in a vintage Dior gown.
The weak, whiny side of me wants to close the blinds, pull the covers over my head, and sink into the oblivion of sleep, but the tougher, no-time-for-tears side knows I’ll never achieve my goals if I hide out in my bedroom.
So I sit up, reach for my iPad, open my lists app, and make a To Do list.
To Do:
1.
Exercise.
2.
Return laptop, Blackberry, and keys to store.
3.
Resist the urge to go to Walgreens, buy a bottle of Purrfect, and liberally spritz perfume in Nicola’s air vents.
4.
Buy new cell phone.
5.
Forget L’Heure and Dior.
6.
Find my purpose.
* * * *
Three and a half hours later, I have checked the first four items off my list and am feeling surprisingly empowered.
Returning to the store was every bit as excruciating as I had imagined it would be, but I walked in with my head held high and looked Nicola in the eyes as I handed her my keys and Blackberry.
On the way out, Curtis gave me a hug and his “You Better Work It, Bitch” coffee mug. He snagged the mug from the craft service cart when he was a contestant on Project Runway. It’s one of his prize possessions.
“Girl, don’t you dare cry,” he said, handing me the mug. “I have constructed a world with you as a ferocious diva. Shattering that illusion would just be cruel. Besides, you don’t want to look like a hot tranny mess with makeup running down your face.”
Curtis’s unexpected praise and generous gift did bring tears to my eyes.
“Thank you, Curtis,” I said, taking the mug and cradling it against my chest. “You are a terrific assistant. I will miss you.”
“Uh-uh,” he said, wagging his finger. “I am not last season’s lady loafers. You can’t get rid of me that easy.”
I left L’Heure happy in the knowledge that Curtis just might be an enduring trend in my life. He might even become a two a.m. friend.
* * * *
Fuelled by an intense desire to prove Nicola wrong, a need to be productive, and three espressos, I return to my apartment and spend the afternoon submitting resumes to all of the major couturiers, as well as half a dozen corporate head hunters in Paris and New York.
When I finally turn off my computer, it is dusk. Outside my window, the San Francisco Bay is as black as the heavens, the distant silvery lights of Sausalito winking like stars on the placid surface.
I am too exhausted to go out to dinner and too hungry to wait for Happy Bamboo to deliver an order of their delightful green noodles, so I pour some Muselix into a bowl, add a splash of almond milk, and eat standing at the window, staring into the darkness.
For the first time, I feel like my future is as murky as the flat cloud-blackened sky outside my window. What if nobody wants to hire me? What if my father was right? What if I have squandered my familial connections and expensive education simply to become a bourgeois salesperson?
I walk back to the kitchen, wash my bowl and spoon in the sink, dry them off, and put them back into the cupboard. Then, I strip off my clothes and fall into bed.
The last thought to flitter through my brain before I fall asleep is: What if I end up selling Dickies at Walmart?
Big Girls Swallow
Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
Did you know that Coco Chanel’s father sent her to live in a convent for orphans? Talk about not having any two a.m. friends! Yet she went on to build one of the most influential fashion houses in the world. Don your Coco pearls and find your purpose. You got this one.
The first thing I do after waking up and reading Vivian’s motivating text—the first text received on my new iPhone—is to check my email.
The first email is from my father.
Á:
Stéphanie Moreau
De:
Guillaume Moreau
Objet:
Visite
Mon Cher Fanny,
J’ai dû annuler mon voyage à San Francisco. Kaliyah se passe en Suisse pour une procédure médicale peu…
I hit delete before I have finished reading my father’s email because his opening lines told me all I need to know. He’s canceling his trip to San Francisco—again—because his obscenely younger girlfriend is going to a medical spa in Switzerland to have silicone injected into her boobs or butt or brain. Nipping and tucking is Kaliyah’s favorite hobby.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not opposed to a little medical maintenance. I have even had some myself. When I lost my Éléphanny weight, I lost what little I had going on in my Wonderbra. I was embarrassingly flat-chested. Remember when Gwyneth Paltrow wore that pink taffeta Ralph Lauren ballerina gown to the Oscars—the year she won Best Actress for
Shakespeare in Love
? Yeah, she made me look buxom. I understand she was going for that whole waif princess look, but I wasn’t.
So my father would rather play recovery nurse to his pin-tucked paramour than visit me.
C’est la vie
.
Continuing to scroll through my inbox, I skip over the notification from
GoGirl!
Magazine alerting me of Vivian’s latest article about her tour of the Lindt Chocolate Factory in Germany, spam from various fashion magazines, more interview requests from bloggers, until I come to the first in a series of form rejection letters.
Donna Karan. Valentino. Hermès. Chanel.
Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. Rejection.
I can’t help but wince as I read the canned phrases:
Not hiring. We will keep your resume on file. We will not be able to offer you a position. We wish you every success in your job search.
I open the email from the head of Human Resources at Bautista, read the first line thanking me for applying, and my heart skips a beat. It is not a form letter.
Bautista! As in, Cristóbal Bautista, the fiercely talented Spanish designer who sketched his way from the Basque Country to Paris. The creator of the cocoon coat and sack dresses. Bautista’s 2015 Fall Collection—the cigarette pants, mink trimmed gowns, and bubble skirts—was inspired. In-spired. I love Bautista! I love the Basque Country.
Dear Stéphanie,
I was pleasantly surprised to find your resume in my inbox. I immediately recalled meeting you at the Versace show during Mercedes Benz Fashion Week and how much you impressed me with your observations about the influences on Versace’s 2014 collection.
Yes! I love Bautista. I do a few fist pumps and continue reading the email.
I was prepared to offer you a position at Bautista. However, I am sorry to say that your references didn’t support you. I wish you the best of luck in your job search…
My references didn’t support me? Bullshit.
Nicola the
Salope
didn’t support me. My previous boss at Louis Vuitton loved me and would have given a glowing review.
I hate Bautista. I hate sack dresses and cocoon coats. Who puts jodhpurs on the runway, anyway? And nobody ever looked good hobbling along in a hobble skirt. I hate the Basque Country.
At this point, I have two options open to me: drink my way through Snob’s collection of Burgundy wines or hit the elliptical and try to think of a way to continue my career in the fashion industry that doesn’t include selling oversized utilitarian coveralls at a sad discount store.
I am halfway through my workout, dripping perspiration, and no closer to finding a way to save my dying career, when Florence and the Machine start singing “Shake it Out.”
I changed my ringtone when I got my new phone. Lana’s mournful song matches my present ennui, but Florence reminds me that it is always darkest before the dawn, that my depression is transitory.
I stop running, swipe the perspiration from my forehead, and reach for my iPhone. I don’t recognize the caller.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Ms. Moreau?” asks the female voice.
“Yes.”
“Ms. Stéphanie Moreau?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Thank goodness.” She sighs. “This is Rachel Mills, Vice President of International Development with Each One, Teach One. I have had quite a time finding you. You must have entered the wrong number on your application, because it was a non-functioning line. I had to call L’Heure to get this number.”
Merde!
I completely forgot about filling out Each One, Teach One’s volunteer application. As if getting fired wasn’t bad enough, now I have to rescind L’Heure’s offer to help a worthy charity. Maybe a generous donation will smooth things over.
“You called L’Heure?”
“Yes, I spoke with your assistant, and he gave me this number.”
Ouch. Being reminded I no longer have an assistant feels like a hatpin to the heart.
“How may I help you Ms. Mills?”
“Rachel, please. We operate on a first name only basis at TTF.”
“How may I help you, Rachel?”
“I was hoping you might be available this afternoon to discuss an exciting opportunity with our organization.”
In the last seventy-two hours, I have been catfished, fired from my dream job, ridiculed by bloggers, and abandoned by my father. A painful series of pride-swallowing events. And now I get to take one more gulp.
Salut, Stéphanie!
“I am terribly sorry, Ms. Mills, but I am afraid L’Heure won’t be able to participate in your worthy program.” I consider pretending we have a bad connection and disconnecting, but a woman working for a charity deserves better than a flimsy brush off. “The thing is…I didn’t have the authority to commit L’Heure’s resources, and now, I don’t even…”
My throat closes when I try to say the words “work for L’Heure anymore.”
“I believe we might still be able to help each other, Ms. Moreau,” she says in a soft, reassuring voice. “Would you be available to meet with us this afternoon?”
“Us?”
“Finn Thompson, the Founder and President of Each One, Teach One, will be joining us. How does three sound?”
I can’t imagine why the president of a non-profit organization wants to meet me, the Immaterial Girl. There’s little I can bring to his conference table.
“Are you sure you have the right person? Did you mean to call Stéphanie Moreau, French-born, graduate of Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising?”