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“No, no, no! You are not going to cry on me again, kiddo! Chiara can’t come in here and do that romance movie crap she did before, holding your face or whatever you all swoon over. I don’t do that! I will smack you and pull this thing on you and be done with you. No crying! There’s no crying in fashion.”
But Vi didn’t care. She simply moved forward and threw her arms around Aoife, placing her chin on top of her head, obviously making Aoife even more aggrieved with this show of their height difference and the disregard for her earlier instructions of no tears.
Vi let go of her disgruntled mentor and carefully wiped her eyes, and she could swear she heard Aoife sniff.
“Okay, okay, enough mush. Poopy-schmoopy, or whatever the fuck the Fairy Godmother says. Get your skinny ass into this thing, Cinderella. I can’t wait to see it on you, and we really need to be going. She can only hold down the fort for so long, and you know Frankie will be half-drunk by now and…”
Aoife trailed off, and her face was no longer sentimental. It was sad, and there was an edge to it, a resolution of sorts that made Vi curious. Aoife just shooed her and thrust the hanger in her hands before demonstratively turning her back to her. But Vi had to ask just this one thing before she could take another step.
“Aoife… About earlier and what you walked into with Frankie and me…”
“Are you gonna tell me what I walked into? Or are you gonna pretend like it was no big deal? Because I have a lot of time for the first scenario and no time at all for the second.”
Under the steady glare, Vi simply shook her head and Aoife’s shoulders sagged.
“Whatever.” There was little inflection in the word, but Vi sensed there was more relief than disappointment and didn’t know what to make of that. What would Aoife say if Vi confessed? And what about Chiara?
Vi knew that, despite what she’d seen, nothing had changed, and Aoife’s reaction was perhaps proof of that. So she shook her head again. And Aoife seemed to move on. “Put it on, Lady Rae. I’m getting older by the minute here. And while I am like vintage wine and only get better with age, I kinda want to spend some of that time with other people.”
This time when Vi laughed, it held no tinge of panic or regret. She was going to the ball.
11
ONCE UPON A WELL-ATTENDED BALL
Genevieve Courtenay was never good at being the center of attention. Maybe that was why she was so comfortable behind the camera. She was an observer by nature. Well, one really had to be, since her life had not facilitated much participation, unless one called cleaning up her family’s messes ‘participating’. So when she was suddenly thrust into the limelight as unceremoniously as she was now, Vi wanted to disappear.
She really should have known better. Much, much better with the gown she was wearing.
Vi had dressed quickly, with Aoife’s help. Though perhaps ‘help’ was too generous a word, since the assistance mostly revolved around oohing and aahing over every element of the design, exclamations, curses, and alternatively praises and damnations, directed at Chiara’s talent.
When she was done, Vi had handed Aoife her soggy slip and bra. The room didn’t have any mirrors, but she knew what she looked like, down to the feverish sheen in her eyes. Shelookedthe part. As she assessed her image again, her mentor reached behind her and came back with a new camera.
“No mice or pumpkins to finish off your ensemble, but you might need this, Cinderella.”
Vi’s hands shook when she lifted the camera to her face, tears stinging her eyes. Her dream of shooting the new collection was alive once again.
“Wish me luck, Aoife. This really does feel like a fairytale.”
She gave her mentor—still clucking over some tricky fold that Chiara had sewn into the skirt—a brief hug. Though Vi couldn’t see anything of the kind since the skirt looked rather simple, flowing down her body in waves of emerald silk, judging by Aoife’s reaction, the dress was a work of art.
It certainly felt that way, the bodice hugging her closely, filling her with affection and tenderness. Chiara had taken the time to do this for her. Chiara had noticed that the silver gown didn’t suit her. Chiara cared. Vi closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Aoife flicked her on the nose and grinned.
“You won’t need luck. You are a whiz with that thing, if any of the thousands of pictures you’ve taken are any indication. As for all the fairytale bullshit…” Aoife gave her a direct look. It was remarkably steady. “Just remember that your princess is married. For better or for worse—”
“Aoife!” Vi was horrified.
“Frankie is many things, but oblivious is not one of them and neither am I. You’re a good kid and hell, half the people down on that beach will be in love with Chiara by the time this evening is over.” Aoife bit her lip and focused on Vi’s eyes again. “For your own sake, Vi. Just remember that there’s no happy ending here. You understand?”
Vi’s stomach dropped and her mouth went dry. So she really was transparent. Not that she hadn’t suspected, but this warning, this warding her off, away from Chiara, away from the flame she was a moth to…
“Tell me you understand, Vi. And go do good work out there tonight.” Aoife had gripped her free hand tightly, too tightly, and Vi took a deep breath. Yes, she understood all too well. She squeezed Aoife’s hand back and ran out of the room.
* * *
Within mere hours,the collection was successfully shown on the improvised catwalk occupying a private strip of beach on the lake, with yachts and the bluest of waters Vi had ever seen serving as backdrop, and a hundred or so distinguished, hand-selected guests cheering and applauding. All that, coupled with the exquisite evening breeze full of scents of fame and fortune, created an atmosphere of distinct contentment and luxury.
Frankie walked the stage at the end, hugging models, bowing deeply and effusively, her gait relaxed and easy. And Vi took her picture on autopilot, yet craving to capture Chiara, who was inevitably backstage, having touched every swatch of the collection, making sure every single piece was perfect, each model was immaculate, from clothes to makeup, to hair.
