All ONES: The Complete Collection

by Aleatha Romig

  As my eyes adjust to the dim hallway light, I’m wrapped in a bear hug. “You did it. I knew you would.”

  “Do you have numbers?”

  Stephen nods ecstatically. “Through the roof. And they’re talking about the late walk-on model. At first there were questions about Jenese.”

  “We knew there would be. She’s Saks’s top model.”

  “You, boss lady, are now the talk of the town. Everyone wants to know who wore the white negligee in the finale.”

  “They can keep wondering. I did it. I’ll leave it to the professionals for the future.”

  “You know,” he says, “if the promotion doesn’t go through, you could consider...” Stephen’s grin widens.

  “If it doesn’t go through, it won’t have been for lack of trying.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Stephen and I both turn toward Vicky. Though her words sound encouraging, I can’t tell from her expression what she’s thinking.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Stephen volunteers as he heads away from the dressing room door back toward the auditorium.

  “Stepping in as a model,” Vicky begins, “something that according to your résumé you’ve never before done, at one of the most important shows of the year, was your idea of making this work? Of thinking on your feet?”

  I stand taller, remembering the exhilaration I felt only moments ago.

  “Yes. The show had to go on. It did.”

  “We have an entire backlist of models—experienced models.”

  “And none of them would have known the show.” I’m about to say it wasn’t my idea, yet I supported it. Vicky was the one who’d given me the reins. In doing so, she supported my right to make the decision. The final product of the show is mine, no matter what she thinks now, no matter the consequences.

  We both know that the show was essentially my interview for the new position. If she’s upset, Stephen and I are headed back to London. That’s her decision. Standing up for my show and my choices is my decision. I refuse to back down. “There wasn’t time to get someone else in here, much less brief that someone on the choreography. You’re right, I’ve never modeled before. I don’t plan to do it again. However, as you said, the designers paid to have every outfit in the finale. We all know that it’s during the finale that final sales orders are secured. I had a job to do.”

  “Delegation is the sign of a good supervisor.”

  “I agree,” I say, straightening my shoulders and recalling Stephen’s pep talk. “Delegation is essential. I delegated to Chantilly and Stephen. Stepping in when required is the evidence of a great leader. A true supervisor can do any job in their department. A true leader can’t and shouldn’t expect others to do something that she isn’t willing to do. And one other thing...” I’m on a roll. “...stepping onto that stage was more frightening than taking the show you gave me and turning it into my own. Changing the mediocre and boring into exciting is what I love. Actually taking a part in performing that new show in front of a live audience is and was terrifying. I know from this experience that from now on, I’ll also have a greater appreciation for the work those women...” I point toward the dressing room. “...do on that stage. It may look easy. It may look mundane. It isn’t. It is both scary and exhilarating, and if saving this show’s ass loses me the position, then at least I can walk away and go back to London knowing I did my best.”

  Vicky stares at me for a moment until the tips of her lips slowly rise as she shakes her head. “I can say that this is the first time I’ve had anyone give me a piece of her mind wearing silk lingerie.”

  I wiggle my toes on the cool cement. “I can see how being barefoot in a nightgown, I appear less fierce. But you gave me a job to—”

  “No, Shana,” Vicky interrupts. “You appear plenty ferocious and determined. The powers that be are upset about Jenese. Her name brings people in. Yet...” She lifts a tablet. “...the sales numbers don’t lie. Orders are through the roof. Even Calvin Klein can’t be upset that Shelly wore the chemise instead of Jenese. Orders for those, as well as the Vera Wang you are now wearing under that robe are higher than last season. Actually, having it displayed in two different colors seems to have been a positive reinforcement on orders. It’s something we should consider in the future.

  “Am I happy that things had to change? No.”

  I don’t say a word.

  “Am I impressed? Quite possibly.”

  Inhaling, I ask, “Vicky, what about our return to London? Will the next ladies’ lingerie show be something I need to consider?”

  “You have a job to do in London that’s still secure. You’ve shown your ability with juniors. Would you have decided to participate in a junior’s fashion show?”

  I can hear the accusation in her tone. “Was I more comfortable walking out in front of hundreds of people in a long negligee or would I be more comfortable in a prom dress or maybe a miniskirt and half top?” When she doesn’t respond, I go on. “I’ve never been faced with the reality of participating onstage or disappointing investors. For the record, I’d do whatever needed to be done to make the project a success. Not just for me or even for Saks but for the women backstage who have worked their asses off over the last two weeks.”

  I feel the tears well and prickle the back of my eyes, yet I keep my steely expression unchanged. I guess at the very least, my little stunt didn’t cause me to lose juniors. For that I should be relieved.

  Vicky nods. “When we asked you here, it was for a month. The show was part of it. That part is done. For the next two weeks we’ll see how you can manage at corporate, and take my advice...”

  I wait.

  “Wear something else to the office on Monday.”

  My jaw feels the pressure of my clenching, but before I can come up with a non-bitchy response, she turns and walks away.

  Shit!

  As the click of her shoes against the cold floor fades into the distance, I lean against the cinderblock wall and allow everything to sink in—the truth hits me. The show I’ve obsessed over is complete. All the work. All the preparation. Everything is done.

  It isn’t though. Now our trial run continues as Stephen and I have a two-week working interview at corporate. It’s where I used to work. Different floor. Different department, but the address begins the same: Saks Fifth Avenue on Fifth Avenue.

  Suddenly, I’m exhausted. The adrenaline rush from the show is history as the repercussions of our conversation loom in the future. Part of me wants to go to the hotel, climb into the large king-sized bed, call for room service, and keep the real world away until Monday. Pulling myself away from the wall, I turn toward the dressing room door when I hear the slow applause.

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  As I turn, my gaze meets Stephen’s coming toward me. Instead of speaking, I lean into him. I know this isn’t appropriate coworker behavior, but right now, I need my best friend more than my assistant.

  “You told her,” he says softly as my cheek falls against his shoulder, and he wraps me in a supportive hug.

  I nod against the roughness of his suit coat as some of the tears break loose and spill down my cheeks as I fight to get the next breath.

  Stephen holds my shoulders out to arm’s length. “Ms. Price, you kicked ass out there. You hold your head high.”

  “What about your deposit?”

  The tips of his lips kick upward. “We still have two weeks. I don’t know what stick is up her ass, but the numbers are still climbing. The fashion blogs are touting the amazing show, the choreography, the designs, and the newest unknown face in modeling.”

  I close my eyes as more tears drip from my false eyelashes.

  “Stop that. We’re meeting the infamous Kimbra and going out and celebrating. This is a night to party.”

  “I was thinking a bottle of wine, a long bath, and maybe falling into a deep sleep.”

  “No!” Stephen proclaims. “There will be no room service tonight. We are in New
York, and don’t forget, I get to meet my new best friend tonight.”

  I let out a long sigh. “How could I forget? I was so excited to see Kimbra, but now...”

  His head slowly moves from side to side. “No. Now, it’s time to party. I love what you’re wearing, but do you think maybe it might get a little chilly?”

  “It’s okay,” I say with a renewed smile. “I have on nipple tape. No one will know.”

  Letting go of my shoulders, Stephen lifts a hand in the air. “Boss lady, sometimes it’s just TMI!”

  “If I can’t talk to my gay best friend about nipple tape, who can I talk to about it?”

  “First, I think there are some things better left unsaid. Then again...” His eyes widen. “...we’re going to see Kimbra. Maybe we can get the scoop on her sexy brother-in-law and things like nipple tape could be left to discovery.”

  I squeeze his bicep. “Thank you. Thank you for being you and always making me smile. I’m sorry if I lost you your deposit.”

  “Nothing that happened today was solely your decision. I was one hundred percent behind you going onstage. You nailed it, and not in the Pinterest nailed it kind of way. No regrets. I’ll admit, with your natural grace, I was a little nervous.”

  This makes me laugh. “I was more than a little nervous. But I did as you said. I walked onstage and imagined that one person.”

  “And it worked?”

  “Well, I didn’t fall on my ass.”

  Walking back into the dressing room to change, I’m a mix of thoughts and emotions. Despite Vicky’s less than enthusiastic review, I accomplished a successful lingerie show. I did it—not alone, but with the help of everyone involved. It’s then I see Chantilly.

  “Hey,” I whisper, causing her to turn my direction. “Stephen and I are meeting someone later. Would you like to join us and celebrate?”

  She looks up from the tablet in her hands. “Celebrate...um, the numbers are really good.”

  I try to see what she’s reading, but from the angle I can’t. “Chantilly, is everything all right?”

  Her lip disappears under her teeth for only a moment before she smiles. “Thanks.”

  “For?”

  “I had more fun on this show than any in a long time. I think the way you and Stephen changed things up was great.”

  Why do I feel there’s a but coming in her sentence?

  I wait.

  When she doesn’t go on, I ask again about drinks. “We’re going to the Martini Club on Houston. Come on by if you’d like. Drinks are on me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Trevor

  “So it didn’t exactly turn out the way we planned,” Matt says as he pops more peanuts in his mouth.

  I want to disagree. The fashion show was much better than I ever imagined. I still can’t come to terms with the fact that Shana was one of the models. I’ve decided it must be my imagination tainted with too much alcohol from the night before. Unwilling to give up on my illusions, I join the other three as we all drink, working to maintain that permanent bachelor party buzz.

  No matter what else it was, the afternoon has definitely been entertaining.

  We’re now in one of those out-of-the-way bars, known mostly by locals, the kind that is ten feet wide and one hundred long. I may be exaggerating, but you get the idea. Our table near the front window gives us a view of the crowded street and if you turn a little, a view of the long, shiny bar. From my angle, I’m getting mostly heads, but it’s a sea of people. Located in an upscale part of the city, this place is a longtime goldmine. Surrounded by more expensive establishments with fancier signage, I’d take this bar to the ones filled with tourists any day.

  That’s just part of what makes this place special. It’s unique. Instead of dancing, there are a few pool tables near the back. Currently, we’re waiting on one opening. A twenty-dollar tip helped move us ahead in the waiting order.

  “I guess this means that we should take Trevor up on his offer of conceding,” Max says. “I mean, it wasn’t much, but I did talk to the one man from Christian Dior.”

  “You didn’t get his number or his name,” Eric reminds him.

  “How do you know?”

  “If you had, we’d all know!” Matt says with a laugh.

  “Wait a minute, the night is young,” Eric interjects. “I heard some people talking, and they said that some of the models like to go out and party after a big show. That’s why we’re down the street from the Martini Club.”

  In all of our planning, we hadn’t considered the springtime crowds. It’s an epidemic. As soon as the temperatures rise and the snow stops falling, everyone is out and about. Max was in charge and should have made a reservation for the Martini Club. I’m a planner. Then again, I live in Manhattan now and could have volunteered. It might not be fair to think Max could have done it all from the UK.

  “Remember, you’re getting married in less than a month,” I remind Eric.

  “I am. I’m also the judge. And I think watching you three get turned down flat sounds like fun.”

  “I’m not conceding,” I reason. “No one made a move on a model.” I turn to Max. “You said models, not buyers. That means we’re all still tied.”

  “We can up the ante,” Max says with a grin.

  “Forget the model. Anyone gets laid tonight and his expenses for the weekend are zero. Eric, you’re exempt.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t care if we have separate hotel rooms. We’re not in college.”

  Eric takes a long draw on his beer. “You’re right, Trevor. This weekend isn’t about your dicks. It’s about my wedding. I’m happy to keep drinking and know that tomorrow I’m going home to Cynthia and that none of you have a new number in your phone.”

  “Awfully concerned about the little woman, aren’t we?” Max asks. “I believe there’s a name for that.”

  “It’s a phrase,” Matt says with a chuckle, “and it begins with P.”

  “Second word begins with W,” Max volunteers.

  “Yeah,” Eric responds to Max. “Just because you don’t like pussy doesn’t mean I don’t.” He turns to Matt. “And as far as the second word in that phrase, I remember a story about a college student who went to this BDSM club.”

  “Whoa!” Matt says, lifting his hand. “What happens in college stays in college.”

  “Good thing this isn’t college!” We all laugh as more and more people make their way into the bar.

  When our table finally quiets, Matt says, “I know I may be hallucinating, but when I went to sign us up for a pool table, I think I saw one of the models sitting at the bar. I know we talked about going to some other places, but who knows, maybe even Saks Fifth Avenue models know about our treasure here. There could be more on their way.” He waggles his brow. “Maybe we don’t have to give up on the models.”

  Eric looks at Matt’s empty bottle. “We’re in trouble. He’s seeing models everywhere. Operation stop Matt from sleeping with the first woman who talks to him.”

  “That’s the exact opposite of my idea,” Max says.

  Matt shakes his head before tilting it toward the bar. “No, I did. The blonde who was only in the finale, remember her? I swear that’s who I saw near the end of the bar.”

  I immediately remember her—everything about her.

  “You blokes keep imagining your models,” Max says with a grin. “I’m stepping outside for a smoke.”

  While I listen to the conversation that ensues, I try to inconspicuously look down the bar. I haven’t told anyone that I thought I recognized the blonde from the finale or that I was confident I’d awakened beside her at one time. These guys know me too well to believe my story. Yet with the bartenders and busy bar, my view is blocked. The stools are all filled, and there are people standing near the stools—blondes, brunettes, redheads, and even a few people with purple and green hair. I’m having trouble making anyone out until I zero in on a blonde near the end. She appears to be with a man. They’re talking with
their heads together. From this view all I can see is her hair.

  Could it be her?

  I tell myself that it’s not. I don’t want my imaginary Shana to be with someone else.

  Chapter Nine

  Shana

  “I never expected the club to be so packed,” Stephen says. Looking around, he adds, “Everywhere is packed. Even this place is filling fast.”

  He’s right. There are wall-to-wall people and the buzz of the crowd is exactly what I need to get my mind off the show and on tonight. While the idea of room service and a bottle of wine had its appeal, this new and exciting chaos is just what the doctor ordered.

  With all the work around the fashion show, we didn’t think about calling the Martini Club for reservations. Thankfully, this hole-in-the-wall just down the street is a hidden treasure. Like a step back in time, there are no neon lights or exposed beams. Stately, dark mahogany paneling covers the lower half of the walls, likely having been in place since before the turn of the twentieth century. The top half is covered in photographs of famous patrons through the years. Most are black and white and many have large garish signatures obstructing a portion of the face. The wood floor is so worn. The illusion of a shiny finish was given up so long ago that in areas it actually bows. Tables and chairs have a slight lean, almost imperceptible were it not for the lines in the paneling. The uneven surface from years of traffic adds to the appeal. What the floor lacks in luster is compensated by the long, glistening bar. Going nearly the length of the building, the surface reflects the lights from the ceiling, with a leather edge that shows its years of use and care. The wooden stools known more for their functionality than comfort could easily be older than me. All in all, there’s something about the establishment that feels comfortable and fun. It’s like a forgotten island hidden within the upscale area.

  “I love it,” I say, taking in the positive vibes surrounding us.

  Stephen touches my knee as he leans closer. “I do too. There’s something about New York: the energy is everywhere.”