Page 137 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
THIRTY-EIGHT
The first thing I have to do is figure out what to wear.
I’ve never been to an haute couture show, because they’re strictly invite only. Even if you’re a Saudi princess or Beyoncé, without that invitation in hand, you can’t get past the door. The women who wear the world’s finest and most expensive handmade clothing are a certain breed, most of whom don’t want to be named publicly or, God forbid, photographed. Designers are famously tight lipped about their clientele, too, so the entire process gains a secret, sacred air.
It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance for me to model one of my own designs.
There will be more potential buyers at this show than I could ever hope to reach individually. If I could even somehow determine who they were, which I couldn’t. Each designer’s list of clients is as protected as if they’re state secrets.
Aside from sending clothes to every high-profile celebrity in hopes of having one of them wear something of mine in public, the only way to break into the rarefied society of women who collect and wear haute couture is by word of mouth.
I’ll be a walking billboard for my work.
Which means whatever I wear has to be perfect. We have only a few days to complete the collection and alter whatever design I choose to my measurements.
The problem is deciding on that design.
“The sequined powder blue with the ostrich cuffs,” suggests Clara as I critically eye every dress we’ve been working on.
“Too dramatic.”
“The leather and satin with buckles on the waist.”
“Too edgy.”
“The red silk with the plunging neckline.”
“Too sexy.”
“The sleeveless purple with the sheer overlay on the skirt.”
I turn to inspect the dress pinned to the muslin form next to Sofia’s workstation. Look nine is spectacular, if I do say so myself. It’s a deep royal purple with a full satin skirt and a sheer panel attached at the small of the back, designed to float out like a sail with the wearer’s movement. The bodice is made of hand-dyed lace appliqued with tiny sequins and overlaid below the breasts with a horizontal wrap of silk to accentuate the waist. The high slit in the skirt adds a dash of sex appeal, but the overall design is elegant and sophisticated.
I clap, hopping a little in excitement. “That’s it! Clara, you’re a genius.”
“I know,” she says. “Now what are we going to do about lunch?”
I give her a big kiss on the cheek, then order sandwiches from the deli down the street. After we eat, I go back to work with renewed energy, counting down the minutes until I can see Matteo again.
Three days later, the purple dress is finished, we’re putting the final touches on the rest of the designs for the new collection, and Jenner has arrived in Milan. He alerted me of that fact by sending a text that read Elvis is in the house.
When I call him, he picks up on the first ring.
“Moshi moshi.”
“Don’t tell me you’re inside the Japanese guy again.”
He sighs theatrically. “Alas, lovely Hiro and I have parted ways.”
“But you’ll forever honor his memory when you answer the phone,” I say, laughing.
“I’m sentimental that way. How are you, darling? You sound better than the last time we spoke.”
“I’m a little better, mainly because of the invitation.”
I can tell his interest is piqued by the way his tone sharpens. “Invitation?”
“To Matteo’s show at the Royal Palace.”
