Page 8 of Play of Love
Chapter 3
Amy
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It took me the whole day just to clean the living room. I drove to the supermarket and got some cleaning sprays and cloths. I also got some super-thick rubber gloves to lessen the chance of contamination. I’d never been in a house so dirty. It was like one of those homes from hell shows that showed how dirty people could be.
Just from the living room alone I’d bagged up eight extra-large disposal bags. It was atrocious.
Kathy, my close friend from New York, and Tristan had sent me the standard “good luck on your first day” messages, to which I hadn’t replied. What could I say? This was hell.
Me, Amy Rose, the aspiring designer who wanted to work for Dior, was scrubbing floors and picking up underwear amongst garbage. It was a cruel joke and I didn’t know what stroke of bad luck had crossed my path to allow this to happen.
Even my clothes were ruined. Earlier I’d reached for a beer bottle on the shelf believing it was empty. It slipped out of my grasp and landed on me, spilling moldy beer with fermented bits all over my beautiful clothes. It stank to high heaven and I did too. I’d had to have a mini wash in the kitchen, which was surprisingly not as bad as the living room. Probably because it seemed like Mr. Mancini preferred fast food and beer to home cooked meals that would require the use of pots, pans, and dinnerware.
By the time I was done the living room looked livable and I could see my way into the sitting room. It hosted another mess, which I had managed to clear away but hadn’t cleaned.
At the end of my work day the bad smell had gone and at least the place looked like a person lived there and not like he was keeping animals. I didn’t know how he managed to do anything or eat in such a mess.
He hadn’t returned when I was leaving, which was fine, I didn’t particularly want to see him again for the day. At least I’d survived day one.
Barely.
Now on to my little room in downtown. I couldn’t even class it as an apartment. It wasn’t big enough. There was a single bed that looked like something you’d see in a jail cell, a unit with a stove top, and a sink. Next to that was a mini-fridge, the toilet, and shower.
There was just enough space beside the bed to keep my sewing machine and my mannequin that helped me to make my dress for the designer showcase.
I hid the dress underneath the bed in multiple plastic bags. With the rhinestones that covered it, and the fine red silk and taffeta mix, that dress was easily valued at between ten and fifteen thousand dollars. It would be a small fortune for anyone who stole it. I’d spent five thousand on putting it together, which I was luckily able to do before I’d had news of Mom’s condition.
My room was part of a multi-complex of other rooms and in the worse part of town. The locks didn’t work properly and I couldn’t take the chance of being robbed. If I was, that would be it for me. Right now I was living on an incredibly tight budget to enable me to fulfill my mission to help Mom and secure my spot as a Dior designer.
This was the third time that I’d applied to work for Dior. Their new designer recruitment process ran over the course of a year, starting with the standard application and portfolio, then on to an interview and presentation to pitch a design for any season of my choice. The designer showcase was the final stage. It was a massive event with a fashion show that allowed you the chance to display your main design. Passing that meant being accepted as one of their entry-level designers. It was onwards and upwards from there.
Every year Dior accepted between two to five new designers. It went without saying that they were extremely selective. Hundreds would apply, and in most years only a handful were accepted. Last year it was two people. The year before three.
In the first two attempts I got through to the second stage but went no further. It was quite disappointing and heart rending, especially since each time I was up against fresh graduates with new ideas. Now I was thirty-three, five years older than when I applied the second time around, but with more experience and names under my belt. It was my PA role that helped to boost my application on my latest attempt. I’d been able to talk about working with magazines and future prospects in the fashion world a lot more than on the first two attempts. I couldn’t have been more ecstatic to be invited to take part in the designer showcase in Beverly Hills in four months.
This was my dress, and I had to say it was truly beautiful. I’d gone for an elegant slim line.
I planned to go in with fire, guns blazing, and a no-failure attitude. I hadn’t allowed myself to think past thewhat ifof failure. It simply wasn’t an option even with my mother being sick.
All I had to do was get through this job and hope that I wouldn’t lose my sanity. Tomorrow I would speak to Mr. Mancini when he was sober. Speaking to drunk people was a complete waste of time and energy because they wouldn’t remember half of what you said when next you saw them. I just hoped that tomorrow would be better.
Grabbing a microwave dinner of vegetable lasagna, I shoved it in the small microwave oven. Just like yesterday it sparked up a few times, stalled, sparked again, and then continued until it pinged minutes later when it was ready.
A knock sounded at my door and I wondered who it could be. I wasn’t comfortable in this place at all and, in all honesty, preferred to let whoever was knocking stay outside. I was also tired from the day I’d had.
I tiptoed towards the door, peered through the little peephole, and frowned when I saw it was the landlord. He was a big, butch, Eastern European guy with a creepy attitude and an accent that made you feel like you were in a Bond film, but not in a good way. He also had a twin brother who lived on the next floor up. I paid my rent for the month already and a deposit, so I really wasn’t sure why he was here. But, since it was him I decided I’d better open the door.
“Hi Mr. Krutz. Is there something I can help you with?”
He gave me that once over look most guys did, but on him with his thick masculinity and shaved head it made him look even more creepy.
“Call me Dom. I’m just checking to see how you are, blondie.” He smiled and ran his hand across his stubbly chin. That was the second time today that my hair had been referenced. Maybe I should dye it. If it meant I was safer, I could die it orange or something.
“I’m fine. Thanks so much for checking. I am tired, though, so I’m going to turn in for the night.” I was hoping that would give him the hint that I wasn’t in the mood for company, but it didn’t.
“Turn in? But it’s just seven. Come out for a drink with me.” He turned his smile up a notch.
