“I’m worried about a conversation I had with the dean earlier.”
“Oh, what about?” he whispers.
“He complimented me on the interview, which was great, but he also mentioned Maddie and said something about Shanghai. Some students from our class were sitting right next to me, and after he left, they were staring at me, so now I’m worried they think I was picked for Shanghai because my cousin is dating the dean or something.”
Jake stares at me incredulously. “You wanna know what I think? You’re just being paranoid and you need to cut it out. Who cares about what other students think? You’re using this fear of bullying as an excuse to stay stuck, backpedal your way out of going to China, and not move forward with your life. You need to develop a backbone and just move the fuck on.”
Ouch.
I stand there with my hands on my hips, my mouth hanging open, unable to find the words to respond. I was expecting him to just lend a sympathetic ear, but he’s clearly not in the mood for it.
Sometimes the truth hurts, and you need to swallow it. Am I stuck on what other people think of me? Probably. What am I so afraid of? Being seen for who I am? Succeeding on an international scale?
But that’s what bullying does to you. It plays tricks with your mind and leaves deep scars, keeps you stuck in fear, questioning your every move, dragging yourself along as though walking through cement.
Instead of arguing with Jake, I decide to follow his advice and just drop it. Literally. I throw my empty cup in the recycling bin and walk toward the elevators.
“Clem, wait! Where are you going?” he asks, looking flustered. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. Come back!”
“No, no, you’re absolutely right. I’m moving on. So please excuse me while I go to find my backbone,” I say with a hint of sarcasm as the elevator doors close.
I can just imagine the smirk of pride on his face. It mirrors mine.
Chapter Nine
“SO ARE YOU GOING to tell me what’s going on?” I ask Jonathan. “I’ve been really worried about you.” We’re at Joe Coffee on 13th Street, our favourite hangout spot near Parsons, sitting side by side on stools facing the street. I haven’t slept much since I got his mysterious message, but I’m feeling empowered by Jake’s pep talk. No more hiding. I’m going to tell it like it is, at least for today. It’s all about baby steps.
I found time between two afternoon classes to meet Jonathan. He’s shooting some Parsons collections again today. I’m relieved to see him out and about.
He looks down into his cappuccino, nervously pulls his hand out of mine, and runs his fingers through his hair.
Instead of pressing for an answer, I back off and take a sip of my tea. I’m trying not to push, but I need him to tell me the truth. Even if it’s difficult. I rub his back while we watch students walking down the busy sidewalk. The more I rub, the more he slumps forward. “Whatever it is, you can tell me,” I say softly.
After a moment, he wraps his fingers around his ceramic mug, takes a long gulp of coffee, and finally turns to face me.
“All right.” He takes a long, deep breath in, then sighs. “Something happened in Italy.” He sighs again and looks away. “Something that could really hurt my business.”
I feel a tight knot in the pit of my stomach. Oh no.
“I’m being subpoenaed to testify in a lawsuit,” he blurts out.
“What kind of lawsuit?” The pit in my stomach becomes a grapefruit, but I continue rubbing his back. My mind races. Is he in major trouble?
“I feel like total shit.”
I place both my hands over his. I wish I could take his pain away. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad. Like this-could-kill-my-business kind of bad. The business I’ve worked so hard to build.” He bites his lower lip. “You know me, Clem, I don’t come from money. I’ve worked myself to the bone for everything I’ve got. It was so hard for me to be taken seriously as a young photographer. Now all that could be for nothing.”
Has he gotten caught up in some kind of fraud? Money laundering or theft? Surely not. Jonathan is a super honest man and would never do anything like that.
“Come on, Jonathan, just tell me, please!”
After looking everywhere but my direction, he finally turns to me, his eyes filled with tears. “Sexual harassment.”
It can’t be. “What? What are you talking about?”
He rushes to explain, seeing the alarm on my face. “No, don’t worry, I didn’t harass anyone — that’s not what this is about.”
My gut unclenches just a little. “Then what?”
He sighs. “One of my biggest clients was arrested for sexual harassment and assault.” He lets his face fall into his hands. “I just can’t believe I’m being dragged into this.”
“What happened?”
“An assistant claims my client harassed her after a photo shoot, then attacked her. The prosecution is calling me in as a character witness against him. I didn’t witness this attack, but I know he has a bad reputation and he can be slimy around women. That I’ve seen before. But if I testify against him, I’ll lose his business and who knows how many other important clients. I want to do what’s right … but I’m scared.”
Jonathan has impeccable ethics and a solid character — that’s why he gets to work with such a prestigious client as Parsons. I understand that this is not an ideal situation, but I know he’ll survive it.
“But you’re doing the right thing. Hopefully, you’ll help put a stop to this predator. You’re in good hands with Stephanie. And I’m here for you, too.”
“But also you’re leaving for Shanghai in a couple of weeks, Clem. I wish I could spend time with you instead of dealing with all this. What horrible fucking timing.” He holds my hand tightly.
I reach up and touch his cheek. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll get through this, okay? You’re resilient, and so am I.”
But I can sense his concern about the distance that may come between us. Will we overcome this?
Chapter Ten
I CAN’T SLEEP. I’ve been tossing and turning all night. Jonathan’s subpoena, his fears for his business, Jake’s mood swings, Shanghai — it’s all a bit too much to handle. I decide to get out of bed.
When all hell breaks loose around you, stay calm and remain focused on your passions and priorities. This will get you through the toughest of times. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I turn on my computer and try to think of blog ideas for Bonjour Girl. As much as I would love to help Jonathan and Jake, I can’t just fix things for them. All I can do is lend an ear and offer some ideas. There’s no magic wand to make other people’s problems disappear.
Focusing on my own projects will help me get my mind off things I can’t control. I’m sure that’s what my great-grandmother Cécile would advise. I can’t recall anything specific about helping friends through major crises in the etiquette book I inherited from her, but I’m sure she would say that even when a lady is providing moral support, she knows when to take a step back and focus on herself.
It’ll be a struggle to concentrate on my writing right now, but it’s the best way to go.
I’m scouring the internet to find a relevant topic to write about, when a notification pops up on my screen.
It’s a message from Henry.
Maybe he’s sending me more helpful information about our school and what classes I should take. Whatever it is, it’ll be a welcome distraction, since I’m still having doubts about going to China.
His email says that he’s in Hong Kong travelling at the moment, but he wanted to send me this surprise.
It’s a link. I tap on it and it takes me to a YouTube video called Dreaming of Shanghai. The title image is a young woman holding a bunch of balloons, apparently floating over the Shanghai skyline, high above the famous Oriental Pearl Tower. It’s ethereal — it reminds me of the first scene of the video I created for my Parsons portfolio way back. I tap play.
> The video begins with a man’s hand holding a paper fan decorated with pretty blue flowers. It lifts up to reveal a message handwritten in bright-blue ink: Hello, dear Clementine!
That’s unexpected. It makes me smile.
The next sequence is in a park: a large group of seniors is practicing tai chi beside a giant weeping willow and a pond, moving in perfect synchrony. Their flowing movements are mesmerizing, so different from the daily hustle and bustle of New York. As they move in peaceful silence, the hand holds up another handwritten note, this time scribbled in bright-green ink, the same colour as the tree leaves: Shanghai is ready to welcome you with open arms. In the background, an elegant woman in the same group dressed in white linen opens her arms wide.
My eyes are glued to my computer screen. This could be an official video for the Shanghai tourism board. Except it’s not — this was made just for me, to welcome me to the city.
The next sequence shows an outdoor market where a street vendor is selling lacquered boxes and other trinkets. A hand slowly opens one of the jewellery boxes. It’s lined with red silk and contains a folded piece of paper. The hand lifts out the paper and unfolds it slowly, revealing a message in red ink: Shanghai looks forward to receiving you and your precious gifts.
The hand then opens the top of the box to reveal a secret compartment with a mirrored bottom, where another piece of paper lies folded. As two hands unfold the message, a tiny pearl rolls out. The city welcomes your love of diversity … as it reflects our own jewels.
The video is breathtaking. And I can’t believe the effort Henry must have gone through to create it. I’m not sure what to make of this.
In another sequence, a message is hidden in a box of steaming dumplings picked up from a grinning street vendor: We look forward to seeing more of your delicious sense of beauty and style.
My mouth waters at the sight of the dumplings … and the messages are giving me a strange combination of feelings. I’m touched and hugely flattered, but also starting to feel mildly uncomfortable. Not to mention guilty.
The last sequence is in a fancy hotel. A valet opens the front door, and footsteps sound as the camera enters a grand lobby with large bouquets of flowers on antique furniture.
We go up a few flights of stairs, and then a hand turns a doorknob, opening the door that leads to a library filled with books, exquisite sofas, and side tables. On one of those tables is a dainty cup of tea, and next to it is a note. The hand unfolds the note slowly to reveal the last message, this one written in an elegant pink script: We hope this city will open the door to your heart, just as you have captured ours.
The video closes in on a bookcase. A pair of hands takes out the book Shanghai Girls by Lisa See and opens it to an underlined passage:
Don’t ever feel that you have to hide who you are. Nothing good ever comes from keeping secrets like that.
OMG. This is mindblowing, and he totally understands what I’m going through.
This video is so personal, so beautiful, so deeply touching. And yet we don’t even know each other, really. It’s so over-the-top that I should probably be creeped out by this level of attention from a strange man … and yet, somehow, I’m not. I just don’t know how to respond. I mean, how does a girl respond to something like this?
I stare out the window, into the courtyard.
Could it be that we have a real connection, a special friendship, without ever having met? I feel a magnetic pull toward Henry — is that okay? Is it cheating emotionally?
Whatever it is, I’m putting it away safely in the lacquered jewellery box in my mind, until I find the right words with which to reply.
Chapter Eleven
THE ACTOR DENZEL WASHINGTON once said, “Ease is a greater threat to progress than hardship, so keep moving, keep growing, keep learning.”
I’m thinking about that quote as I walk into the Parsons design studio looking for Jake. I know he’s still in a bad place; he’s been looking awfully depressed ever since his swift exit from the school café. But I also know he’s far from being a quitter. So it’s no surprise to find him hunched over a sewing machine, totally immersed in what he’s doing. He’s surrounded by other students, but doesn’t seem to notice them, or me. He’s wearing a pair of washed-out denim overalls, a white T-shirt, a-silver-and-white baseball cap, and two pairs of eyeglasses — one is perched on top of his cap and the other is balanced on the tip of his nose.
He’s sewing two pieces of delicate powder-blue silk into what looks like a long, ruffled skirt, the kind that fashion legend Oscar de la Renta would have created. The style of the skirt is quite different from Jake’s usual, more minimalist style. Maybe this is his way of branching out creatively.
I can tell he’s revelling in that sweet spot, the special place where an artist is fully engaged in his craft. I’ve been there. It feels like magic. I don’t want to interrupt his momentum, so I decide to hang back for the time being. After a solid ten minutes of concentrated focus on the whirring machine, he looks up and sees me. He waves me over.
“Hey, Clem! Whatcha doin’ over there?”
“Oh, just watching you create something divine. It’s so inspiring to watch you work.”
“Aw, thanks, Clemy. How do you like the skirt?” He removes his work of art from the machine and lifts it high above his head so I can see the details. “It’s cocktail hour in Savannah meets torrid nights in Madrid.” He has the same radiant smile that Michael Kors has when he salutes the crowd after a runway show.
“Jake, it’s gorgeous! One of the new pieces?”
“Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s a gift for my muse.”
“Adelina! She’ll love it.” He’s told me before that his friend Adelina, a Russian blogger, is his creative muse. It kind of made me jealous, to be honest.
“No, she wouldn’t wear this. C’est pour toi! ” he says with a flourish.
My jaw nearly hits the floor. I know how much time, energy, and money must have gone into this skirt. I wasn’t expecting a gift from him, let alone such an extravagant one. Tears well up in my eyes.
“You made this for me? When did you have the time?”
“Oh, late at night when I couldn’t sleep. It helped to get my mind off the bad stuff. It’s for you to wear at one of those fancy schmancy galas in Shanghai.”
“Thank you so much, Jake! I love it!” I give him a long, warm hug, then twirl around the room, holding the skirt up to my chest so that it doesn’t touch the floor.
“Try it on and we’ll get it fitted.” He hands me the skirt, and I carefully pull it over my black leggings, then slide the leggings off underneath. I remove my bulky sweater, too. I can tell just from how the fabric feels and the way it cascades to the ground that it’s going to look amazing.
Jake guides me to a long mirror and looks on proudly at his work. It looks great even with my simple white shirt.
“Don’t forget to wear at least four-inch heels. Otherwise it’ll drag on the floor and look like a mop,” he instructs, kneeling down to show me the right length for the hem. I look down gratefully, and a question pops into my head: where should I first wear this skirt? New York or Shanghai?
While Jake crouches on the ground, pinning the final alterations, some of the other students get up from their workstations to take a closer look. My gaze wanders over to Jake’s empty workstation. There appears to be some kind of card game open on his laptop screen; I can make out the words Game Over flashing. When I glance down at him, I see that he’s caught me looking — he looks away quickly, his face crimson. I try to act like I haven’t seen anything. Now is not the time to discuss it.
“Wow, Jake, you really outdid yourself,” one male student says. He comes over to feel the exquisite fabric.
“Oh my god, it’s stunning!” a female student says. Everyone in the studio looks on admiringly at his work. My friend truly has talent. He blushes and wipes away a tear. I know it’s not a tear of joy, but hopefully all this praise will motiv
ate him to press on, no matter what his obstacles or inner demons are.
“Friendship consists in forgetting what one gives and remembering what one receives.” I love this quote by the French writer Alexandre Dumas. Jake has taught me about self-esteem and about trusting myself and, most importantly, about bringing more playfulness into my life. He’s given me so much.
Today, it’s my turn to bring some happiness his way.
“Thank you again for the gorgeous skirt, Jake. I still can’t believe you made it for me. Especially when you’re so swamped and stressed about work and school and money. I’ve never owned such a beautiful piece of clothing.”
“Anything for you, babe.” He smiles sadly.
We’re sitting in our usual spot at the front of the room at Le Midi, a French brasserie and favourite hangout for Parsons teachers and students. It’s a special place; I first met Jonathan here, and Jake and I come all the time to gossip, people-watch, catch up on life, and eat truffle fries.
“Is everything okay?” I’m hoping he’ll open up to me, finally.
He just shrugs. He can’t seem to sit still; he fidgets with his menu, nervously rifles through his bag for a few minutes, then awkwardly removes his glasses and looks off across the room. “I’m not hungry, Clem. I’ll just watch you eat and have some water.”
“Water?” I can tell things are bad, but I never imagined they were this bad. I’ve never heard anything so depressing as my gourmand friend, as passionate about food as he is about silk taffeta, ordering nothing but water. And he’s just spent the last few hours working feverishly on my skirt, so he must be starving. “What do you mean you’re not hungry?”
“I’m just not, that’s all. Just let it be, okay?” He lifts his shoulders as if it can’t be helped. “Besides, I need to lose weight.” He looks sadder than ever.
“Oh, says who?”
“Me. That’s who.”
“Just stop it! You’re perfect the way you are.”
He scoffs. “Whatever. I’m far from perfect, that’s for sure.”
Bonjour Shanghai Page 5