Page 135 of Seale the Deal

Sounds good, I say.

We tidy off the table of the wedding dress and get back to work on the flowers.

A few hours later, and so much has been done. The centrepieces line the table, waiting to be boxed up for transportation. Bundles of faux flowers for the aisle have been sorted, assembled, and labelled so they’ll be easy to tie onto the chairs the night before the wedding. The bridal bouquet sits carefully wrapped in tissue paper while the maid-of-honour bouquet is already taking shape beside it. Remi even had time to assign women to decoration duties the night before the wedding. Everywhere I look, there is evidence of progress, of people working together to turn an idea into something tangible.

By the time Remi and I make it to her truck, I’m tired, and strangely giddy at the same time. I climb into the passenger seat with a smile I can’t seem to shake.

That was great, Remi says as she puts her truck in gear. I love when a plan comes together and is executed perfectly. Gives me a hard-on.

I shake my head. Call Brandt for that one.

She lets out a laugh as she pulls onto the street.

While she drives, I pull my phone from my pocket and start clearing out junk emails. Most of it is the usual collection of spam, newsletters I forgot to unsubscribe from, and advertisements for things I don’t need. I’m halfway through deleting another message when a familiar name catches my eye.

My thumb freezes. For a second, I think it has to be some kind of scam. But when I open the email and look at the address, I nearly gasp with surprise. It’s real.

Tammie Roswell, I mumble.

What? Remi asks.

I don’t answer immediately.

Years ago, Tammie was one of the most powerful women at my ex’s fashion house. Smart, ambitious, and completely ruthless when she needed to be. While everyone else spent years climbing the ladder, Tammie seemed to take the elevator. Then she’d left for Los Angeles and somehow managed to do what everyone dreams about doing. She landed on her feet so perfectly that she became the story people told themselves when they needed hope that whatever risk they were taking in the fashion industry might pan out.

Seeing her name in my inbox feels like being unexpectedly connected back to the version of myself I thought I lost.

Wren?

I shake my head. Nothing.

I open the email.

To: Wrenley St. James

From: Tammie Roswell

Subject: Costume Designer Opportunity

Wrenley,

I heard what happened in Vancouver.

While I won’t pretend to know all the details, I know enough to know that losing one position does not suddenly erase eight years of experience. Unfortunately, one of fashion’s less charming qualities is its tendency to confuse the loudest voice in the room with the correct one.

The reason I am writing is because a colleague of mine is producing a period drama set in the 1920s. It has a substantial budget, a network already attached, an experienced team, and the kind of creative freedom costume designers spend their careers hoping to find.

I took the liberty of showing them examples of your work, and the response was very enthusiastic. They’re interested in speaking with you.

I’ve attached the project overview along with preliminary design materials. If you’re interested, I’ll arrange an introductory meeting with the production team. Assuming the conversation goes well, they would like concept samples shortly thereafter. If I don’t hear back from you in two weeks’ time, I’ll assume you are not interested.

The position would require a relocation to Los Angeles. The production company has immigration counsel in place and would handle sponsorship and the necessary paperwork should you move forward. In other words, the logistical hurdles are already solved. All you need to decide is if you want to take this once in a lifetime opportunity that’s being handed to you.

For what it’s worth, I always thought you were wasting your time and skill at that company. There are only so many places you can go when everyone in the room is determined to think small.

Review the materials and let me know your thoughts.

Regards,