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Jean-Luc returns with three rolling racks full of clothes. “These are from our fall-winter collection that we showed in Paris in the spring. Our couture dresses are at the venue today going through their last fittings, but after the show is over, I’m happy to go over all the designs with you and take your order, or you may even suggest something you’d like.”
He gestures for someone to come forward. “This is our bridal gown from the line. It’s exquisite, is it not?” He holds up a dress in ivory with crystals sewn all over it. The skirt is large, almost big enough for a man to fit under. “Come, let me put you in this,” he says to Mila.
“Me?” Mila points to her chest. “But I’m not—I mean, we’re not…”
“Go on,” I urge. “No harm in trying anything on.”
She stands, and I push her gently forward. Maybe it’s me that causes her to trip. Maybe it’s her clumsiness. Maybe it’s her own beautiful, graceful way of moving forward in life with energy and happiness. Whatever the reason, she stumbles. Her arms cartwheel. I jump up to grab her, but Jean-Luc, fearing for his dress, turns, and the big skirt catches Mila across the legs. When I reach for her, there’s nothing but fabric. A loud rending tear fills the room. Jean-Luc cries out. Lauren rushes to the side. Uncaring what happens to the dress, I bat furiously at the fabric, trying to find Mila under a hundred yards of silk and a hundred pounds of crystals. I find her at the bottom, red-faced and gasping. I scoop her into my arms and set her to the side.
“Oops,” she says. Her lower lip is quivering.
Jean-Luc is red, too. “This dress…this dress took weeks to make. The crystals were all hand-sewn. The fabric woven by a thousand Japanese silkworms under candlelight.” He looks near tears as well.
Mila starts to cry. “This is the worst oops of my life.”
“There was the time that you got your skirt stuck in your panties at the porta potty in Hyde Park,” Lauren chirps.
“Thanks a lot, Lauren.” Mila glares at her friend.
I guess I’m funding a fashion label. “Get those worms working again. We’ll need this dress repaired. You may even want to consider making a different one for the Vianney label.”
Jean-Luc perks up like a dog whose name has just been called to go for a walk. “The Vianney label?”
“Yes. I think it’s time for you to set up your own house, Jean-Luc. Call me next week to discuss the details.” I hand him my card and then place my hand on the small of Mila’s back. “Come on, love. Let’s go eat some lunch.”
fifteen
MILANA
“I don’t think I’m really that hungry,” I half-whisper when Jay and I step onto the elevator. Lauren stayed behind to go through the rack of clothes and have some brought back to the hotel for us. We still need something to wear if we plan on going to any of the fashion shows. I’m suddenly not so excited about it. I’m still holding back tears. I don’t know how anyone manages to be around me. I make a mess of everything.
This is why I stay tucked away in our little apartment on my computer. Everyone is safer that way. Including myself.
“You have to eat.” I flick a glance up at Jay from the corner of my eye. He’s tense. I can sense it somehow.
He handled it so gracefully when I fell and destroyed that priceless wedding dress. Well, maybe it wasn’t priceless because Jay had changed Jean-Luc’s whole mood of distress to one filled with utter glee. That doesn’t mean I still wasn’t embarrassed. Why do I have to be so clumsy? Jay must have been so embarrassed, he was quick to get me out of there. I don’t blame him.
“I’m sorry.” I drop my head. I feel terrible that he set something so nice up for me, and I not only ruined it but made Jay uncomfortable.
“Sorry? Why are you sorry?” His hand flashes out, stopping the elevator in its tracks.
“If I embarrassed you. I’m a mess. We should eat in the room to be safe.” A shift in the small space of the elevator happens. I turn to take a step back from him. He only eats that space right up, clearing it from between us until I’m pressed against the elevator wall.
“Let me make something very clear.” His hands land over my head. His whole body engulfs mine. If someone was to even step onto the elevator—which isn’t possible at the moment—they wouldn’t be able to see me. I feel so delicate this way. “Who’s my girl?”
“Me,” I manage to get out. As embarrassed and upset as I was a few moments ago, all that energy starts to fade away as another takes over.
