by Mj Fields
“Lists?” Mom and I ask at the same time.
“When I was younger, I made a list of characteristics and all the things I felt the man I would love forever would possess.” She takes a drink of her wine and then smirks. “We’re divorced now, so I may as well make a new one.”
“And you expect us to do the same,” Mom sighs.
“You’ll thank me someday.”
Chapter Three
Seventeen years old
My first year began with perfect clothes, my hair pulled away from my face, a forced smile hoping to pass it off as a genuine one, an eager attitude, and a hopeful heart.
However, I find myself fighting the urge to hide. I promised myself I would try not to. So, I pushed myself to actually eat lunch in the café, at least on the first day. I sit at lunch, head down, earbuds in, still hiding; but this time, in plain sight, when a girl with bright colored clothes and red lipstick comes over to me.
“What’s your story, Miuccia?”
I must look confused because the fiery redhead laughs in a way that was, for once, with me, not at me. Then points to my bag. “Prada.”
“Oh, this?” I pick up the bag Autumn had snatched up for me.
Again, she laughs. “Yeah that. Vintage Prada? You one of the richies?” She nods to the couture crew at a table across the room.
“More of a lucky.” I force a smile, and now she looks confused. “Beacon’s Closet find.”
“No shit?” She grins.
“Nope,” I shrug.
“So, you’re here because you actually love fashion, and not because your daddy is in the business and needs to hand it down to someone?”
“Pfft, in my dreams.”
“You’re in my Lit and Chem class. You actually answered questions. You smart?”
How does one answer that? I decide on a shrug.
“Well, if you don’t mind being with the freaks, meaning those of us who are actually here because we eat and breathe this shit, we don’t mind having a geek hang with us.” She nods to a table full of eclectic looking people and the freak behind the makeup in me can’t help but feel warm and fuzzy.
I found my people immediately, via Stella McCarty. They were the ‘freaks,’ and they needed a ‘geek’. I happily filled that spot.
I was gladly sitting with my people, the ‘freaks and geeks’ during lunch, and not the library like in previous years at my other schools. I was enjoying a time period I’d previously dreaded when I saw him– Aaron Esposito. He was everything penned on my ever-growing list of physical traits I desired in a man in the red leather journal Autumn had given me.
Physically, he was perfect. Zayne Malik classy long top Pillow Talk hair… but not platinum blond like the video, jet black. His eyes are crystal blue, he’s at least four inches taller than my five-foot five frame, soft yet firm features, not broad or square. His smooth shaved skin is perfect, so perfect. Aaron’s not too thin, but not a gym or jock type. His clothes, pants, khakis, not jeans, his shirts are button downs with crisp white tees beneath, not just tees with an overused slogan, and his shoes, oh good lord, his shoes… leather loafers.
Perfection.
So perfect, in fact, I spend the entire year using him as my muse for every masculine design I sketch, and I never drew men’s attire before… ever.
When I wasn’t in my head, I was spending time with actual friends.
Friends who loved shopping at the finest thrift stores New York City had to offer. The East Village became a regular after-school run. Our place to score.
Cure Thrift Shop, Buffalo Exchange, AuH2O Thriftique were just a few of our favorites.
Friends I attended a few movies with, plus some mandatory and some non-compulsory fashion shows. I, of course, was the quiet one.
Friends.
Imagining who my small group of friends would someday become was easy. Stella McCarty would be the next Betsey Johnson or Kate Spade, day dependent, of course. Betsey’s brand was ever changing and bold. She used bright colors, her aesthetic would be bold and rocker-ish. Kate was known for her modern, sleek and vibrant designs in rainbows of colors.
My friend Tyler’s aesthetic– Jean-Paul Gaultier. Sensual yet irreverent to the specific sexes. He turned his nose up at gender roles, embracing androgyny.
Jenny seemed almost misplaced in our group. I’d liken her to Daphne Guinness, extravagant and couture.
Jamal was Sean Combs, the mastermind behind Sean John. And yes, he sings.
Elijah’s design style reminded me of John Varvatos, whose inspiration comes from his love of rock and roll. Less the artists, more the concert goers.
Me, I’m in love with so many fashion designers. Coco Chanel, Donna Karan, Donatella Versace, Valentino Garavani, just to name a few.
Being the ‘quiet one’ has also made me the unspoken keeper of all the secrets.
I know Stella with her jet-black hair, brown eyes, and a ton of dark makeup, but loud, colorful clothing, had a crush on Tyler. Tyler was platinum blond and wore all black; he had a crush on Jenny and Jamal. Jenny and Jamal, from what I have seen, were total couple goals. I’ve even ‘shipped them as Jemy. They both wear glasses, although I suspect it’s more a couple’s thing than a vision thing, since they also seem to coordinate clothes on the daily. Elijah is tall with dark auburn hair and striking green eyes. He acts like he’s high all the time, although I’d never seen him partake.
Out of all the things we did together at school and outside of school, I preferred the mandatory events. During most of which we humble students played gopher to whoever’s design team owned the runway that evening. It always started out organized, and then once the show began, madness ensued. To someone like me, who thrives on organization, this should have sent me into a panic. Oddly, it was inspirational, and I was quickly swept into the beauty I knew would come from the differences.
The summer was full of art classes and day camps. It worked out great. Mom and I would ride in together, often have lunch together, and come home on the subway together.
We spent most nights watching movies while making lists. More specifically, I made lists and Mom watched me write them, non-judgmentally.
“I think these lists are magical, Mom.”
“Aaron Esposito?”
“If you write them, they will come.”
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head, and her jaw just about hit the hardwood floor. I immediately palmed my face, “Not like that!”
“Not like what?” she gasped.
“Oh come on, Mom, I’m seventeen, close to eighteen, a senior, a virgin, who's never been kissed. But I still know how that statement could have been taken.”
She let out a long sigh, “You’re a beautiful, smart, young woman, Natasha. Make all the lists. Imagine all the possibilities, but continue being present. And promise me you’ll take all the time needed to get to your happy ever after.”
I don’t know why this made me emotional, but it did. It hit me when I hugged her. “Only if you do too, Mom. I have a year before I’m off to college. If I’m going to be present, you should be too.”
She let out a silent laugh and agreed with a simple, “Okay.”
The first week of my senior year I was again, happily sitting at the lunch table with my people, the freaks and geeks, a smile, and the new-found ability of not looking around and wondering who is judging me. I was being present.
When Mademoiselle Acord stopped by the table, commended me on being first in my class, and asked that I take on tutoring a few students who needed extra help this year, I smiled and said, “Yes.”
“You’ll be compensated.” Her lips, generally in a line, quirked up a bit.
Compensated? I thought.
Stella nudged me, “That’s awesome.”
My eyes still locked with Mademoiselle Acord’s, I nodded.
“Come to see me Friday, I’ll have a list of students.”
I stood and held out my hand, “Thank you.”
She nodded and s
hook it, “Thank you, Natasha.”
After she walked away, Stella leaned in, “London College of Design, money.”
I laughed at the thought, and she smacked my arm. “We have a plan now.” She scratched her head in thought. “Well, you have a plan, I need to get one.”
We both laughed, and just like always, it was for two entirely different reasons.
When I was done with classes at school, while waiting for Mom to finish up work, I’d finish my homework or sketch at her workplace, de la Porte USA.
On the executive level, just down the black and silver flecked marble hallway from my mother’s office, was a black door with frosted glass and the words ‘la placard’ etched into it.
La placard is French for the closet.
Jean-Paul de la Porte is the owner of de la Porte Worldwide. And just as his name sounds, he’s a French native who began working in the industry as a designer for a top fashion house and his brand grew from there into his own.
Unlike so many others, including Donna Karan, Tommy Hilfiger, and Mossimo Giannulli, you’ll never find de la Porte fashions in a department or chain store. You won’t even see his label in a market sale, boutique only.
The only retail store with the world renowned black and silver logo on it is in the city in which he seldom leaves– Paris.
De la Porte caters to the five percent of the world who Autumn said, “Could wipe their asses with hundred-dollar bills and flush them right down their gold-plated bidet… if they actually wiped their own asses.” This was one of many of Autumn and my after-school discussions.
Mom would put it differently. “The majority of de la Porte’s clients are men who buy what they’d like the world to see their wives in. The fabrics are exquisite, and the designs are classically beautiful.”
“Well, I hope underneath those threads their women are rocking Fredericks of Hollywood.” Autumn had quipped
I had to Google that. Um… yikes!
“Autumn,” Mom had gasped.
“She’s seventeen for the love of thongs.” Autumn rolled her eyes. “I bet their Cinq A Septs aren’t wearing de la Porte.”
“What’s that?” I had asked.
“The women they ravage before going home to the wives they drape in ten thousand-dollar pieces,” Autumn laughed.
Mom closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m sure that’s not what Jean thinks about as he designs the clothing he puts out for the world.”
Autumn laughed, “I have a theory.”
“I wish you’d keep it to yourself,” Mom murmured.
“I haven’t seen our boss photographed with a woman in years. Hell, I haven’t seen him with a man, either.”
Mom chimed in, “He’s a private man, Autumn.”
“I wonder if he has his mother’s mummified corpse stashed away in that big old mansion on the river Seine and is still breastfeeding–.”
Mom jumped up. “Oh my lord, Autumn, really!”
I couldn’t contain the giggle that erupted from deep inside my chest.
“No employee has ever been inside it. Something’s up there,” Autumn defended.
Mom winked at me, “It’s often those creative types that need a place to escape, a place of their own.” She looked at Autumn. “You’re nasty.”
My mother is Jean's executive assistant and is trusted enough by him to handle the US side of the empire. He’s rarely in the US. Autumn is her secretary, and the most unlikely best friend. Think the old school show, The Odd Couple. Oscar and Felix. That’s them. And I love every moment I spend with the two of them.
I swipe Mom’s security card and hear the click of the lock on the door to la Placard. I take a deep breath as I turn the handle and push open the door.
Stepping inside on the same marble floor, I toe off my shoes before taking the four steps to the black, plush, fur carpet and sinking my toes into it, wiggling them around a bit.
Haute Courtier = heaven.
This is precisely what I imagine God’s closet would be like, except white instead of black.
After my feet and toes feel lavished, I walk across the carpet, sketch pad in hand to the plush white boudoir sofa where I sit and lean against the circular divider, tuck my feet under me, and take in the three stories of clothes, shoes, and accessories.
The first floor is the future, where the next season’s samples hang against white marble walls lit by platinum sconce lighting around the perimeter of the room. I look up at the second floor, the present. This season’s clothes hang around the perimeter in the same fashion, but as all employees know, the faux walls slide behind each displayed outfit. Visible employees of de la Porte are encouraged to wear the nine to five workplace clothing and get a deep discount on the pieces, and they can use their seasonal clothing bonus, so it costs them next to nothing out of pocket. The very top floor is only accessible by private elevator and is known to lead to Jean’s private penthouse that no one, not even my mother, his most trusted employee, has ever gained access to. But from right here in the middle, you can steal a glimpse at what I imagine are Jean de la Porte’s most beloved pieces of the floor perfectly referred to as, the past.
An artist gives birth to his or her dream in the most curious of places. This was the very place I was sitting when the realization struck that I one day would be a fashion designer.
After a few minutes, or an hour, maybe a few days, I’m unsure because there is no perception of time when I am in my world, the door clicks and then opens.
“I thought I’d find you in here.” I look up from my sketch pad and see Autumn.
I smile as I finish the last line in the drawing, before looking up again.
“Your mom wants to know if you’d like to get the hell out of here.”
I take in a deep breath, inhaling the scent that is uniquely la Placard. Rich, earthy, and slightly sweet. Its smell reminds me of an old workshop, a luxury car, and comfort, only found in those with privilege. The past, the present, and the future.
“Sounds good. You coming with?” I ask as I close the sketch pad and shove the pencil behind my ear.
“Not tonight, I have a date.” She winks.
As I walk towards her, I laugh, “You think you could talk Mom into one of those?”
“She’s on strike.” She links her arm through mine as I push my feet into my leather loafers.
I look up in question, and she winks “But movie day Sunday?”
“Soup and salad?”
“Sans bra, my favorite day of the week,” she grins.
“Mine too.” I grin back.
After dinner at The Smiths, we ride the train towards home.
Mom’s looking at emails on her phone, I’m looking at my group chat with my friends, both of us able to ignore the noise around us. I lean against her, and she leans into me.
I get a text from Stella asking what my mom said about tutoring and wants to know how many entitled assholes I had to tutor to pay for a flat in London. I laugh out loud.
“Natasha,” Mom’s laugh cuts through my thoughts,
“Stella, she’s being silly. But I forgot to tell you, I was asked to tutor after school. Apparently, I’ll be paid for it.”
“Will it interfere with your studies?”
I shake my head.
“Is it something you’d like to do?”
“Yeah,” I smile. “I think I’ll enjoy it.”
“Then we’ll make it work.”
Chapter Four
Natasha
On Friday afternoon I walk into the office to get the information on my peers, the ones I’d be tutoring starting next week, and the courses I’d be assisting them with.
Mademoiselle Acord’s secretary is on the phone but smiles and nods to the thick packet atop the counter with my name on it.
I pick it up and shove it in my bag to look over once I get on the train.
When I get to de la Porte, I wave to the security guard, Ronald, and he gives me a small chin lift. I swear they all must have
trained with the Queen’s Guard in England, never a smile; heck, not even an emotion.
Sometimes I imagined doing something uber stupid or silly to see if I could crack that granite facade.
I smirk at the thought as I walk into the building and bump right into someone. The laughter gives it away, Mom.
“What are you imagining, Natasha?” Her eyes sparkle in amusement as she grabs me so I don’t fall on my butt.
After gaining my footing, I roll my eyes, at myself. “You’re done early today.”
“It’s Friday.” She links her arm through mine and heads us toward the door. “Dinner in the city?”
We walk outside the quiet confines of de la Porte onto the busy and bustling city streets and fall right into line, stepping faster than necessary when we don’t even have a destination because everyone else is in a hurry.
“I was thinking Italian. Misi’s?”
“Back to Brooklyn, it is.” She turns us to walk toward the train.
Once we get onto the train, and by some odd happening find seats at this time of day side by side, we both sigh and sit back.
“Rough day?” she asks setting her bag between her feet.
“No, it was good,” I admit.
“I’m so glad you’ve found your place.”
“With the freaks and geeks,” I shrug.
She corrects, “With creative people who seem to know what they want in life.”
I set my bag down between my feet and catch sight of the folder. I pull it out to see what students and classes I have to prepare for.
“Tutoring?” Mom asks.
Pulling the pile of papers from the packet, nausea hits.
Looking over the list of peers, the names all are a blur, except his.
Aaron Esposito
I look to the right of his name at the class, English literature, my favorite. And the subject, Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Not my favorite… not yet, anyway.
I feel my smile begin to fall, and by fall, I mean drop like an elevator whose cable has snapped, when U realized, I wasn’t imagining this.