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We didn’t hit Maxfield’s. Instead, we flagged a cab and hitched a ride to an old friend’s boutique in North Quay. She wasn’t in that day, but her new clerk pointed us to our sizes and let us loose.
Jasmine Threads was a funky little shop sandwiched between a bank and a café. Back when I was regular old middle class and working for a high-end fashion line, the pressure was on to look runway-ready at all times. Everyone’s seen The Devil Wears Prada. The way they treated Andrea pre-makeover was a kiss and a parade compared to the hell interns with the wrong haircut are treated in Caddell House. For those with money, it was as easy as picking the latest five-thousand-dollar dress from the catalog. For me, it was a trip to Jasmine’s.
Designer brands these were not. High end? No. Expensive? Nothing in here cost more than thirty dollars. Featured in magazines? No again.
This shop held the most random collection of outerwear in one place. Jasmine stocked everything from vintage clothes, to gothic-style threads draped in chains, to canvas-printed shoes in all kinds of designs. It was my fondest pleasure to mix and match my finds, and come up with outfits that shouldn’t work, but do. This upset the balance at Caddell House at first. My boss liked my offbeat designs—I wouldn’t have gotten the internship otherwise. But my fellow coworkers weren’t pleased at the black sheep mingling among the white.
Were they supposed to add some eccentricity to their look? Was that what the director was looking for? Was I a test, a challenge, a goal, or an experiment? When I was first to be promoted to junior designer, that answered the question and sealed Lyla’s hatred.
They say there’s always someone out there who’s better than you. Who jumps higher, works harder, and fucks better. The key to happiness is to accept this and be content with who you are and your abilities.
Lyla Dawson stopped listening before the key. All she heard was there’s always someone better than you, and her conclusion: destroy them.
She did a damn good job, and apparently isn’t done yet.
“Stewing?” Sienna held up two lace vintage dresses, shaking her hips at the mirror, holding up each one to her chin.
“The one with the blue bow,” I said, “and no, I’m not stewing. Not really. I was thinking back to the first day I met Lyla Dawson, up to today and her helpful suggestion that I drop dead. I keep going over it, and no matter how I look at it, I did nothing to deserve that hell beast selling her soul to the devil in exchange for my eternal torment. I can’t be the first person who’s beaten her.”
“That’s the definition of stewing, my favorite sister.” She kissed my cheek. “But you do have a point. Reasonable and unreasonable people could look at the history between you two and agree she went too far. I’ve never gotten a good sense of her—that wall she puts up is near enough impenetrable—but I don’t doubt that whatever it is that turned her against you, it’s personal. It’s a good thing she’s not a part of your life anymore, because it doesn’t look like that hatred is dying.”
“Ah, one good thing that came out of losing my job, apartment, daughter, and dignity, I never had to deal with Lyla Dawson again... and then random run-ins went and screwed that up too. You’re a psychic, Si, find out why the forces of the universe despise me.”
Laughing, she spun me around and pointed me at the shoe racks. “Try on pretty things, that always makes you feel better.” I went off grumbling, though my mood did improve with a pair of glittery heels strapped to my feet.
Sienna and I stayed in there for hours—shopping, matching styles, and goofing off. We filled up an entire table with our choices, then we narrowed it down to outfits that’d last us a week, three or four pajamas, and max three pairs of shoes. Considering how buck wild I went in Isla’s shop, I convinced Sienna this was all we needed. I’d fill in the rest of our wardrobe with Kenzie Creations.
“Oh, just one more thing.” I slid the scraps of fabric across the counter, pointedly looking anywhere but at Sienna. Her cheesing grin bore a hole in the side of my head.
“A bikini?” she said. “I thought Sunny said that wasn’t required.”
“I’m sorry, does he have a side deal with you? Paying you extra to tease me when he’s not around.”
“No, but I’d clean up.” She tickled me squealing into submission. “I’m the expert.”
Breathless, I skipped away from her. “I’m not leaving you two alone from here on.”
“But I’ll leave you two alone.” Sienna winked. “He didn’t invite me to join him in the hot tub.”
