by Kelly deVos
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
“But Gareth Miller’s in there.” I’m sort of stuttering. Like a stupid. Fucking. Idiot.
Skinny Jeans and Floppy Hat are both laughing. I leave through the front door as one of them says, “Yeah. This is his studio. He’s bound to be here once in a while.”
I’m standing on the curb outside Miller’s gray building as taxis whizz by and lights pop on in offices across the street. I’m having a meltdown. But for some people, it’s business as usual.
I pull my phone out of my bag.
“I’m sorry, Cookie. I really am.” This is how Terri answers the phone.
“What the hell is going on, Terri?” I say.
“Marlene had to send someone else to the preview at the last second,” she says. The wail of a baby drowns out her next sentence.
My teeth are clenched. I’m pacing and waving my arms. But nobody looks. Because this is New York. I could be in a flaming Big Bird costume and no one would notice. “Who?”
“Marlene will explain when you get back to the office,” Terri says.
“When I get back to the office? Terri, are you serious? Somebody should have explained before I made a total fucking ass of myself at G Studios.”
Terri’s voice is weak through my receiver. Taxis honk. Somebody yells something like “You can’t park in the red zone.”
“Cookie, you’re right. I should have called. But every surface in my house is covered in projectile vomit. I could barely get out of bed this morning. It sucks. And I get why you’re mad. But—”
I ignore her. I can’t turn off my temper. “I got up at the crack of dawn to be here by nine. I had to walk down here since I couldn’t afford to take a taxi and also eat. And by the way, the Continental is a total dump. I mean, what kind of room has four twin beds? Who’s supposed to be sleeping in there? One Direction without Zayn Malik? Oh, and I’m pretty sure the gangsters on the hotel stoop have a plan going to harvest and sell my organs. Then, I get to the studio and—”
“Cookie!” Terri’s using her angry-mom voice. “I know. Listen. I wanted to call. I should have called last night. While I was still feeling okay. But this girl, Kennes Butterfield, or whatever her name is, she missed her plane. And there was a chance she wouldn’t make it. I know how much you wanted to go. So I was hoping she wouldn’t make it.”
“She missed her flight?” I ask. I have a sinking feeling. The kind you can’t exactly explain. The kind that won’t go away.
“Yeah. Between you and me, this girl is a piece of work. I guess she got into a fight with another passenger. Got grounded at O’Hare.”
Silence. My rational brain tries to say its piece.
There are tons of flights out of O’Hare. People get in fights on planes all the time. There can’t be a connection between the glossy-headed bitch on my flight and what’s happening now.
Except that’s not my luck. Not my life.
Terri’s still talking. “Her rich daddy got her a seat on a private plane and she beat you to New York. Some people have all the luck, I guess.”
My stomach drops further.
“And look, I know it’s not ideal, but the girl’s not a blogger,” Terri says with a sigh. “She’ll pass you her notes and pics. You’ll still be the contributor of the article. You’ll get hits and some exposure.”
“If she’s not a blogger, what’s she doing there?” I ask.
There’s a pause. “Oh God. Justin’s gonna throw up again. Gotta go. Try and have a nice day in the city. We’ll work everything out when you get back.”
I stand outside where full sun now hits the studio building.
The one upside of being forced to buy the full-priced ticket is that I can change my flight. I’m going home.
SKINNY: Day 739 of NutriNation
It’s nine on a Sunday morning when the limo driver drops me off at the studio. I’ve been told over and over by Gareth’s people that he’ll give me an hour. They say it in a hushed tone, like they’re telling me he’s going to be my bone marrow donor or something. It’s weird.
Skinny Jeans no longer works at G Studios, but there’s a guy behind the desk who was probably cloned in the same facility. Because Lumbersexual is the next iteration of the hipster evolution, this new front-desk guardian has a long beard, cuffed jeans and work boots.
“I’m—”
“Cookie Vonn,” the guy says with a smile. “Gareth’s inside. He’s expecting you.”
“Nice sweater,” I say as the door swings open.
“Thanks” is his friendly response to my sarcasm. He picks a piece of lint off the chunky, red wool.
Given that I’ve spent two years imagining what it would be like to pass through the maple door, the reality is a bit disappointing. There’s a small entryway that creates about three feet of space between a conference room and the main door. On the right, a narrow hallway lined with boxes of fabric, piles of gift bags and stacks of magazines disappears into darkness.
An elfin face pops out of the conference room door. “Wow. You are pretty.”
I fight off the urge to glance over my shoulder to confirm it’s me she’s referring to. I guess it’s nice to be complimented, but it doesn’t make me feel like I’m being taken seriously.
The woman holds the door open and motions for me to take a seat at a walnut-colored table. It looks expensive. Probably from Herman Miller. “I’m Reese.”
I shake her hand. Reese is my contact in Gareth’s office. We’ve been emailing back and forth for the past few weeks. She falls into a chair opposite me.
“Okay, so I know that Mr. Miller’s time is limited. I have a list of the questions I think I can cover in less than an hour. And I printed out my measurements, in case that helps us stay on schedule.” I try to hand her the small card but she just smiles. “It will help Mr. Miller pull the right size dress for me to wear.”
Gareth glides into the room and gives her a curt nod. Reese gets up and leaves, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.
“My time isn’t all that limited. I prefer to take my own measurements. And please don’t call me Mr. Miller.” He’s wearing his charming smile, weathered jeans and cowboy boots. His roughly raked dark hair shoots up to create an effortless pattern. The strands hover in the air, on the verge of falling.
“Let me guess. Mr. Miller is your father?”
“That’s right,” he agrees. “Stand up straight and hold out your arms.”
I’ve been through the measurements thing a thousand times with my grandma and I know my digits by heart, but it seems like doing what he wants will save time. I’m surprised that the most uncomfortable moment is when he takes the waist measurement and not the bust. His hand rests for a second, very lightly, on my belly. Someone who wasn’t watching Gareth Miller’s every move probably wouldn’t have even noticed.
The more my face heats up, the more in his element he seems to be. I glance at his biceps and quickly look away.
He paces around me, making notes on a small sketchpad. “You’re blonde. But not exactly a winter.
“It’s your eyes,” he decides. “They’re blue.”
“Wow. They’re not wrong when they say how observant you are.”
Gareth chuckles. “The gold flecks. They make all the difference. Let you carry off warm colors. They probably look green when you wear green.”
He’s right. And I hate it.
“All right,” he continues, snapping the pad shut. “I know what I’m gonna do.”
He sits back down at the table and picks up the list of questions I typed up on my brand-new laptop. “Hmm. Yes. No. My grandmamma. At my ranch mostly. I hate the city. It doesn’t inspire me. There’s no such thing as a color philosophy. Color is mood. Season. Temperament. What’s the one thing a designer can’t live without? The right seamstresses and that
is a matter of fact. I’ve never really thought about it, which frankly means it probably isn’t relevant at this point.”
I’m scribbling frantically on my notepad. “Typically, in an interview, I get to actually ask the questions. Listen to the answers. Ask follow-up questions.” He doesn’t answer my question about why the largest size he manufactures is a size ten when the average American woman is between a twelve and fourteen.
“And you’d describe interviewing someone like me as a typical part of your career up until now?” It’s sort of evil, the way he can insult me and still come across as charming. I know I’m in some kind of trouble because every time I breathe, I suck in icy air, feeling like I’ve swallowed a thousand mint Tic Tacs.
“You’re very modest.” I’m struggling to feel as irritated as I make myself sound.
“Modest? No. Hungry? Yes. I thought we might have a spot of late breakfast. You must be hungry since I made a point of telling them not to feed you at the hotel.”
Truthfully, I didn’t bother asking anyone about breakfast. It’s a meal I’ve always done without. “It’s really charming the way you’re referring to me like I’m a bear in Jellystone Park. Don’t you have to get ready for your show?” I ask.
He laughs again. “This isn’t Project Runway. We don’t run ’round like chickens with our heads cut off makin’ the clothes today. We did a full rehearsal last week. I’m in good shape.”
Now I’m mad for real. I don’t know much, but I know fashion. I know how clothes are made and what designers do to prepare for a show. “I only meant that on a show day there must be a lot of demands on your time. I can’t be the only person wanting to interview you today.”
“You’re not.” Gareth makes a token effort at appearing sheepish. But it’s a look that really doesn’t work for him. “And now I’ve offended you when I meant to do the opposite. Because there are a thousand people I could be talking to right now. And I want to talk to you.”
My cheeks heat as he goes on. “Ah, Cookie Vonn, whatever we’ll be to each other, let’s always be honest, okay? We both know that there’s only one question on this list you really want to ask. Only one you need to ask, because I get the idea you understand me pretty well. Will I make a plus-size capsule collection? Well, come convince me.”
My knees are jiggling at the hint that we’ll ever be anything more than a famous designer and the nerd following him around. But he’s giving me the opportunity. He clearly knows why NutriMin Water sent me and what they’re hoping I’ll get from him.
He stands up, and there seems to be nothing else to do but tail him as he breezes out of his studio. Reese runs in circles around him the way an overenthusiastic puppy might treat its owner. Gareth doesn’t stop walking as she talks loud and fast, saying things like, “Mitchie wants front row and there’s no way,” or, “They’ve gotten the feedback issue on the rear speakers addressed.”
He tells her only one thing. About the dress I’ll be wearing. “The Crista-Galli. In green. Size six. Send it over to the Refinery for Cookie to wear.”
There’s a car waiting at the curb. A dark, perfectly polished Town Car, which I’ll later find out is NYC code for dedicated, private driver. Gareth Miller never stops to think I won’t have breakfast with him. He holds the door open for me in a gesture so ingrained that he does it without looking up from his phone.
I scoot in all the way to the driver’s side, pressing my leg against the door, feeling claustrophobic at the thought of being in another close encounter with a man who could really be called devilishly handsome, a man who belongs in a Harlequin novel. I barely made it through the plane ride.
He slides in too, making a skeptical face at the distance between us. I notice the stubble on his cheek, that the first two buttons of his black shirt are undone, that his jeans are weathered in all the right ways. But more than anything, there’s a scent.
No one smells like Gareth Miller.
Like cinnamon and wild honey and cedar wood and fire.
I blurt out, “What’s that smell?”
Gareth does the first gentlemanly thing he’s done all day. He pretends he hasn’t heard me. “I’m sorry?”
I reach into my bag for my notebook, taking the opportunity to suck in a deep breath while my head is inside the massive bag. “Your fragrance. Are you wearing it?”
“Is that a backhanded manner of saying you like the way I smell?” And just like that, the gentleman is gone again. The devil has pushed the angel off his shoulder.
With a click of my pen, I make a great show of pretending to take notes. “I’m supposed to be writing about my experience here today. So I’m giving you a chance to talk about products that you sell.”
The grin widens. “Well, thanks for that. And in your official capacity as a dedicated reporter, I’d like to tell you I’m thrilled with my collaboration with the Keels Fragrance corporation who’ve helped me to bring my signature scent to market. I consider Gareth Miller Homme an essential for today’s modern man.”
We’re driving up Fifth Avenue, and I’m having flashbacks of my last visit to New York. This trip seems both easier and harder at the same time. The view is a lot better from the back of a private car. But for the first time, I feel like I’ve got something to lose.
Miller reaches out and takes my notebook so I’m left holding my pen in midair. “Off the record, I don’t wear it.” He moves over, tilting his head toward me in an invitation to join his secret world. “Between you and me, there’s a perfumeria near my ranch and the old lady there, she must be a hundred or something. In the village, they say she makes love potions. She mixes this for me.”
“Why not make your signature fragrance smell like...like...how you smell?”
“Some things aren’t for sale, Cookie.”
The way he says this, with his smile fading and his dark eyes crinkling, suggests he’s thinking hard about everything he’s put on the market.
But that passes fast and he smiles again. “Besides, if I sold this stuff to everybody, how would I get you to look at me the way you are right now?”
I turn toward the window so that he can’t see my mouth hanging open. We’re passing through the fashion district, where, in a few hours, he’ll present his show to a worshipping crowd.
I’m both relieved and disappointed when we arrive back at the Refinery. I realize that I must have taken things too far and that Miller has decided to have breakfast with someone a bit more pleasant. At least I won’t have any more opportunities to make myself look stupid.
When he gets out of the car, I’m back to internally freaking out again. I sit there like an idiot for a minute while he holds the Town Car door. I’m there so long that he leans down and waggles his eyebrows.
I’m getting out of the car, pushing my blue Goyard St. Louis in front of me. I scored it at a NutriMin event and it’s pretty much my prized possession, my go-to accessory when I want to feel fabulous. Trying to make a glamorous exit from the car, I swing the bag way too wide. Only Gareth’s fast reflexes keep me from whacking a woman who’s the spitting image of Betty White in the gut. But the near miss is startling enough that she drops her own purse. Drinking straws, sugar packets and several rolls of toilet paper scatter all over the sidewalk.
I throw myself down to the concrete and try to scoop the contents back into the woman’s bag. And I’m momentarily distracted by the fact that the woman’s purse is actually much nicer than mine. A vintage Louis Vuitton Noé bucket bag. Probably 1960s, judging from the darkening of the monogram pattern. The stitching is in excellent shape, but the leather tie is frayed and won’t keep the bag closed.
While I’m busy thinking about how they really don’t make things like they used to anymore, and wondering why someone with a $2,000 handbag needs to go around town swiping basic necessities, I become conscious of the fact that the woman is talking to me. Getting pretty agitated, really.
“Girl! Girl! I say. What in the world are you doing?”
This is what the lady is sort of shrieking.
What I’m doing is holding on to the end sheet of one of the rolls of toilet paper and trying to use it to drag the whole roll toward me, which is having the opposite effect from what I intend. The roll is bounding up the sidewalk and is several feet away. A businessman crossing the street steps on it on his way into the hotel.
Gareth kneels down, desperately trying to get the drinking straws before they’re all knocked into the gutter. The driver even helps us. He’s got fistfuls of dirty sugar packets that it doesn’t seem right to give back to the lady.
We’re taking up a lot of space on the sidewalk and people grunt and snort in impatience as they pass. The woman makes a couple of attempts to lower herself to join in our efforts to pick up her things, but she can’t make it down.
I realize that she’s probably got arthritis in her knees like my grandma, and she looks like she wants to cry, which makes me want to cry.
“Oh, there, now. There,” she says. “Please just give me my bag.”
I get up on my knees and hold it out to her, but Gareth takes it instead.
He gives the woman his most charming smile. “I sure am sorry about all of this.”
“I’m sorry too. I’m sorrier than he is,” I add, scrambling off the ground.
Gareth nods at me but the woman can’t take her eyes off him. He taps his driver on the arm. “I’ll be very busy for the next coupla hours and my friend Joe here will be bored out of his mind. Why don’t you let him drive you home? And on the way he can duck into the market and replace the items we’ve lost here.”
“Oh no, no, I couldn’t possibly...” the woman says, but she’s already busy sinking into the posh interior of Gareth’s car.
Before the driver slams the door, the woman bites her lower lip and stares at me. “Well, dear, I must say, I can’t recall ever meeting someone quite so uncoordinated. Lucky for you, you’ve got your looks.” She breaks into a smile at the sight of Gareth. “And you’ve got yourself a very nice fellow there. A real keeper.”