Page 18 of All the Drama from New York

The fashion world was fueled by feuds and rumors. Karl was a sweetheart, but even he wouldn’t be able to sit on this news. Whatever she said in this conversation would be all around the garment district and lower Manhattan by the end of the morning. Camille paused for a moment and gathered her thoughts.

She was a member of the international Royal family, people whose wealth was counted not in billions of dollars but in GDP. Media training was something all Royals went through before they began working in any of the family businesses. Controlling the narrative around their names and reputationswas paramount. The truth of Hope’s leaving had to remain a secret. In its place would be a carefully crafted statement.

“Hope and I ended her employment on a positive note. Yesterday, her boyfriend surprised her with a romantic escape to Las Vegas. Once they were there, he proposed, and they got married. She and I had been discussing her future for some time, and we agreed that now was the right time for us to part ways.”

And that didn’t sound the least like I’d just got an AI chatbot to write it.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, then Karl let out a loudtskof disapproval. “Tell me she didn’t marry that asshole, Neil. I swear I’ve lost count of the number of times Hope would arrive to pick up fabric samples and be in floods of tears because of something he’d done.”

Camille stared at the computer monitor, trying to figure out whether the shade of blue on one of the drop down filters was cerulean or sapphire.

“Hope’s private life is none of my business. I wish her and her new husband all the very best for the future,” she replied.

She got a second more firmly utteredtskof disgust from Karl. He might not like it, but it was all he was going to get.

“Well, Ms. Camille Royal, if you are not going to gift me with any decent dirt, I shall get to the purpose of my phone call. Fabrics. Your blue woven cotton with the shot of gold thread has arrived, and I have to say it looks amazing. I can’t wait to see what you will create with it. And the other samples you wanted, the ones with silver, white, and blue pinstripes are also here. So when are we going to see you?”

For the first time since she’d gotten the call from Hope, the fog which had clouded Camille’s mind began to clear. She might struggle with spreadsheets, but she lived for fabrics.

Normally Hope would have either gone to pick up the pieces herself, or organized a courier, but this morning Camillecouldn’t resist the lure of getting out of her studio and walking the streets of New York City. Even if it was only a couple of blocks.

“That’s great thanks Karl. If it’s alright I can come over this morning and pick them up. I’ll stop by that coffee place on Broadway and pick you up a creamy coffee. Did you want a cake or something to go with it?”

Her own breakfast delivered earlier by the Royal Resorts Manhattan kitchen still sat untouched on the countertop in her downstairs apartment. After the morning she’d endured, Camille couldn’t face food.

“Don’t you dare, it’s black coffee or nothing,” growled Karl.

He was known to have a sweet tooth, so his reaction was a little odd. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“New York Fashion Week intends to do a spread on me and my fabric emporium. I’m planning on fitting into the vintage Prince of Wales check, Alexander McQueen suit I got married in. And to say that the pants are a little tight around the crotch at the moment would be an understatement.”

She stifled a laugh. At worst Karl would have three or four pounds to lose, but this was Karl, and he was a perfectionist. When the people from Fashion Week arrived to take his photo, he would look his usual fabulous self.

“Long black. No sweetener. No cream. No cake. Got it. See you soon, Karl.”

Camile hung up the call. She clicked out of the planning spreadsheet and into her emails. The one from the booking committee for New York Fashion Week still sat at the top. It was time to put her disappointment to one side and get busy.

She sent a carefully worded response, graciously accepting the offer and informing them that her team would do everything to ensure the show was a success.

This morning her team consisted of just herself, but she would rectify that situation as soon as possible.

Back downstairs in her apartment, Camille took a long hot shower. Under the water, the tears finally came. She let them fall. Let every single one of them roll down her face. A damn good cry in the privacy of her home wasn’t an indulgence, it was the mind set therapy she needed.

It did her the world of good. As soon as she had toweled off and done her hair, Camille slipped into her bra and panties and headed back upstairs. She composed an email to Bryce. In it she explained what had transpired over the past few hours.

Finger hovering over her laptop, Camille was ready to hit send. But then a thought hit her, and she sat back in her chair. It would be all too easy to send her cousin a list of things she needed help with in the wake of Hope’s departure—far too easy.

If she was going to be serious about learning to solve her own problems, then Bryce and the Royal Resorts team had to stop being her first port of call in a storm. Camille deleted the bulk of her email. Instead she sent a short message to Bryce informing him that Hope had left her employ; and that she might need his IT people’s advice in covering off any possible access issues. She then went back to her apartment to get dressed.

In her walk in robe, she selected a red and white polka dot dress from her current summer collection, matching it with a pair of handmade red leather high heeled shoes. Today’s weather forecast was for a mild 25 degrees Celsius, or seventy five degrees Fahrenheit. She was certain she’d never get used to the American system. But either way it would make for a nice, pleasant day.

Stepping out the front door of her red brick building and into West 28thStreet a half hour later, Camille was wearing her favorite pair of oversized sunglasses on her face. She took a deep breath and whispered, “Let’s get this done.”

The spring in her step said it all. She had suffered a small set back this morning, but that was now all behind her. This was the Big Apple and Camille Royal was ready to take another big juicy bite.

CHAPTER NINE

Karl’s Fabric Emporium was only a half dozen blocks from Camille’s studio. An easy stroll by French standards. But by New York standards, close to an impossibility. The crowded sidewalk soon had her dancing in and out of the way of other pedestrians.

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