Page 21 of Meant to be Mine

“I’ll figure it out,” I said, mostly to myself.

“You will,” Annika agreed, appearing at my elbow. “Walk with me. I’ll show you what we’re working with.”

She led me to the first rack and began pulling bags open and describing each piece. I was overwhelmed with how beautiful the clothes were.

“Oh wow,” I gasped when she showed me a wispy blue dress.

“Yes.” Annika zipped it back up with the satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what she had. “Elizabeth, Adrian Blackwell’s wife, designed this one herself. It will go to the tallest model. It needs the length.”

I made a note next to the model’s name. I was learning the system slowly, but it was progress. There were numbers on each bag. I could figure out the rest.

The models started arriving at nine. I had been around good-looking people before. I grew up in Los Angeles. Attractive people were practically infrastructure here. But these were professional models, and there was something very different about watching fourteen of them fill up a room. They were tall and willowy and moved like water. They didn’t walk—they glided. The men were broad-shouldered and lean. A few were shirtless and I had to fight the urge to rub my finger across the washboard abs. I was certain they were airbrushed.

I noticed the way Drew moved through the room. The models definitely looked at him, but he looked at them like they were furniture. I supposed one would be inoculated to all that beauty if you saw it on the daily.

I stayed close to Annika. She moved with calm authority, directing her team, calling models over one at a time, measuring and noting and pinning with quick, precise hands. She talked as she worked, murmuring instructions in a mix of English and occasionally Swedish to her team. Drew circulated, checking in with the models, answering questions, reviewing the clipboard I’d handed off to him.

“Hold this,” Annika said, pressing one end of the measuring tape into my hand.

I held it. She measured. I wrote down the number she called out. We did this six more times over the next hour and I started to feel like I was actually useful, which was a relief.

“You’re quick,” Annika said at one point.

“Thank you.”

I liked her. She reminded me a little of my mother, minus the broken arm and the garden opinions.

Drew caught my eye from across the room and raised his eyebrows in a quick checking-in expression. I gave him a thumbs-up. He smiled and went back to whatever he’d been discussing with one of the male models, a very tall man with cheekbones that could cut glass.

About an hour and a half in, Annika sent me to retrieve the next round of outfits from the rack along the far wall. She gave me two numbers, rattled them off quickly while simultaneously measuring someone’s inseam. It was easy enough to find them.

I handed one to the male model, a lean dark-haired man that wasn’t really my type, but I could see why he was a model. I handed the other to a woman who looked like she could be a dancer. She disappeared behind the partition screens that had been set up in the corner for changing. I went back to Annika and we worked on measurements for another few minutes.

I didn’t know what made me look, but I glanced over to the partition and saw the male model step out. He was wearing a silk shirt. It was beautiful. Rose gold and very flowy with a deep V-neck and wide sleeves. I didn’t know shit about fashion, but I thought it looked very feminine. But I’d gone to a Harry Styles concert in New York. That was a thing.

He looked down at himself like he was confused. The woman came out wearing what looked like a tuxedo shirt. It was way too big. Again, I didn’t know fashion but it was very unflattering. She had her arms slightly out from her sides in a way that communicated she was aware something had gone wrong.

There was a beat of collective silence in the room.

And then Annika turned around and said something I thought might be Swedish but couldn’t say for sure. It was definitely a curse.

I suddenly understood the problem. Me. I was the problem.

Heat crawled up the back of my neck and settled in my cheeks. My ears burned. My neck was flushed.

“I’m so sorry,” I said immediately. I was already moving toward the two models. “That was me. I handed you the wrong pieces.”

The room had already moved on. Everyone had somewhere to be and something to do. I wanted to melt into the floor.

I felt a hand at my elbow.

“Come here for a second,” Drew said.

“Pretty impressive to get fired on my second day,” I muttered.

I followed him across the floor to his office. He pushed the door open, gestured for me to go in, and then closed it behind him.

“Drew, I’m sorry,” I said. “I knew this was a bad idea. I am not an assistant. Definitely not a fashion assistant.”