Designing Morgan
Lucey Phillips
Copyright © 2015 Lucey Phillips.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Also by Lucey Phillips
Author’s Note
1.
I try not to be a needy person. I try to get things done by myself—without playing the tortured artist card. But sometimes Sophie makes that impossible. She’s my business partner. Without me, there would be no product. But without her there would be no business.
So when she insists I write another blog post to promote the business, I do it. But I do it with a lot of complaining.
“You are breathing down my neck,” I said to Sophie. We were at an outdoor cafe, sipping wine and working on our latest blog entry. It took both booze and a beautiful early September day to get me to sit down with her and write this post. I’d rather be making jewelry. Well, I’d rather be making actual art, but let’s be realistic.
“Sorry, Princess,” Sophie said. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest.
“Nah, I’m sorry Soph,” I said. “It’s just that this feels an awful lot like talking to my customers. And my customers are jackasses.”
“They’re jackasses with loads of money,” she said, pulling the laptop toward her. “And unless you want to go back to waitressing, you have to play nice with them.”
She read aloud what we had so far. “‘My fall line was inspired by the subtle, earthy tones of this season.’ Ok. I think that’s a good start. We only need a few paragraphs. We have to promote the fall line and your festivals. I got our booths reserved for Spruce Woods and for Hilltop.”
“Oh God. Hilltop again? Those snobs wanted me to customize their jewelry right there inside the tent!”
Sophie laughed. “Remember the lady who wanted you to make a necklace for her dog?”
I laughed, too. “Thank God we were next to the wine tents or I would have slapped someone.”
“Yeah right, Miss Social Anxiety,” Sophie said and rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure you spent most of the weekend hiding in the car. And when you were in the tent with actual customers, I was afraid you would dive under the table.”
“Lots of artists are introverts,” I said.
“Your introversion is pathological,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “You need meds.”
She minimized my word processing program and opened the web browser on my computer. “I just need to double check the dates of those festivals.”
I frowned into my wine glass, and glanced around for our waiter.
“What. Is. This?” Sophie said. Her voice was even more tense than its baseline strain. It wasn’t really a question, though. My browser was opened to a recent messaging session I’d had with my ex-boyfriend, Clint.
“Shit.” I slammed the laptop closed.
“You guys broke up a year ago!” she said. “How many times did I hold your hair while you drunk-puke-cried over him after you broke up and then after that time you thought you were together but really he had a girlfriend?”
“I know, but things are different now. The business is doing great, so I’m just in a better place… and so is he,” I said. “I really think we can make a go of it this time”
“Listen to me. N. O. No,” Sophie said. “What exactly has been going on? Have you seen him?”
“Well, after the last time, like six months ago, we never completely stopped talking. I tried. But then he’d send me a random ‘hi’ and I felt bad ignoring it… so we’ve just been messaging. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“And texting,” I said with a smile. “But I definitely haven’t seen him. And he hasn’t really brought up the idea of seeing each other. We’re just getting to know each other again, you know?”
“He broke your heart, Morgan,” Sophie said. “You need to move on. A year ago.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. He’s kind of my default when I get lonely. It’s not like we have some profound connection. But’s hard to give that up though, you know? The default.”
Sophie’s expression softened and she exhaled loudly. “I know, sweetie. We’ve all been there. Ok, back to the blog.”
This time I didn’t whine about festivals or have any temper tantrums about the blog. Sophie deserved better than that. She busted her ass doing things I never could—cold-calling boutiques, schmoozing customers at the country club, and worst of all; wearing the stupid stuff I make every day and pitching to every single person who commented on it. She’s the reason we both earn full time income off of this silly jewelry/scarf/purse gig. She’s the reason I work 20 hours a week, max.
She’s also the reason I have time to ride my bike, time to watch movies and time to read books. I even taught my dog to play dead, buried, and zombified. It’s adorable. Anyway, and most importantly, Sophie’s business savvy and social skills are the reason I have time to make actual art—acrylic paintings, mixed media collages, and sculptures—the stuff I learned in college and have practiced since forever. The stuff that is the opposite of these hackey, sellout, vanilla, women’s accessories that happen to be putting a roof over my head and food (or in this case alcohol) on my table.
Lately, though, I hadn’t been making much art—just thinking about it. I could draw in my sketchbook and dream up ideas. But every time I tried to go into my studio at home and actually paint or sculpt, something stopped me. The room itself seemed somehow hollow. I could never find the supplies I wanted, and there was always something to derail me.
“Let’s talk a little more about the fall line,” Sophie said, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Are you doing anything different or new?”
“Well, I rearranged the same tacky strings, chains, beads and rhinestones in new and fascinating patterns,” I said with exaggerated drama in my voice. “Strategically similar to the old stuff yet altered to inspire our loyal customers to need the newest versions in order to shore up their socioeconomic status-based confidence.”
Sophie said nothing. She simply tipped her chin down and glared at me over the top of her cutesy thick black glasses.
I sighed. “Ribbons,” I paused to roll my eyes. “I’ve been experimenting with silk ribbons, weaving them through the chains and around the stones. Maybe some, like, ornate knots? And also I’m working with matte metals. I think the shiny stuff is out this season. We’re going understated.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said, clicking furiously on the keyboard. “That is absolutely wonderful.”
She read out loud, “While Candy Blue will always provide designs that make a bold statement, this season we are focusing on softer elements. Look for the fall line to include whimsical elements such as silk ribbon accents. We are also introducing a collection of jewelry and accessories designed to showcase understated, sophisticated matte metals.”
“Oh,
that’s really good,” I said. “But I don’t know if the ribbon stuff is exactly whimsical or if we should call it, like, maybe sporty.”
I pulled my sketchbook out of my bag. “Here,” I said as I flipped it open to drawings of some of the bracelets I’d been working on. I pulled the pencil out of the notebook’s metal spiral and absentmindedly put the eraser between my teeth.
I watched Sophie as she looked from one drawing to the next. Before she said anything, I could tell she liked it. She really, like genuinely, liked the stuff I made. That’s one of the reasons she was so good at selling it.
We were interrupted by a man’s voice. “Oh hey, what’s up?”
Even though I hadn’t actually heard that voice in months, I knew who it belonged to. I looked up and squinted. Clint’s silhouette was dark with the midday sun above him. And there was a woman next to him, holding his hand. Of course.
“Oh hey. Hi.” I said, hoping I simply looked like I was surprised to see him, not like I was surprised to see him with a woman. I shaded my eyes with my hand as I looked up at Clint. He was still tall, still handsome.
“How are you, Clint?” Sophie’s question would come across as polite, if you didn’t know her. But I could hear an icy edge in her voice.
“Hey Sophie,” he said.
I reached toward the woman with my hand out. It’s the high road or no road for me. “Hi. I’m Morgan.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Hannah,” said the woman who was still latched onto Clint’s arm. She was Asian and wore her hair shoulder-length with a deep side part. She was wearing a preppie outfit that would have been perfect for an after-tennis country club brunch; a pleated white skirt and a pink monogrammed V-neck sweater. Did I mention it was monogrammed?
Despite the unfortunate clothing, Hannah was beautiful. Too beautiful to be with that stupid douche, Clint.
“Oh Jeez, sorry, sorry,” Clint said shaking his head quickly and looking down at the table. “Hannah this is Morgan. Morgan and I met when we both waited tables at The Stone Cupboard. And we dated for a while. This is her friend Sophie.”
Next there was a moment of awkward silence. It was more awkward for Clint and Hannah. I was in no hurry to rescue him—I rather enjoyed the squirming. Why had he been messaging and texting me every day if he was seeing this woman? By the way she was hanging on him, I assumed it wasn’t their first date. And what in the world possessed him to come talk to us? We hadn’t even noticed him.
The silence was broken by a shrill squeal from Hannah. It made both me and Sophie jump. She pointed across the table at the sketchbook that was opened between us. At first I thought the squeal meant Hannah had seen a spider or a mouse. I slid my chair back from the table and looked around for whatever horrifying creature had caused her to scream like a little girl. But there was nothing there.
“Oh my God, is that Candy Blue?” Hannah sounded like she had some sort of California accent. Or maybe it was a sorority girl accent. “I love that jewelry! What are these drawings? New jewelry?” She gasped. “Are you the, like, the actual designer?”
I shrugged. “Sophie and I are partners. I design the products, she manages the business.”
Hannah grabbed Clint’s arm with both hands, squeezing it. She took three tiny hops. “Honnneeeeyyy! I want to hire them to do the jewelry for our wedding! Wouldn’t that be great?”
Her voice dropped an octave and she put a serious expression on her face. “I have nine bridesmaids. I want to have matching, custom jewelry for all of us and the mothers. Your pieces would be perfect.”
My mouth was hanging open. Clint was getting married? And the fiancée wanted to hire me? As in, be my boss? I looked from Clint to Sophie. Clint looked helpless. Sophie looked the way she always looks when she smells money.
“Well, um, you see…”
Sophie cut me off. “We have done special collections for formal events in the past. That’s totally doable. Of course the fee structure for custom work is a little different because of all the personal attention involved.”
“Wait,” I said. “I don’t know if I can, because, you know, I’m starting on my master’s degree—master’s in fine art,” I said. It was sort of a lie. “So I was going to be taking, you know, a step back from the business.”
Clint’s eyes looked slightly less numbed-out. “Really Morgan? That’s awesome.” I was more into art and less into glass trinkets when he and I were together. He had been mildly encouraging of my artwork. That was before he became so money-hungry. He was working on his real estate license toward the end of our relationship. After we broke up he opened his own firm.
“Don’t worry,” Sophie said as she pulled a business card out of her purse. “We’ll make time. I think this could be a great project. Morgan just does the designs. We hire out the actual jewelry assembly, so I’m sure there will be time.”
Sophie turned toward me and gave me her trademark angry wide-eyed stare. I’m pretty sure I saw dollar signs glistening in her pupils. It was time to shut my mouth.
“I’ll be happy to be your liason. I handle these sorts of orders—well, special clients,” Sophie said, as she stood and handed Hannah her card.
“Thank you so much!” Hannah said. “This is going to be awesome! Baby, were you going to invite Morgan and Sophie? I don’t think they’re on the list. We’ll send you ladies a save the date. You just have to come to our wedding! You can see your creations in action and, well, it’s going to be a really nice wedding.”
Hannah was grinning. She started walking away, pulling on Clint’s arm. “Come on baby, let’s see if our table’s ready.”
I mouthed “baby” to Sophie and rolled my eyes while Hannah and Clint walked away.
“What in the ever loving hell just happened?” I said, slumping in my chair and draining my wine glass.
“What happened is your boyfriend is getting married and we’re going to make a ton of cash,” Sophie said. “Oh, and I guess you’re going back to school? That’s a new one.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. I didn’t think he was my boyfriend. I just thought…” I sighed. “And in what universe is a dozen jewelry sets a ton of cash?”
Sophie shook her head at me. “You’re always thinking short-term, Morgan,” she said. “Just think about it: This could be a whole new division of our business—custom wedding jewelry! We wouldn’t even have to do many new designs, just slap some rhinestones or pearls on the stuff we already have.
“And did you see how enthusiastic she was? She’s going to tell everyone about this—her whole gross Burberry-shopping BMW-driving wives club. She’ll probably let us get some photos done of the wedding party—if they’re not, you know, ugs—and word will spread.”
Finally, the waiter came by with new wine glasses for us. After I took a healthy gulp from mine, I said, “You know I already feel like a cheap sellout for making jewelry instead of art. And now you expect me to do it for Clint’s fiancée? Isn’t that the ultimate sellout?”
“Please. The ultimate sellout would be making jewelry for, you know, Eva Braun, or something,” Sophie said. “Plus he was just your default, right? You can’t be that broken up about this. Isn’t your future more important than whatever ridiculous life choices that douche Clint wants to make?”
I really couldn’t see how the hassle of working with Clint and Hannah would be worth whatever financial gains might come from this. But I wasn’t up for arguing with Sophie.
She was right and wrong about Clint. He was just someone to talk to—not a soul mate or anything. But it was kind of nice having someone to talk to. And now that was gone.
2.
The Laurel Highlands University web site is a sneaky bitch. It starts out showing you the scenic grounds on a crisp fall day. Ethnically diverse students smile and frolic on the hilltop campus. The campus bookstore’s page displays a treasure trove of knowledge, school pride, and ethically sourced coffees. Then the Prospective Graduate Student page entices you with pictures of wise and aged profe
ssors in historic-yet-high-tech classrooms.
Then the MFA application page punches you right in the throat.
I knew trying to get into the Master of Fine Arts program was going to be a big deal. I’d half-heartedly perused the application requirements previously. But now that I had actually said out loud—to my ex-boyfriend and his beautiful fiancée—that I was getting my master’s, I could see that just completing the application would be like a full time job.
They wanted a digital portfolio of twenty of my best artworks, demonstrating my growth as an artist. They also wanted a CV, a statement of purpose, a statement of goals, a biography, transcripts, four letters of reference, and of course the $75 processing fee. Everything was due December 7. That gave me about three months.
I got a tight, burning sensation in my throat as I read and re-read the list. Why hadn’t I just done this right out of college? I guess I’d wanted life experience. Ha.
With Sophie’s help, I could make my way through the written materials. Dredging up some old professors and getting the letters of reference might be awkward, but it wouldn’t be impossible. But the portfolio? That might be a problem.
While my folk art career—the jewelry business—was blowing up, my fine arts career was a shitshow. Literally. My cat pooped in one of my sculptures.
I had nice digital images of my bachelor’s degree graduation portfolio, but that was four years ago. I’d fiddled around with some collages over the summer. But I hadn’t touched my acrylic paints in, what, maybe a year? This was not going to be good.
I really did want to go back to school, though—and not just so I could make good on my fib to Clint. I wanted to be back on the college campus, to be a part of that energy. Maybe it’s cliché, but there’s something about learning that really is life-affirming. And most of all, I wanted to feel like a real artist again. Even though the money was nice, designing jewelry for rich ladies didn’t have that creative magic. Or maybe it was creative virtue?
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