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Vi raised her head sharply, those cheekbones shadowed by the longer strands of hair escaping the messy bun. Chiara had to dig her nails into her hands as the instinct, so familiar, so much like muscle memory, to tuck those strands behind the small ear almost took over. How was she going to survive this?
Another careful step aside, and the verbena was no longer caressing her senses. She missed the scent and regretted that she had abandoned it after the divorce. Even more so now, when Vi was wearing it, and it felt like she was wearingher, still, years later, as a memento of their one night, when Vi had indeed worn Chiara’s verbena and so much of Chiara herself. She touched the chilly glass of the window and the cold centered her, gave her a second to collect herself.
“You can look around. I’m not entirely certain how many gowns are finished. Aoife and Renate will be able to give you those numbers.” She said it matter-of-factly, but Vi winced nonetheless.
“I really didn’t mean it that way, Chiara.” The regret hung in the air like a lead balloon about to drop and splash them both with poison.
“It’s okay. Really.” She knew her voice was warmer than she actually wanted it to sound and couldn’t help it. “It’s the truth. I don’t know how many there are or how many have already been sold. Some might still even be in New York, so perhaps we can bring a few of those back—along with the clients, if they would be willing.”
Vi perked up, eyes calculating. “That would be great. I know at least two of them, and one… well, she might be amenable, if she’s still speaking to me after our little fling—” She closed her mouth abruptly, ending the oh-so-familiar barrage of words that always seemed to materialize when Vi was nervous or uncomfortable. Some things never changed.
Chiara knew, on some level, that Vi probably didn’t live like a nun, but to have it so casually thrown in her face, when she herself had remained untouched since that night, was jarring.
“The details of your exploits don’t interest me, Ms. Courtenay.” One more step, then another, and Chiara had used the space between them to compose herself again.
“I wasn’t about to give you any.” Exasperation colored Vi’s voice, but she didn’t make any attempts to come closer again. Instead, she turned away from Chiara, pulled out a leather notebook and went to work.
Chiara watched her murmur to herself as she walked through the room, counting the gowns and accessories on display in the atelier. She sensed a touch of pride swell inside her when Vi reverently ran her fingers over some of the veils.
More memories of that single-minded focus flooded Chiara. The way those eyes would turn on her, and nothing else existed, how they’d made Chiara feel. Special. Loved.
The sensation of something wet in the palm of her hand made her unclench the fist she was making. Blood. With all her determination to not think about what Vi had done to her all those years ago, she had pierced her own skin.
But she’d spilled that blood for nothing, since it didn’t stop her mind from returning there.
A loud, angry meow interrupted her self-recriminations and Binoche swaggered into the workshop, ignoring Vi’s presence entirely, which made Chiara smile. The cat that didn’t like to be touched walked closer to her mistress and rubbed her compact body on her ankles, twisting and turning, very demonstratively meowing all the way.
Chiara had to laugh, a sound that seemed to surprise Vi, who was watching the cat with some amusement, but suddenly her eyes turned wistful and sad. Chiara refused to analyze why, as she lifted the now loudly and showily purring cat to her face, giving her a nose kiss before setting Binoche on her pillow. As she turned back to Vi, she buried her face back in her notebook.
“I will leave you to it then. And if I were you, I wouldn’t disturb Binoche. Though, if you do, just call loudly, and someone will bring you the first aid kit.”
With that, she turned away and slowly left the room. As she stood in the doorway, she took one last look. Vi had not raised her eyes from the notebook, but Chiara could see she’d been inching closer to the windowsill. No, Vi still didn’t know what was good for her. Or bad, for that matter.
* * *
The plansfor the magazine turned out to be magnificent, especially in light of the very short amount of time they’d been given.
Chiara’s atelier felt crowded, with both Aoife and Renate in her space. “So Benedict, Aoife and I talked Arabella off the ledge. She’s pushing the entire October issue back to make room for a special edition. It will be released mid-month, so that gives us another two weeks. Which, all things considered, is a relief, because Courtenay is insane.”
Renate voice was a mix of excitement and exasperation as she paced the room, in what was now an all too familiar sight, while Aoife sat perched at Chiara’s elbow at the workstation, munching on handfuls of popcorn and watching the scene unfold with avid eyes. At Chiara’s glare, she shrugged.
“What? I might as well soothe myself. Had to be Vi Courtenay, of all the photographers in the world? This is a damn mess and I hate it, and I need to get enjoyment where I can.” Chiara couldn’t fault her. But when offered a handful of the treat, she shook her head.
A thought that she had forgotten to eat breakfast intruded, the next one on its heels being that she hadn’t eaten dinner the day before, either. Aoife didn’t seem to pay any attention as she reached over and wrote ‘order takeout once this goddamn meeting is over’ on a pink post-it note.
“Also, I want Renate to tell us more about how her so-called ‘work meetings’ with Arabella,” Aoife dragged the name into twenty suggestive syllables, “are going. ‘Cause that is just about as interesting as Chiara here pretending that Vi walking these hallowed halls is not bothering her.”
Renate turned, her hand raised and mouth open. Interrupting the impending invective, Chiara simply smacked Aoife on the knee.
“Can we please all act like adults? Nothing can be done about Vi. It’s not like we didn’t know she had made a huge name for herself as the best fashion photographer in this country of soggy-cardboard-bread.” She took a deep, cleansing breath. “Though Aoife is not entirely wrong about everybody wanting to know how you are dealing with Arabella.”
She said it with a sly smile and could swear she could see Renate’s hair stand on end. How exceedingly interesting.
“And you’re the one asking us to act like adults? Never mind Arabella. She is a professional, despite her many terrible qualities. In any case, we all thought that four weeks is much better than two for what Courtenay has in mind. And I have to say I like her proposal. It’s fashion at its most influential. It’s classic, and both understated and grand. I like it. Damn her.”
“But how do you really feel?” Aoife chortled and Chiara simply closed her eyes. So Vi had gotten her way after all. Two weeks were bad enough, but four? How would she cope with that much exposure to Vi? How would she keep tucking the awful tendrils of her guilt and anger away? It was such a dangerous cocktail.
* * *
