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The weather has turned, and the days are getting warmer, making it possible for us to grill meat on the barbecue outside, which Maxime does more frequently since I work longer hours and arrive home later than him. The business is grueling. My seamstress is good at her job, but she needs a strong hand. If I don’t double-check her work, she’ll let an uneven hem or a sloppily sewed button go through. Quality is important. It’s not in my nature, but I have to be strict.
I call Vera Day to thank her for the publicity, and she places another order. Before I know it, I’m in over my head and need more staff. While Maxime’s business is still battling because of the pressure Alexis puts on the buyers, mine is thriving. When the workspace becomes too cramped, I expand to a workshop in the industrial area and transform the upstairs floor of the boutique into a lounge and fitting room for clients who wander in from the street.
An article appears in Le Figaro. The journalist has tracked down Madame Page who takes credit for her influence in my designs. The journalist quotes her saying, “My school delivers the best of the best.” When asked about my failure at the fashion show, Madame Page says I was under a lot of stress and my vision clouded, but that she’s glad I followed her advice and didn’t throw in the towel.
Overnight, I become the success story born from failure, every other potential failure’s hope. The media makes me out to be some kind of Cinderella, and I’m lucky to be their new favorite pet. Of course it’s nothing other than selling newspapers through sensationalism. Who doesn’t like a rags-to-riches story? I tell the truth in an interview, that I simply had a lucky break with Ms. Vera Day, giving credit where it’s due. The reporter twists it in such a way that the article makes me appear humble, which adds to my public image of the poor girl gone rich and famous.
There’s speculation about my husband, but I try to keep Maxime out of the media frenzy as much as I can. Of course everyone knows about his involvement and break from the mafia. The stories romanticize our marriage. On paper, it’s a love story like no other. Maxime becomes the sex idol of many a young, naïve girl, and I turn into the breadwinner as his business continues its downward spiral. The fact that I’m solely responsible for covering our bills and the investments in both of our businesses makes me work extra hard. Despite the taxing hours, I’m enjoying the challenge. It’s the purpose and passion I need in my life to make up for what I don’t have—the love story the media so ironically idolizes. The harder I work, the less time I have for whatifs. For where I find myself in life, it’s much safer like this.
On a hot Friday in summer, my cellphone lights up on my desk. One glance at the number, and I shove all the papers aside.
“Damian?” I say even before I have the phone pressed against my ear.
He sounds tired. “It’s a beautiful girl, Zee.”
“Oh, my God.” I jump up. “How’s Lina? How’s the baby?”
“Everything went fine. It was a long labor, but Lina didn’t want an epidural. She was so brave.”
“Are you sending me a baby photo?” I ask, rounding the desk.
“I’ve just bathed her.” His voice fills with awe. “Fuck. She’s so small. So perfect, Zee.”
“Oh, Damian. Congratulations. I’m so happy for all four of you. When can I speak to Lina?”
“She’s sleeping now, but you can call tonight.”
“How’s Josh with his sister?”
“It’s new. I think he feels insecure about sharing us, but he’ll come round.”
“I’m sure he will. Have you chosen a name yet?”
“Josephine.”
“That’s beautiful. At what time was she born? How much does she weigh?”
“Just after three. She’s a good three and a half kilos. The doctor says Lina can go home if Josie continues to gain weight over the next three days.”
Crying sounds in the background.
My heart clenches. “Is that her?”
“Bawls like you can’t believe when Lina doesn’t feed her fast enough,” he says with pride. “I better take her to her mom. I’ll speak to you later.”
“Take care. Take care of both of them.”
“I will.”
I stare at the phone when he ends the call. A moment later, a photo drops on my screen of my brother holding a baby in his arms. She’s wearing white pajamas with pink bunnies and a pink beanie. Her mouth is open in a wail and her little face bright red with the hungry frustration Damian described. She’s so small her head fits in Damian’s palm. The expression on his face as he looks at his daughter makes my heart melt into a puddle. A yearning burns deep inside me. A longing stirs. I’ve always wanted to have children. Two. I imagined giving them a happier home than the one I grew up in. I even know the names I would’ve given them. What does it feel like to hold that little bundle in your arms?
