Apart at the Seams Read online

  Francesca applies a new layer of lipstick without a mirror as she walks down the stairs, talking at the same time. (Of course getting it perfectly within her lip line. She must practice this move daily.) “Arthur and Nigel are inspired by that trip they took to Northern Africa recently; Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia. They want to capture the Mediterranean and have the clothing reflect the people they met: open, warm, flowing conversations. A lot of knotted fringe. Very subtle frieze borders; nothing jarring.”

  When we first started working together, I followed behind her with a notebook, scribbling down everything she said, but over the years, I’ve come to realize that these talks are for her to hash out possibilities aloud that she’ll mull over for another day or so before changing her mind a dozen times and finally committing to the fine details on the sample room clipboard. She might tell me she wants zippers during this walk, but those closures may change to buttons by the time we head back.

  “We’re doing a layer of blue hues; the models should look like the ocean as they come down the walkway, all those blues and greens of the Mediterranean. Maybe we’ll sprinkle sand on the catwalk. Except, no, that would be a hazard,” Francesca muses aloud.

  We pause at the corner, and I keep my eyes on the walk sign on the opposite corner. I don’t want to look too eager. “Did you see my third drawing? That coat was inspired by Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. It would look amazing in a dark blue.”

  Francesca starts walking again before the sign flashes that it’s safe to cross. She gracefully leaps catlike in her stiletto heels onto the opposite curb. “What isn’t blue is going to be red. Red, red, deep red, red so it pops. All the suits are going to be in red. Red is our work color, our serious color. Blue is for relaxation, fun. Red is when you’re on the clock. They’re bringing back their take on the three-piece suit, playing with the cut as well as the trim.”

  “Francesca,” I start tentatively, as we get in line at the ’wichcraft kiosk. I give her a moment to examine the menu even though I know she is going to order the pole-caught tuna she always orders. “What did you think of my drawings? How do you think they fit into Davis & Howe’s vision of the spring collection?”

  I feel like a puppy, panting alongside her, waiting to get my head pat. I hate the feeling of begging for accolades.

  “I’ll have the pole-caught tuna,” Francesca purrs to the woman taking sandwich orders. Francesca’s lilting Milanese accent makes her sound as if she’s asking everyone on a date even when she’s doing something as innocent as asking for extra lemon in her sandwich. “Arianna, why don’t you add whatever you want to my order. It’s on me.”

  My heart sinks as I ask for a roasted turkey salad and Tabitha’s sandwich, and then move over so the next person can start their order. Paying for my lunch feels like a pity move, and sure enough, Francesca makes herself very busy fussing with her telephone while we wait for our order to be made. Finally, when she can’t stall any longer, she gives me a tense smile and shrugs her shoulders. “It’s all a little too Givenchy-esque for Davis & Howe. Gorgeous lines and the beaded piece would look amazing off the page. But your designs aren’t really classic Davis & Howe, Arianna.”

  “I just thought that maybe . . .” my voice trails off because I don’t really know what I thought. That Davis & Howe would bend their brand to fit my designs? That I was ready to move into design work in one afternoon?

  “Arianna, you are clearly very, very talented. Please, keep drawing. Show me your ideas again in the future. Think Northern Africa. Morocco.”

  Casablanca is Morocco, I think bitterly, taking our food bags with a curt thank you.

  I can barely hear Francesca as we head back to the office, and it’s not due to the New York traffic honking alongside us. She verbally races away from my drawings as if they were a fashion faux pas she’d rather forget and returns to Arthur Davis and Nigel Howe’s grand adventures in Algiers. I really needed her to like my drawings; not for the work itself, but to prove to myself that there is some talent there buried underneath all the self-doubt. I crumple the top of the food bag into the folds of my fingers, absolutely positive that I won’t need a coffee run with Tabitha this afternoon.

  I TAKE A FEW hours to lick my wounds silently, and then text Ethan about Francesca’s thoughts while standing in line at the dry cleaners after work. I have big plans to treat myself to an enormous mocha for the walk home, but I multitask and assuage my hurt feelings while the woman two places in front of me argues about her missing dress, gesticulating wildly to the employee behind the counter, who is pecking at a keyboard like a starving pigeon ferreting out crumbs of bread.

  Why are you saying she hated your designs? She didn’t write you off. She said you had talent, and you should show her future drawings.

  I bite the inside of my cheek while I watch the employee aimlessly spin the dry-cleaning wheel, plastic-wrapped dresses and pants whipping past her outstretched hand in continuous, desperate movement. I want to believe that he’s right so his words can shake off that knee-jerk disappointment at having my ideas rejected.

  I’m going to need to grow a thicker skin if I’m going to pursue design work.

  Fine, then Northern Africa it is. I text back.

  That’s the Arianna Quinn I know and love. My very talented, very pretty, live-in girlfriend.

  Does this mean you’re springing for a trip to Morocco for inspiration? I ask.

  No, but I will spring for tagine from Marrakesh for dinner, he writes back.

  My hero.

  I close my phone and give a loud sigh in hope that it will give the woman a hint. She turns around and gives me a nasty look before hurling a new series of threats at the dry-cleaning employee. I just want to get home to Ethan. As a single mother by choice, I am accustomed to always taking care of someone else, so it is a nice change to have someone offering to take care of me, or, at the very least, my dinner.

  I want to eat and then climb into bed, watch bad television until we’re sure that Beckett is asleep, and have sex. Sex with my boyfriend in our bed. I’ve dated a lot of men since I left college, but this is the first time anyone has lived with me, where we’ve entwined our lives like legs under the blanket. I love not having to make plans. He’s just there, like a magic trick. I wonder how long it will take until I’m used to it.

  The angry woman rifles through her purse while the rest of us shuffle restlessly. This is the side of New York that makes me want to catch the first plane back to Minnesota. The pushiness, the wasted arguments, the lines and the impatience and the people who stand too close behind you, their inch of personal space leaning against your inch of personal space like an unwelcomed guest.

  I want to be back in a town that is so small that dresses never get lost. But my career and boyfriend are here. I may be able to set up a design house somewhere else, but I could never drag Ethan out of the city.

  As I’m contemplating ducking out of line even though I hate having one lone unfulfilled errand on my to-do list, my eyes catch on the binder being held by the man behind me. It’s pressing against his thin chest, with the familiar logo of the Nightly emblazoned across the plastic. Ethan and I watch the Nightly most evenings, a fake news show on a comedy channel that dissects current events and mocks politicians. The binder is gripped by long, elegant, tapered fingers that would look more at home on a piano keyboard than behind a video camera. I look up the man’s arm into his face and discover he’s already looking at me, a half smile skirting the edges of his lips.

  I turn back around, pretending that I was just looking around the room like all the other people looking around the room. Didn’t notice the Nightly binder at all. What? You work for the Nightly? I didn’t know! I wonder what he does for the show.

  I’m funny. At least, people have always told me that I’m funny. Maybe not stand-up comedian material or writing for the Nightly funny, but I write funny le
tters and emails. I try out variations of an opening line in my head, tweaking it while I smile to myself.

  The angry woman yells at the dry cleaner, leaning over the counter to make her point while she jabs at the computer screen. “Oh my God, this woman,” the man breathes, somewhat to himself though I imagine it’s for my benefit. I glance behind again, and he’s still looking at me, or, more accurately, he’s looking at my blond highlights. A mock grimace twists his features.

  “Where’s a narcoleptic attack when you need one?” I deliver my punch line proudly, like a ten-year-old who just learned a new joke on the playground. It isn’t until after it leaves my brain and travels out of my mouth, that I realize it isn’t funny at all.

  The man’s face changes imperceptibly. “Do you know the word iktsuarpok? I’m probably pronouncing that wrong since I’ve only seen it written. It’s an Inuit word that means the anticipation of someone coming or something about to happen, and the incessant checking that accompanies it. Doesn’t that perfectly describe all of us? We’re just leaning forward, trying to see if she’s done yet.”

  “Do you speak Inuit?” I ask because I’m not really sure why this white man in a Manhattan dry cleaners is speaking to me in such a random language.

  “No. It’s just one of those words that’s missing from English. Like nedotipva, which is a Czech word to describe people who can’t take a hint. Oh! I’m talking about that woman at the cash register . . . not you. I mean, you look like you’re the opposite of a nedotipva. You look like you can definitely take a hint. Very hint conscious.”

  Now that I can politely examine his features while I talk with him, I decide that while he’s attractive, he’s not my type. He’s too neat, with a thinness bordering on what my friends in the loft call “Model Illness”—that slimness that comes from denying yourself carbohydrates day after day. His hair is cut close to his skull, a nondescript brown, and he’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt even though it’s July and so humid that it’s hard to breathe. But his eyes look kind, and the skin around them crinkles whenever he smiles. He has a deep smile, a smile that tugs on me, begging me to fall into it.

  “I’m considering ditching my shirts.”

  “Me, too,” I say.

  “How late do you think LS is open?” He saying this to himself, but I hear myself answer automatically, a rolodex of fashion staple hours imprinted in my mind.

  “Six thirty during the week. Except Friday.”

  “You don’t look like the type to wear men’s bespoke suits,” he comments. “Fetish?”

  “Fashion,” I answer. “I’m a finisher for Davis & Howe.”

  He looks impressed and tucks his binder under his arm, offering out his hand. “I’m Noah.”

  “Arianna,” I counter.

  “I was actually guessing fashion,” Noah admits.

  “How did you know?”

  “Your clothes are too stylish.”

  “I don’t know how a person can be too stylish.”

  “You’re taking it as an insult,” Noah says, putting his hands up as if staving off an attack. “I meant it as a compliment. Your clothes are eye-catching.”

  I realize I’m blushing, and I inadvertently start fiddling with my aforementioned stylish clothing, plucking and adjusting. The truth is that the pants I’m wearing actually have dozens of tiny errors. They were a rejected toile that our atelier designer passed along to me when she made the new one, and I finished them in my spare time, adding on a thin outline of velvet ribbon trim to the pockets—my own idea. They’re not even the good quality linen we used in the finished product, which is currently in the closet of a well-known actress who hired Davis & Howe to design the perfect divorce-court outfit, knowing that the paparazzi would be documenting every step in and out of the courthouse.

  “I don’t know what a finisher does, but it sounds impressive.”

  “I do all the small detail work. Beading, lace, feathers. Anything ornamental. Adornments. What Davis likes to call petit ornée.”

  “It sounds very sophisticated when you say it in French,” Noah admits.

  “Well, you seem like you like foreign words,” I say.

  “Untranslatable words,” Noah corrects.

  “Anyway, what I really want to do is design work. Our atelier designer was looking at my drawings today . . .”

  The woman slams both of her hands down on the counter, causing me to jump slightly into Noah as if I’m ducking a bullet. I laugh and try to right myself without bumping into the person in front of me.

  “Get the hell out of here!” a fed-up man calls out from the back of the line before slamming out of the store.

  “So what do you do?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes from traveling to the binder tucked under his arm.

  “I am a writer,” he says in a voice that makes it appear as if he’s uncomfortable with his choice of profession.

  “Have I read anything you’ve written?”

  “Do you watch the Nightly? It’s a show on . . .”

  “Yeah,” I interrupt. “I watch the Nightly.”

  “That’s where I write,” he finishes. The woman at the counter gives one last slam of her hands and then storms out of the store empty-handed, shouting back curse words at the employee as if trailing perfume. The person in front of me steps up to the counter in true New Yorker fashion as if nothing has just happened and rattles off his phone number to the employee while his eyes are glued to his phone.

  When it’s my turn, I shyly ask for my skirt and receive it without incident, trying to give the employee my best, supportive smile, but she’s not interested in being comforted. In fact, it appears as if she has no need for niceties, as if the prior incident has rolled off her skin like a glob of oil in vinegar. I wouldn’t have been able to continue to stand at the counter if it had been me. I hate being yelled at.

  I reluctantly turn to go since there’s no need to be in the store anymore and I’m itching to be at home with Ethan, but my stomach tugs on my insides, like Beckett yanking at my pants to get my attention. How many times in life do you end up talking to a writer for the Nightly? Part of me doesn’t want to walk away, especially not empty-handed, but it seems way too pushy to ask if he would get us tickets to the show. I mean, all we did was stand in a line together. It’s not as if we actually know one another.

  I push my way out to the sidewalk, lingering under the pretense that I am absorbed in something on my phone. I try to keep my eyes from flicking toward the door when it opens again. I just need to put on my big girl panties and ask for two tickets. I’ve worked long enough with celebrities to know that it never hurts to ask.

  “Hey,” a voice says right above my head. “Now that we survived Dresspocalypse, I’m going to go grab a cup of coffee. Do you want one?”

  “I was going to get a mocha for the walk home,” I admit. “I can’t really sit down though. My boyfriend is picking up tagine for dinner. Don’t want it to get cold.”

  “Oh, my girlfriend is eating without me, which means that I can be a seigneur-terrace tonight.”

  “What is that?” I question, falling into step beside him.

  “It’s French, another great word that we don’t have in English. It’s those people who sit in a coffeehouse for hours with their laptop or a book, nursing one little cup of coffee.”

  “I definitely can’t be a seigneur-terrace, but I guess I can have a quick cup of coffee. It’s still sort of early.”

  Noah bypasses the Starbucks, clearly heading toward the Volt a few doors down, a local coffeehouse that has the reputation for being a bit of a meat market. I get coffee to go from there all the time, but I rarely sit down because it’s mostly filled with single seigneur-terraces sipping lattes and trying to score a date. There’s even some contest going on between the two Volt locations in the city to see which
one marries off more couples that meet in the store. It is not the sort of place you go for a platonic cup of coffee with a stranger, even one who has connections to your favorite television show.

  “Are you cool with Volt?” Noah asks, as we reach the door. “I like their coffee better than Starbucks.”

  “Absolutely. Me, too,” I add, even though I’ve never really given it any thought.

  He holds open the door from the wrong side, and I slip into the store under his arm, breathing in soap and a musky deodorant.

  “So whose side were you on during the fight? Team Dry Cleaner or Team Angry Lady?”

  “Team Dry Cleaner,” I respond without thinking. “I hate getting yelled at.”

  “Are you yelled at often?” Noah inquires.

  “No,” I admit. “I was just embarrassed for her. And she didn’t even seem to care afterward. I still feel sick, and it barely fazed her.”

  “The Germans have a word for that: Fremdschämen. Oh—grab that table,” Noah interrupts himself, pointing at the only empty table in the coffeehouse. Someone has wedged a folded-up, dirty napkin under one of the table legs to keep it from wobbling off hot cups of coffee into unsuspecting patrons’ laps. I obediently slide my body into one of the chairs, throwing my newly dry-cleaned skirt on the table to claim it. “I’ll get us drinks,” he calls across the span between us. “What do you want?”

  “I’m fine,” I say automatically, planning to change my mind when he can save our seats at the table and order something for myself. Having him buy me a drink feels too date-like. Actually, it doesn’t just feel date-like; it is date-like.

  “I’ll get you a mocha?” he says. “You said before that you were getting mocha, right?”

  “Really, I’m . . .” but my voice trails off as he turns his back to me to order from the barista. There is a board behind the counter where the two Volts in the city are keeping track of how many couples that met in their stores are now married. The West Side location has 423. This Garment District coffeehouse has 425.