Fashionably Late

by Beth Kendrick

  “Yeah, to die young. You’re not going.”

  Andrew turned to Connor and muttered, “I can’t go.”

  I hoped that this might kill the whole plan, but Connor just nodded and said, “Okay. I’ll give you a call when I’m done and we’ll meet up later?”

  I tried to keep my mouth shut, I really did. I reminded myself that no one likes a nagger and look what happened to Meena, and did I really want to be the Kevin Bradley in this relationship. But I just couldn’t quell my anxiety. “I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

  “I’m picking up on that.” He threaded his fingers through mine. “Becca, you don’t have to worry. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be fine.”

  “But…something bad could happen to you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he repeated.

  I tried to look reassured. “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  I got the call from the hospital at three o’clock that afternoon while whipping up a batch of Oreo brownies in my parents’ kitchen and trying not to think about my new boyfriend’s self-destructive hobbies.

  “Becca?” Andrew sounded apprehensive. “Claire and I are at the Lockwood Memorial emergency room in Mesa, and you might want to get over here.”

  I sat down hard on a kitchen chair. “What’s wrong with Claire? Are the babies okay?”

  “Claire’s fine,” he assured me. “Couldn’t be better. We’re actually here because—”

  “It’s Connor, isn’t it? What happened?”

  “Well, the good news is, he’s alive. The bad news is…”

  “What? He lost an eye? I warned him about those kites!”

  “No, his parachute failed.”

  “Oh God.”

  Andrew cleared his throat. “And then there was a screwup with the emergency chute.”

  My heart stopped. “What kind of screwup?”

  “I’m not sure. All I know is that he basically couldn’t steer at all on the way down so he landed on somebody’s roof. But at least he missed the highway.”

  I waved away all these details. “I need to know how badly he hurt himself. Right now.”

  “He snapped his ankle bone and got some nasty cuts. Oh, and he hit his head, but don’t worry, he didn’t pass out.”

  I made a frightened little noise, like meep.

  “But that’s nothing, really, when you think about what could have happened. The odds of walking away from something like this are like a million to one.”

  “He didn’t walk away from it,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, but you know Connor. He’s built like a tank. This one time, we went snowboarding in Utah and there was a blizzard starting up…”

  I held the phone away from my ear, unable to bear even one more of Connor’s iron man exploits. What the hell was wrong with these guys? They were like the Black Knight in Monty Python’s Holy Grail: “’Tis only a flesh wound…”

  “So he’s in the ER right now?” I asked when Andrew stopped chuckling over the gory snowboarding story.

  “Yeah, we’re waiting for the orthopedic resident to show up and it’s taking forever.”

  “How long have you guys been there?”

  “Connor called us before he left for the hospital so we drove down here from Scottsdale.”

  “How come he didn’t call me?”

  More nervous throat clearing. “I think he’s a little embarrassed to talk to you. You know, ’cause you were so worried he might hurt himself.”

  “Clearly, all my fears were groundless.”

  “But I’m sure he wants to see you. It should take you about forty-five minutes to get here from your side of town. All you do is take the Ten—”

  “Lockwood Memorial, right? I know how to get there.” I grabbed my purse and the keys to Mom’s car. “I just hope he’s learned his lesson.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “You look awful,” I said when the nurse pulled aside the curtain, revealing my battered boyfriend. Connor was stretched out on a gurney, his left pant leg shoved up to accommodate a mass of ice packs. He looked like he’d challenged a lawnmower to hand-to-hand combat; his left side was covered in bumps and scrapes and he had a deep gash on his forearm, which an exhausted physician in blue scrubs was stitching up.

  “Hey!” He lifted his head and smiled at me. “You came! Andrew said he called you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me after…”

  I hurried over to squeeze his right hand. “Of course I came. What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you might be mad.”

  “I’m not mad.” I ran my fingers along his cheek. “Scared witless, but not mad. Let’s just agree that you won’t be jumping out of any more planes and move on with our lives.”

  He let his head fall back. “Um…”

  “Connor. Seriously. Tell me you’re not sitting here planning your next jump.”

  “Um…”

  I stared at him. “Andrew said the odds of surviving something like this are a million to one!”

  “I know. And the odds of it ever happening again are a trillion to one.”

  “Are you doped up on pain meds right now?”

  “Nope,” the resident stitching up his forearm chimed in. “Just local anesthetic.”

  “Then how can we even be having this argument? Your parachute failed, your emergency chute failed—”

  “My emergency chute worked fine,” he corrected. “The problem was, my regular parachute decided to inflate at the same moment the emergency chute did, which made it impossible to direct my landing. I tried to cut off the first chute, but I dropped my knife, and—”

  “Whatever.” Exasperation had rendered me a little rude. “Point is, by all rights you should have died. But instead of looking at this as a fresh start, you’re plotting new ways to cheat death? Unbelievable.”

  “You’re very ‘the glass is half-empty’ today.” He tried to coax a smile out of me.

  “You can follow your bliss without living in free fall,” I insisted for what felt like the hundreth time.

  He grinned. “But why would I want to?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I told you—I am who I am. You can’t change me.”

  And we were back to the old “men don’t change” refrain.

  “I’m not going to stop living my life just because you’re scared,” he said.

  “Look at you! I think I have a right to be scared.”

  “You told me you could deal with this part of me.”

  “I guess I lied.”

  Our eyes met in a wordless clash of wills. The resident ducked his head and just kept stitching.

  “Well, I’m not giving up skydiving. I’m not giving up any of the things I love.”

  I weighed my next words for a moment. “Then you’re giving up me.”

  “Oh come on, you’re just—”

  “I can’t live like this! I can’t! I wish I could be different from all your other overprotective, nagging girlfriends, but I’m not! You’re too scared to risk your heart and I’m too scared to risk your life, so…” I folded my arms and focused on the wall behind him. “I guess we’re breaking up.”

  The resident paused mid-stitch.

  Connor’s expression was stony. “I guess we are.”

  I don’t know what I’d expected from him, but that terse, nonchalant agreement was not it.

  “So…okay,” I finished lamely. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I marched back into the waiting room, past Claire and Andrew, into my car and out of his life.

  Sunday night, I boarded my second lonely flight to L.A. that month. I was depressed for different reasons this time; instead of mourning a relationship that had long passed its prime, I was mourning one that hadn’t had a chance to reach its potential.

  My mind could accept the fact that Connor wouldn’t change his ways and nothing I could say or do would sway him, but my heart was throwing a tantrum and it wanted some a
nswers, pronto. Why didn’t he want me more than he wanted the thrill of free fall and the agony of the ER? Why did we have to have all that chemistry if we were doomed from the start? And most importantly, why did I have sex with him? If we hadn’t gotten so physical so quickly, I’d never have to know what I was missing.

  When I turned on my cell phone upon landing, I had two new messages. Neither were from Connor. The first one was from Aimee:

  “Oh my God!…gonna be totally rich and famous…Jennifer Garner…Canada…get back here…oh my God!”

  The second was from Fiona:

  “Becca, darling, I talked to the other members of Team Rachelle this weekend and…” There was such a long pause that I thought her connection had cut out. Then: “I hate to deliver bad news over the phone, so do me a favor and come by my office tomorrow morning around ten. We need to talk.”

  25

  Guess who finally landed a role in a movie?” Aimee yelled through the open car window when she pulled up to the curb at LAX.

  “You did?” I dropped my bags and ran around to the driver’s side to engulf her in a hug. “That’s amazing!”

  “It’s a real movie, too, not just some straight-to-video schlock. I have a totally juicy part: blond bimbo mob moll by day, undercover cop by night.”

  “A speaking role and everything! Next stop: world domination.”

  “Well, I mean…” She feigned girlish modesty to the best of her ability. “It’s not the starring role or anything, but it’s big enough that, if the Academy were feeling generous come Oscar season, I could be nominated for best supporting actress.”

  I laughed. “So in other words…”

  “I’m the slutty best friend.” She glanced down at her chest and shrugged. “All those casting directors were right. I have boobs; what do you want?”

  “I want you to thank your humble waitstaff friends from Rhapsody when you win your Oscar.”

  “But of course. I’ll thank you guys right after I thank my agent, my manager, my mom, and my wonderfully supportive husband, Michael Vartan, a.k.a. Special Agent Hotness.”

  “Michael Vartan?” I threw my bags in the backseat and clambered into the passenger seat. “But don’t you think Jennifer Garner might have a problem with that seeing as she used to date him and they had a horrible, messy breakup and all?”

  “Are you kidding me? Jen’s a sweetie, everyone in the biz knows that. In fact, she’ll probably give me his number herself.”

  “You realize you’re only going to be her best friend on camera, right?”

  She waved this away. “And of course, I’ll be wearing a Becca Davis original to the red carpet premiere. There’s only one catch.”

  “Isn’t there always?”

  “I have to go to Vancouver for the next five months.”

  I stopped celebrating. “Vancouver?”

  “Yep. That’s where they’re filming. But don’t worry—if you want to sublet the apartment while I’m gone, it’s all yours.”

  “But you can’t go to Canada! You’re my only friend in L.A.!”

  She smiled slyly. “Not your only friend. There’s always Connor.”

  “Yeah. About that. We broke up.”

  “Shut up!”

  I nodded glumly.

  “What? When? Where? Why?” She rattled off all the questions I’d been asking myself.

  “Let’s talk about it later.” I found my sunglasses in my purse and put them on. “Right now we should be focusing on your new career on the big screen.”

  “But you—”

  “I’m fine. I swear.” I put on a sunny smile. “So when do you head off to the great frozen north?”

  “I’m not sure yet; I just found out about casting today. But soon. Preproduction starts in a couple of weeks.”

  “What the hell is preproduction?”

  She laughed. “I have no idea. It sounds impressive, though, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. Good for you,” I said. “You deserve this.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Thanks for picking me up today. And for letting me stay at your place. And just, you know, for everything.”

  “Hey, what are slutty best friends for?”

  Getting fired by Fiona Fitzgerald was like pulling my own teeth:

  “Listen. Darling. I met with Team Rachelle this week and showed them all your samples.”

  I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders as if preparing to face a firing squad. “And?”

  “And…well, the long and the short of it is, your pieces just aren’t going to work for us.”

  “But I thought Rachelle liked the corset?”

  “Yes, well. We appreciate your hard work, but this partnership just isn’t working out.”

  I had to make this work. I had to. “Please don’t give up on me yet. I swear I can do better. Give me a few more—”

  “Let’s not get pathetic, darling. It’s nothing personal, it’s just creative differences.”

  “But what about—”

  “Now.” She shuffled through the pile of papers on her desk until she found a copy of the contract I’d signed. “The question is, are you willing to resign or are you going to force us to terminate you?”

  “What difference does it make?” I keened.

  “Well, according to your contract, if you submit a letter of resignation, we have to pay you five hundred dollars for each sample you’ve turned in. I’ll also be able to give you a letter of recommendation for your portfolio.”

  “And if you terminate me?”

  She peered down at the contract. “If we terminate you, you get paid only for those patterns we choose to manufacture.”

  “Which will be…?”

  “None of them.” She smiled cheerfully. “So it’s your choice, darling. Entirely up to you.”

  “Some choice.”

  “Don’t pout. You’re a very talented girl, but you just don’t share our vision.”

  Yeah. Their vision for craptastic polyester ponchos. Not that I was bitter.

  “Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll fax over my letter of resignation this afternoon.”

  “Oh, don’t bother with that, darling, you can just sign this one.” She handed me a short, to-the-point form letter. I just had to print my name, sign, and date.

  “You guys fire a lot of designers?” I guessed.

  Her smile never wavered. “Not everyone shares our vision.”

  “No kidding.” I scrawled my signature in the bottom corner and shoved the paper back at her.

  “Expect your check and your letter of recommendation in the next few weeks. Make sure my assistant has your current mailing address on the way out, won’t you?”

  And just like that, I was back in the waiting room, forever banished from the chambers of Fiona Fitzgerald. I’d been so close…

  But the stylist giveth, and the stylist taketh away.

  I had officially hit rock bottom: no money, no career, no prospects, and no confidence. My sister was moving back to Phoenix, my lone L.A. friend was heading to Canada, and my ertswhile boyfriend and potential employer had decided I was an acceptable loss, along with his fibula. As I slunk back to my rental car, I was horrified to realize that Claire and Kevin had been right all along: risks didn’t pay off for people like me. I’d followed my dream and tried my hardest and look where it got me. I could pick myself up and try again, but what if I just couldn’t hack the ruthless competition out here?

  What if I had risked everything for nothing?

  “Fiona Fitzgerald’s office, how may I help you?” the receptionist intoned between smacks of gum.

  “Yes, this is Becca Davis, I just had a meeting with Fiona.” I was brisk, I was businesslike, I was not going to lose my cool.

  “You again?” Smack, smack. “She’s not available at the moment; she’s—”

  I went ahead and lost my cool. “Don’t tell me she’s busy. I don’t want to hear about her starlet clientele or her video shoots or her imaginary f
lights to Australia. I want her on the phone, right now.”

  I expected the receptionist to hang up but she didn’t. Her voice got high and tentative as she said, “Um, one moment please.”

  “Becca. What can I do for you? If this is about your check—”

  “It isn’t. You screwed me over, didn’t you?”

  “Darling!” She didn’t sound the least bit surprised. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Why did you want me to quit instead of firing me? You don’t care about me. You don’t want to write me a letter of recommendation.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Please. Don’t embarrass us both. Just tell me what you’re up to.”

  Sharp intake of breath. “You’re a clever girl. I’m sure you can figure everything out.”

  Shit. “So you admit you are up to something?”

  “I don’t have to admit anything. I’m no longer affiliated with you in any way.”

  “Because you don’t like my work.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then send back the samples and the patterns I made.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? If you guys don’t want to manufacture them, then you might as well let me shop them around to—”

  She started to laugh. Well, laugh was the wrong word. Cackle was more like it.

  “Oh my God.” I slammed my palm down on the car hood. “You’re going to use them, aren’t you?”

  “We might,” she trilled. “One never knows. They’re ours now; we can mass-produce them at our discretion.”

  “But you still have to pay my commission if you do…” I winced. “Right?”

  “Not exactly, darling. Not if you quit.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t have time to sit here all day discussing legal technicalities. I suggest you reread the contract you signed with us. And good luck with your future endeavors.”

  “But I gave you all my best work!” I howled.

  “We appreciate that. And I’m sure Rachelle’s many fans will appreciate it. Speaking of which, be advised that we own the rights to all patterns you submitted to us.”

  “So…I can’t even sew my own designs anymore?”