Page 28 of All the Drama from New York

Bryce cleared his throat. “A degree isn’t everything. I didn’t finish college. In fact I made sure I failed my first semester, so my father wouldn’t send me back. Most of my early career learning was on the job.”

Hope stirred within Ryan. From his own college studies, he knew Bryce Royal hadn’t completely abandoned his education, he’d gone on to attain a master’s degree. But it was encouraging to know that the CEO of Royal Resorts didn’t consider a piece of paper vital for getting a start.

“I work hard, and I care about getting the job done. Anything I can do to make your show at Fashion Week a success, I’m all in,” said Ryan, turning to address his remarks directly to Camille. Bryce might be the money behind the fashion brand, but it was Camille Royal where the talent and day to day decision making lay.

She nodded her agreement. “If you can get something over to the both of us later today, that would be great. In the meantime Bryce and I can check on your background. And we can take things from there.”

“If you are able to finish writing up detailed notes on the spreadsheet, then I’ll consider that as being your job interview.”

“That sounds perfect to me,” replied Ryan. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the optimistic grin which Camille offered her cousin. Bryce returned it.

Ryan left Camille’s apartment an hour later. A bubble of excitement danced in his belly as he headed straight for the nearest subway station. The second he got back to the apartment in East Orange he’d get his CV up to date, and send it through to them. His references were solid, and despite having been let go so unceremoniously earlier this morning, he knew he could count on Simon to put in a good word for him if either Bryce or Camille calledJava Junction.

Once he’d sent his personal details through, he’d get on the web and do as much research on New York Fashion Week as he possibly could. There had to be more to it than just models dressed in fancy clothes walking up and down a long runway.

And who knows. Maybe if I do a solid enough job for Camille and help make fashion week a success for her, it could open some doors with Bryce Royal and his company.

Seated on the train, Ryan pulled out his brand new phone, and called Liam. If the universe had finally decided to give him a chance, Ryan Collins wasn’t going to waste a second in going after it.

“Hey”, he said, when his brother answered. “Don’t worry about the case of beer— hopefully I won’t be needing it.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Glass of wine in hand, Camille stared out the window of her design studio. The view was nothing to write home about. A mighty glass and steel skyscraper rising over forty nine floors took up most of the outside vista. But when she’d gone looking for a place to work and live, the idea of having something beautiful to look at while she gazed out the window hadn’t been high on her list of priorities.

She lifted her free hand to shield her face as the golden glare of the dying sun bounced off the wall of glass across the street and straight into her eyes.

The view from her window was so very different to the one she’d enjoyed when working at her father’s atelier. François’ design space took up the entire top floor of the family home, a sixteenth century period chateau in Marly-le-Roi, just outside of Paris. There the lookout afforded sweeping views of the French countryside as well as the estate’s immaculately maintained formal gardens. Visitors often remarked that the Royal family home was not unlike a miniature version of the palace of Versailles.

The thought of France tugged at Camille’s heart. America was the land of opportunity, but it wasn’t home.

One day I will go back to Paris and set up my own design workshop.

And when she did, it would be on her own terms. Her father would have to finally acknowledge that his rebellious daughter was worthy of her own success. That she was more than just another cog in his creative machine.

My designs and creations matter. My dreams are not ridiculous.

She shouldn’t care, but the burning need for his approval was something she’d never been able to escape. She’d come here to New York intending to make her mark in the world of fashion, but with every stitch she sewed into her designs Camille still felt the presence of François Royal. Sensed her father looking over her shoulder as she labored on her garments.

There were times when she was certain she could hear his voice, offering up his opinions of her work. “Tsk. That particular cut was in my winter collection fifteen years ago. Everything you think you create as something fresh was inspired by me. Nothing is completely yours, Camille.”

She turned from the window. For a moment she stood taking in the silence. On any other day of the work week, Hope’s music selection would be bouncing off the walls. Her former PA’s enduring love for all things Rihanna and Nicki Minaj had formed the soundtrack for the past two years of Camille’s fashion collections. Now there was only the sound of the air-conditioning unit clicking on and the faint rumble of city traffic drifting up from the street below.

Hope had left a big hole when she’d walked out the door. One which was going to take a lot to fill.

“Merde,” she whispered, fighting back the tears. Until the past day, she’d never fully understood what Americans meantwhen they talked about having beensucker punched. Her wounded pride had dark bruises from where she’d been hit.

Hurt feelings and all, Camille still felt an obligation to Hope. To reach out a hand and let her know that if she ever needed help, her former boss would be there for her.

Neil wouldn’t let Camille within fifty feet of his new wife, but that wouldn’t stop her. Picking up her phone, she called the gift service team at the luxury department store Bergdorf Goodman. A beautifully wrapped wedding gift would have to do the talking for her. She had to let Hope know that she was still important, and that no one had given up on her.

As soon as she had finished placing the order for a set of crystal wine glasses, the weight of the day lifted from Camille’s shoulders. If Hope chose not to respond to the lavish gift, that was her prerogative. But Camille felt a sense of relief in knowing that she’d tried to do the right thing.

“Who knows they might well be perfectly happy together. Maybe Neil was right, and I was the problem,” muttered Camille, not believe a word of it.

She startled as the screen on her cell phone lit up once more. Google happily announced that she was the lucky recipient of an email from Bryce Royal.

Subject. Ryan Collins CV. He looks good.

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