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She dumped me! Dumped me! But she’d promised – I should’ve gone to the office! I’m such an idiot! Swallowing her tears, Rose pressed the call button again and again.
“Stop calling me. I’m in the chamber of secrets.”
“Ella! Ella, hi! Where are you?”
“In the restroom. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Sorry, I just – » Rose forced a laugh in response to the short beeps.
“You alright?” Vintage jeans, Aquazzura heels, smile on her face – Ella plopped down opposite her.
Pablo Escobar, coffee beans, and Aquazzura – that’s all Rose knew about Colombia. She also had quite a vague notion of real friendship. All her relationships with people centered around mutually beneficial interactions or certain obligations. I give you cheat sheets, and you help me write a paper. I don’t mention your truancy, and you keep my report mistakes to yourself. Was Rose cold and calculating? Oh no. She was just a product of her world.
“Care for some champagne?” Ella waved at the waiter.
“It’s ten in the morning!”
“So what?”
“You’re driving!”
“So what?”
“There’s a lot of work!”
“So what?”
“Oh well, fair enough.”
“Wanna share?” Ella took a sip from the slim glass.
“Share what?”
“How did you end up in my… in this place?”
“Dina called me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go ahead.”
“I am quite versed in style and fashion.”
“Are you?!”
“I’m – I don’t know.” Rose turned uncomfortably red – as red as a lonely tomato slice on a huge pizza.
“Alright, Miss Fashion. Come on! I’m pretty sure you’ll like it there.”
Ella couldn’t find a parking space, so she parked the car on the lawn by a flower bed. She slammed the door shut and strode towards a strange-looking glass building: It had an irregular triangle shape. “Move it, Rose! We’re an hour late!”
“Are you kidding me?!”
“The fitting was scheduled for ten thirty.”
“No, I meant – Are you sure this is the place?”
“Oh, so you know what it is?” An ironic smile flickered across the girl’s face.”
Rose did know. Two years ago, she’d spent hours by the window of the new fashion house, her eyes glued to a single dress. Rose had googled its creator – an unheard-of designer – and scoured the few photographs. She was dying to get into the studio, see other masterpieces, and get to know the designers, but that wasn’t her world. It was a princess world – the place for the beautiful and confident. And now, as she stood by the entrance, shivers went down her spine.
“You look odd. Is everything alright?”
“I – I saw their profile on Instagram,” Rose lied.
Inside, there was a huge room with white sofas. Ella immediately sat down and began flipping through a magazine, feet up on a low coffee table with geometric legs. Rose wasted no time and explored the interior.
“So handsome! Ella, did you see him? The designer himself is in the picture. The 20s, flappers. Did you see?! He’s so good-looking! And this dress! I wonder if it has a name.”
“The name’s Zelda, in honor of Scott Fitzgerald’s wife. She was one of the most prominent figures of that time,” answered a male voice.
Poor Rose, her face flushed with embarrassment, turned around. She felt like moving in slow motion.
“I’m Ed.” Ed Mann, the designer, extended his hand for a handshake.
“Rose.”
“You are here to see me, aren’t you?”
“I’m here for the fitting on behalf of Dina.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Well, if it’s a scarf or a hat of some sort.” Rose gave a short laugh.
“Right. Where is Dina? Today is the last test.”
“She couldn’t come, but don’t you worry about Paris. Hi! By the way, this is Rose, the new assistant.” Ella came up to them just in time.
“But I told her!” A shadow ran across the designer’s face, making him look ten years older.
“I can make up for her absence. You know we have the same size!”
“Fine. But Dina should know when her turn is.” For the first time, Ed smiled.
Huge screens instead of walls – futuristic waves of colors to dazzle the audience. The show was opened by a model from as far away as Nairobi. She was wearing a dress in the colors of a summertime savannah. Then there was a live broadcast with girls from Australia, Fiji, and France. Ella in a sky-blue outfit closed the show. It was impressive how different continents were involved – a potpourri of emotion and reality. Rose stood in an unbreathing astonishment, afraid of disturbing the perfect harmony. She was the most grateful spectator, drowning in the master’s creation, noticing every single detail, following the great design.
The sun, exhausted, had already hidden behind skyscrapers when the tiny car with two women inside arrived at Dina’s house.
“How was your day?” Aunt Sally, puffing, poured them some tea.
“OK,” Ella said.
“It was fine,” Rose mumbled.
“How did everything go?” Aunt Sally kept trying to get the girls talking.
“We went to Ed Mann’s! The man’s a genius!” Rose began to liven up after dinner.
“Not much of a genius. I have to go.” Ella quickly got to her feet, ready to leave.
“What’s her problem?” Rose whispered, but Aunt Sally only shrugged. “You know Ed?”
“I do.”
And then, Aunt Sally told her a story.
One night Dina brought in a young boy with lackluster eyes. He had no money, no roof over his head. He took the guestroom and barely left it until Aunt Sally mustered up the nerve to knock on the door. She peeked into the room and asked for help in the kitchen. The boy blushed, but came over. He did not utter a word and carefully performed simple tasks: Hanged the clock on the wall (which had been removed from it only five minutes earlier), peeled some carrots, replaced nearly full batteries with even newer ones. Aunt Sally, who had two sons, could clearly see the boy was ashamed: A bloody nose, a night spent in a stranger’s house. She was casually talking to herself about all kinds of little things – a new TV series, a city festival… By the evening, her monologue turned into a real dialogue. Three days later, an impeccably-looking woman appeared on the doorstep. She didn’t bother to say hello. The only four words she uttered were, “Is my son here?”
Aunt Sally led her into the kitchen. There were tears, reproaches, threats, questions. The perfect woman kept asking her imperfect son when it all had started and why. How could the youngest son of a respectable family be gay? What if someone found out about this? How would this affect his father’s career? The mother cried, and begged her son to come to his senses, to have a heart, for her unhappy life had become even more unbearable. Her husband had put the blame on her: It was her fault. The stupid woman had failed to keep an eye on her child, to take care of him. Ed looked at his mother. She was so pathetic, so lonely, and confused. Her entire life, she had been playing roles. All people could see was a happy wife and loving mother. At home, she turned into a punching bag for her husband. Ed’s father would take out all his failures, problems, and annoyance on her. That was the mother Ed had ever known. When he had been ten, he’d tried to protect her. They both had ended up sitting in front of a trauma doctor, making up a story about falling off their bicycles. The doctor had put green bills into his pocket and had done his job without saying a word. Ed had been begging his mother to leave and be gone for good, but it would spell doom for her. What would she do alone with three kids? And most importantly, what would people say? It was much easier for her to tolerate beatings, unfaithfulness, and humiliation than to lose her status, public position, a good name, after all. She had tried to find a way as best she could. That’s when the series of her plastic surgeries had begun. She had had her nose, eyes, and breasts fixed, not to mention all kinds of face and body lifting. A lot of people believed her surgeries to be an attempt to keep her husband by looking younger, more attractive. It would never have occurred to anyone that this happy woman wished her husband dead. Every time there was a call from an unknown number, her hopes would rekindle for a brief moment of time: What if an unfamiliar voice would tell her that her husband had suddenly died – of a heart failure or in a car crash.
The youngest son had been sent to England, to a public school. There had been frequent brawls and beatings: The offsprings of English aristocrats picked fights just as often as kids of simple work-folks. While in England, far away from home, Ed had harbored more and more hatred towards his father and resentment towards his mother. Though he had never been able to play a nasty trick like his brother and sister could do. Oddly enough, the older siblings had been able to adjust to the toxic environment. They had gotten to the level of their parents, becoming just as deceitful, unscrupulous, and manipulative. His brother and sister had grown up to be idles and spenders, and yet it was Ed who had disgraced the family name. The black sheep of the family. An outcast.
Mother and son spent two hours in a stranger’s kitchen. They were strangers to each other. But they left together because the boy loved his mother. He was bound to take pity on her and save the family reputation. Ed disappeared for three years, but then returned to open the fashion house – a shopping gallery in the city center – and became an extremely popular designer. That was the award he got for keeping his mouth shut.
Chapter 5
Rose got home late. She crept along the corridor and tiptoed to the kitchen to brew some tea. She was wide awake and couldn’t get Ed’s story out of her head. For the first time in her life, Rose realized that money, status, and beauty do not guarantee happiness. But why? Why is it like this? After all, this is precisely what people strive for, sacrificing everything else. She was interrupted mid-thought by Paul who appeared in the doorway. He was shifting from one foot to the other and kept turning around to look into the empty corridor while pumping air into his lungs. He tried to bring himself to get out his canned speech, but it stuck in his throat. An awkward silence hung in the air, creating an invisible wall between two people. Rose didn’t know what to expect – yet another scandal or an apology. She cowered in her chair and kept silent, hoping to avoid the former and, strange as it may seem, the latter. Paul kept hovering there, but couldn’t force himself to talk. With a sigh, he turned around and left, ending the conversation that had never begun.
The next morning there was another smoky cab, followed by black coffee, a new to-do list, and traffic jams. The two assistants – one former, the other current – were getting ready for the trip to Paris. In the matter of just a few days, they became a team and had a tacit understanding with each other. One of them loved to chat, the other listened. They both did their best. And yet, while Rose’s motives were clear as day, Ella’s aspirations remained vague. Why would she help someone who had taken her place? This question kept popping up in Rose’s head, but in the bustle of their working days she couldn’t afford thinking about it for too long. She also didn’t dare to just ask it out lout, for fear of offending or pushing away her helper-outer. Little did she know that Ella would answer her readily, desperate to get this off her chest and share her story…
Little piece of shit. That’s what her alcoholic mother and older sisters would call her. As for the father, Ella didn’t even remember him. A problem child from a dysfunctional family. That’s what was written in her personal file kept in the police department of a godforsaken provincial town. Ella’s childhood was made up of an unremarkable succession of events: domestic violence, school fights, police records. At the age of sixteen, she ran away from home, or rather, fled the scene of the crime, boarding a train without buying a ticket. The young delinquent huddled herself up in the corner of a stinking carriage, like a wild beast, ready to get her claws into anyone who’d dare to approach her. She traveled a thousand kilometers and found herself in a big city. Hungry and scared, she wandered about the train station until stopping at a diner in the hope to get some food. “We need a dishwasher. Eat this and get to work.” Those were Dina’s first words to the girl who’d later become her friend.
The zest for life Ella had been cherishing for years finally found a way out. She worked in the diner all day long and stayed there at night because she had nowhere else to go. She did her best, knowing this was her only chance. Her coworkers, mostly students coming from more or less ordinary families, would not even consider to make a career in a station diner, but Ella dreamed of it. Dina was always able to read people’s minds (better than any X-ray machine could do!) and she was quick to notice Ella’s grip of steel and lively mind. She’d helped Ella ascend in her small business. Together, they would open new restaurants, expanding the chain and increasing their income.
It was Ella who scoped out the financial prospects and suggested that Dina start an Instagram blog. She was helping Dina with content and advertising clients. Their bond seemed unbreakable: The girls would grow and evolve together, soaring to new heights. When Ella came to Dina and said, self-consciously, that she wanted to open her own small coffee shop, Dina gave her the money, without thinking twice.
Then, at a party, Ella met a smart and handsome young man. As it often happens with young girls, she fell in love for the first time. Always bold and cheerful before, Ella suddenly turned timid and shy. A couple of months later, unable to take it any longer, she confessed her feelings for him, but the young man did not return her affection. Gentle and well-mannered, he tried to make it clear without hurting her that he did not and would never love her. To Ella, it felt like the end of the world. She sought revenge. It is commonly known that the most dangerous creature is a wounded one. She confronted his father – a high-ranking official – and Ed’s life was never the same. A well-placed shot to hit a bull’s eye.
Ella had been keeping this a secret for a long time and only told Dina all about it a few years later. That day, her friend was visited by a fit of gloom. As soon as Dina heard the news, she flew into a rage. “You little piece of shit,” Dina hissed. Ella felt a bolt of pain splitting open her old wounds. That was what they’d called her in her previous life. It brought scenes from the past back to her: her drunken mother, barking stray dogs, the train carriage permeated with the smell of urine. Three thousand days and the same number of attempts to prove the world wrong: She was not a little piece of shit. She was a good girl.
She wandered around the city, just like on the very first day of her arrival, lonely and miserable. Her bartender friend was pouring her the eighth shot of vodka when she dialed the number of Dina’s new good-for-nothing boyfriend. Two hours later they were lying on the sofa in the apartment that Dina had helped her buy just a month earlier. Having sobered up, Ella locked herself in the bathroom and cried her heart out. By the morning, she fell asleep on the rug.
She was awakened by someone’s steps in the kitchen: Someone must have been making coffee. A long chime of the doorbell. She ran out of the bathroom like an injured lion escaping the cage, but it was too late. Dina stared at her with her large dark eyes wide-open. Dina threw a brown paper bag to Ella’s feet and slammed the door shut. Puddles of juice on the floor, the smell of fresh croissants, and nervous male laughter. Ella drove like mad – or like an F1 driver – through red lights, without caring about pedestrians. When she found her friend in the office, she suddenly fell speechless, and only her eyes were filled with tears. But Dina flung mud at her, wildly and thoughtlessly, so Ella had to defend herself – the ancient life instinct talking. Everyone listened to them fight in utter disbelief. Their bond had always seemed so strong, unbreakable – tempered by time. Dina had once given Ella a helping hand, but then Ella had helped her out in return – more than once. And now, it was all over. Both girls went their own ways, trying to forget everything.
But one day, Dina’s number appeared on the screen of Ella’s smartphone. Ella took the call without hesitation. Half an hour later, she was already looking at a tear-stained girl called Rose.
Chapter 6
“Wanna go shopping? The flight’s tomorrow.” Ella was sipping her green smoothie, making weird noise.
“What for?”
“To dress you up.”
“No need.” Rose was checking the tasks off her long to-do list.
“Why is that?”
“Well – ”
“You don’t have money, do you? But Dina does.” Ella dangled a credit card in front of Rose’s face.
“I can’t see myself doing such a thing.” Rose blushed.
“And I can’t see you going abroad like this. This is Paris Fashion Week, and you look terrible.”
Rose didn’t say anything. She just sat there, staring at her planner, her shoulders even more hunched up.
“Hello? If you don’t know the first thing about it, I can help you, don’t worry.”
Rose got to her feet, put the planner into her handbag, and marched off to the door.
“Gee, what’s with the hard feelings?”
“I’m going shopping. And I know how to shop!” Rose marched back and took the credit card from the table.
“Alright. I’m going with you.”
They went to the largest shopping mall in the city. Sure enough, their first stop was the mass market shrine of the fashionable society – Zara. Rose immediately got into her snoop mode and began scouting the numerous stands for proper fits and colors. She completely ignored Ella who was muttering something to herself. A heap of clothes, a cramped fitting room, panting behind the curtain.
“How much longer?” Ella yawned, scrolling through Instagram feed.
A black silk dress, elegant open-toe heels, and a milky-white blazer casually thrown over the shoulders. The outfit was complemented by gold earrings and an updo with a few unruly strands hanging near Rose’s face. This girl knew very well how to highlight her looks. Beautiful decollete, slim ankles, and bright eyes.
“Are you kidding?! What the fuck?” Ella cried out.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why are you so freaking awesome? Now, I want to see it all!”
A training session for reigning beauties held by a Cinderella. You don’t see that every day! That evening, Rose taught Ella how to combine lace with motorcycle trousers, and wool with chiffon. Orange and blue? No sweat! Emerald-green and wine-red? A piece of cake! A genuine smile and elegant accessories. Who really was this woman? What was on her mind?
Ella was scanning Rose head to toe. She was starting to realize why Dina had chosen her. Dina was a shrewd judge of character and again, she had managed to find a diamond in the rough. All she had to do is to facet it, and then it would serve, faithfully and loyally, to its rightful owner. She had once found Ella and now she’d found Rose. Or, rather, found a replacement for the former.
Before saying goodbye, the girls hugged and wished good luck to each other. Each was pondering over something different: one over the past, the other over the future.
Then came the day of the flight to Paris. What could be better? Rose had spent hours scrolling through Instagram pages and had learned all the best angles for photographs. Me and the Eiffel Tower, me and the Louvre, me and a croissant, or colorful macarons on the Champs-Elysées… But everything turned out to be a bit more complicated.
For starters, Rose slept through her alarm. Then she ran around the house, a nervous wreck of a woman. “Suitcase, passport, handbag… Suitcase, passport, handbag,” Rose kept muttering under her breath, eyes wide-open. The taxi wouldn’t arrive. She kept calling and messaging the driver and kept receiving the same answer that was driving her crazy, “On my way.” Finally, the blue car appeared, and the bundle of nerves called Rose took the back seat. It was a slow go because of the traffic jams. Rose kept silent, trying to urge the car on by power of thought. When her agitation was at its zenith, the engine stopped.
“I’m gonna be late for my plane!” Rose yelled.
“You should’ve left home earlier, honey,” the driver replied.
Rose grabbed her suitcase, dashed off to the nearest bus stop, and caught a bus just in time. The bus was also moving slowly, with passengers embarking and disembarking, and arrived at the airport only an hour later. Rose showed her middle finger to the bus doors that had closed behind her, and the exhaust pipe coughed up black smoke in response.
Having surmounted other obstacles in the form of long lines and sleepy border guards behind their square windows, Rose was the last passenger to board the plane. As she walked through the business class cabin, she noticed Dina staring right at her. If one could kill with a glance, the flight attendants would already be wrapping Rose’s corpse in emergency paper bags.
On the plus side, we’re flying in separate cabins. Rose sighed and headed to the rear of the plane, unsuspicious of yet another ordeal. She had the most unfortunate seat neighbors: A man with aerophobia and a six-month-old baby with his exhausted mother. For the whole flight, the man on the right would moan and sweat, while the baby on the left would poop and cry. Rose felt nauseous and could well have joined their puke team, but by sheer force of will, she managed not to use the paper bag from her seat-back pocket.
She met up with Dina by the luggage belt. Dina was glued to her phone, while Rose tried to catch her breath and come to her senses. They were met by a Moroccan man – suit and tie. He drove a Mercedes-Maybach S-Class and took the metropolitan visitors to the hotel Rose immediately recognized. Naturally, where should a top Instagram star settle when in Paris? Of course, at Four Seasons Hotel George V.
Chapter 7
Rose took a quick shower to wash away the stress of the last few days, then slipped into her old sneakers, and went out onto the bustling streets of Paris. It was raining, and the Champs-Elysées were flooded with umbrellas that looked just like flowers. People were speaking all kinds of languages, as if the world had suddenly shrunk to a single small territory. Rose was longing to merge with the crowd. She opened her crimson umbrella and morphed into yet another flower in the city center.
People were swarming everywhere: by cafes, shops, and galleries. While scanning the shop windows and the faces of passers-by, Rose lost the track of time. The next thing she knew, she was at the Arc de Triomphe – a majestic monument that always tended to evoke a mixed emotion. Rose walked around it, looking at the sculptural groups at its base. She knew their names: The Triumph of 1810, Departure of the Volunteers of 1792 commonly called La Marseillaise, The Peace of 1815, The Resistance of 1814, The Battle of Austerlitz bas-relief. Terror in the eyes of the soldiers, frightened horses. Rose wondered what monsieur Gechter had been thinking about when creating his marble relief. Rose had loved history lessons at school, especially when they had covered the 19th and the 20th centuries – the time of rapid changes, incredible discoveries, and women’s fight for freedom.
Rose looked at the windows of various cafes and restaurants and finally chose a place with the sign that read: L’Alsace. A cozy room, warm light, fresh fish, and a glass of Alsatian Pinot Grigio. Rose ate slowly, with relish, enjoying the evening. She didn’t feel the urge to take thousands of pictures, upload them online, and get likes. After dinner, Rose walked aimlessly around the city and along the Seine River, and feasted her eyes upon the Eiffel Tower. The next day, the gallery of her old smartphone had lots of new photographs, after all. They quickly migrated to the Google cloud.
And then, there came the show day. Only a cup of coffee and a protein bar for breakfast to ensure a flat stomach and small waist. Dina kept silent, the porcelain coffee mug kept shaking in her pale fingers, clinking gleefully when being placed on the saucer. Rose tried not to look at her boss, skillfully wielding a knife and fork. An omelet, fresh orange juice, a piece of crispy baguette with butter, a croissant with jam, and coffee with milk. It was such a relief no one actually cared about your hip width! The now-familiar driver took them to a small gallery of modern art. Ed Mann, as stiff as a poker, was bossing around, raising and lowering his voice. He nodded to Dina and smiled at Rose.