Ripped at the Seams

by Nancy Krulik

  Back to the subway. This time she took the R train to Prince Street in SoHo. Climbing out of the subway, Sami felt as though she were in a completely different city. Gone were the tall skyscrapers and people with briefcases hurrying through crowded streets. SoHo was decidedly more relaxed than Midtown. The streets were narrower and were dotted with small café-style restaurants and art galleries. Less famous artists who were unable to get space in the galleries simply displayed their paintings and sculptures on the street, beside the rows of jewelry and sunglass vendors.

  The residents of SoHo seemed less uptight than the people Sami had seen uptown. Their style of dress was far more funky—although black was still the color of choice. Instead of suits and dresses, the SoHo crowd seemed to like jeans and half shirts—with the obligatory pierced belly button proudly displayed.

  This was the perfect atmosphere for the ultrahip Mollie Mack Fashions’s headquarters. Sami felt hopelessly unchic and small town as she entered the huge loft space where the Mollie Mack designers toiled away each day. Next to the photos of Mollie’s wild electric yellow, green, pink, and black lacy outfits that decorated the walls, Sami’s simple pale pink terry cloth drawstring skirt and cream-colored cap-sleeved top seemed awfully out of place. And the funky electronic music that was piped into the waiting room was like nothing Sami had ever heard before. Back home she was more likely to run into music by the Dixie Chicks or Faith Hill than Beck.

  Still, Sami was sure she could learn to fit in with the mod fashions that Mollie and her designers created. All she needed was a chance. And if anyone could understand that, it would be Mollie Mack.

  It was unbelievably exciting for Sami to be in the Mollie Mack headquarters. Mollie was legendary in the fashion world. Sami knew her life story by heart. She’d started out as a kid from a poor neighborhood just outside of Boca Raton, Florida, back in the 1950s. She always said that her love of bright colors came from being raised near the beach. Mollie hadn’t stayed in Boca Raton very long. As soon as she was old enough to get a passport, she flew off to London and became part of the mod scene on Carnaby Street during the swinging sixties. She’d designed outfits for everyone from Twiggy and Edie Sedgwick to Mick Jagger and David Bowie. But while many of Mollie’s sixties and seventies contemporaries had long since worn out their welcome in the fashion industry, Mollie, like her friend and rival Betsey Johnson, had stayed current. Today her fashions were as hot as ever. She had boutiques in New York, Los Angeles, London, Tokyo, Paris, and Milan, and high-end department stores like Saks Fifth Avenue and Lord & Taylor also sold her fashions.

  Mollie’s small-town background had always made her a hero to Sami. She knew that if she and Mollie could meet somehow, there would be an instant connection. All she had to do was get her foot in the door.

  “I’d like to speak to someone about a design job,” Sami said as she walked up to the reception desk.

  “What school are you with?” asked the receptionist, a tall, thin blonde in a neon green miniskirt and a black lace blouse.

  “I’m not with any school. I’m a designer,” Sami replied.

  The receptionist eyed her carefully. “You look like you’re in school.”

  Sami shook her head. “No, I’m a designer.”

  “Any experience?”

  Sami nodded. “I’ve done some theater work, costuming,” she replied ambiguously. There was no point in adding that the theater was in the Elk Lake Regional High School, and that her design work had been limited to the costumes for her senior class production of Bye Bye Birdie. “And I’ve designed custom gowns for weddings.” One wedding, actually, but that fact was also best kept secret.

  The receptionist smiled at her. “Well, we usually give internships to kids from FIT or RISD, but …”

  “FIT? RISD?” Sami said.

  “Fashion Institute of Technology and Rhode Island School of Design. Sometimes we get kids from Cooper Union, or NYU, but mostly … ,” the receptionist began. She handed Sami an application and shrugged. “Fill out the information. Maybe you’ll get lucky. The interns get really wonderful experience.”

  “Interns?” Sami said. “You mean like doctors?”

  The receptionist giggled. “Not exactly. The interns work here for a semester to get experience. It looks great on your résumé to say you worked at Mollie Mack. Mollie makes it a point to let the kids get real designing experience, not just photocopying and answering phones.”

  “Wow!” Sami exclaimed. “I think that’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “Mollie pays her interns too,” the receptionist boasted, as though being paid for work was some sort of innovative concept.

  “How much does the job pay?” Sami asked her.

  The receptionist pointed to a figure on the application. Sami gasped. It was less money than she’d earned working at her father’s coffee shop after school.

  “It’s not huge, I know,” the receptionist admitted. “But it’s better than most. Some internships don’t pay at all, but Mollie thinks it motivates the interns to work harder. And we do give credit toward graduation. Of course, since you’re not in school …”

  Sami looked at her strangely. “But everything in New York is so expensive and …”

  The receptionist looked at her kindly. “Well, we have a sales job available at our Columbus Avenue store. That pays better. And you get a ten percent discount on Mollies clothes. Maybe you’d be interested in applying for that?”

  Sami sighed. “I’ll think about it,” she said as she quietly turned and headed back toward the elevator.

  Stepping back out into the New York heat, Sami could feel her eyes welling up with tears. What an idiot I am, she thought ruefully. What made me think I could just walk in and get a job? I’m nothing special. I’m just a nobody from Elk Lake, Minnesota.

  And maybe that’s where I belong.

  Sami crawled back into the dark, dismal hotel room she’d learned to call home. She sat down on the bed and pulled out her cell phone. She sighed as she punched in Al and Celia’s phone number.

  “Hello?”

  Sami would know her brother’s deep voice anywhere. Just the sound of it brought tears to her eyes. “Hi, Al,” she said, her voice cracking slightly.

  “Samster!” he greeted her. “How’s my favorite New York celebrity?”

  “It’s lonely at the top,” Sami told him. “It’s also lonely at the bottom.”

  “No luck today, huh?” he asked her gently.

  “None. But it’s okay. I’m learning to get used to the sound of doors slamming in my face.”

  Al sighed. “Those design houses don’t know what they’re missin’,” he assured her.

  “All I want is a chance to show ’em,” Sami said. “How’s Celia?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “We heard the heartbeat yesterday,” Al said proudly. “Amazing.”

  Sami sighed. She’d only been gone a few days and already she’d missed something as incredible as the sound of her niece or nephew’s heartbeat. If she were still in Elk Lake, she could have gone to that doctor’s appointment and heard it too. “I wish I’d been there,” she told Al sincerely.

  “You can’t be here. You have to be in New York making us proud,” he replied, sounding as supportive as possible. “Look, my bride here is grabbing for the phone. So I’m gonna go. Hang in there, baby sis.”

  “I’ll try,” Sami replied. But she didn’t sound particularly convincing.

  “Hey, Sam!” Celia got on. “Hows it going?”

  “Lousy,” Sami admitted. “I couldn’t even get anyone to make an appointment to see my designs.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “The Bridal Building, which, by the way, doesn’t have any design studios. Then I tried Tara Davis, Ralph Lauren, Betsey Johnson, Mollie Mack—”

  “Well, you sure went straight to the top,” Celia said.

  “I only get rejected by the best,” Sami joked bitterly.

  “Maybe you have to start o
ut smaller,” Celia suggested. “Aren’t there any lesserknown design houses you can try?”

  “Well, there’s one on this list of design houses I have—” Sami began.

  “Oh, cool. How’d you get a list like that?” Celia interrupted.

  “I, um, I got it from a woman at the Bridal Building,” Sami said quickly. It wasn’t exactly a lie.

  “So what’s the name of the company?” Celia asked her.

  “Ted Fromme Fashions,” Sami read from the list of names she’d gotten from Ella’s Rolodex. “I think they do mostly sportswear.”

  “Well, you’re a sporty kind of gal. You can design casual clothes.”

  “At this point I’d design dog clothes!” Sami told her.

  “Well, let’s try this Ted Fromme place before you head over to the House of Hound,” Celia teased.

  Sami giggled. “You never fail to cheer me up,” she thanked her best friend.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Celia vowed.

  As soon as she hung up the phone, Sami pulled out her portfolio and flipped through the sketches, looking for something similar to the simple yet elegant sportswear she believed Ted Fromme Fashions was trying to making a name in. After pulling out a few pages of simple skirts and blouses, as well as a few drawings of slacks and capri pants, Sami laid her head on the small, musty pillow and fell into a sound sleep.

  It had been a long day.

  Four

  Sami’s stomach grumbled as she stepped onto the elevator of the small office building on Thirty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, where Ted Fromme Fashions was located. Sami had hoped to save a few dollars by skipping breakfast, although in the back of her head she could hear her father’s voice scolding her for the decision. “It’s the most important meal of the day, Samantha,” he’d say in his thick Minnesotan accent. “You’re like a fine race car. You gotta put gas in the engine before you can hit the speedway.”

  Sami sighed. At the moment, some of her dad’s huge blueberry pancakes would feel really good. But she couldn’t think about that now. She had to focus on the task at hand: making a good impression at Ted Fromme Fashions. Of course, making sure that her stomach stopped grumbling would be a good start in that direction. Sami quickly reached into her bag and pulled out a lint-covered mint Life Saver. Breakfast of champions, she thought ruefully as she popped the mint into her mouth.

  The elevator door opened on the eleventh floor. As Sami stepped out into the hallway, she heard an angry man’s voice bellowing from one of the offices. “Just answer the phone! It’s been ringing off the hook for the past fifteen minutes!” he shouted furiously.

  “I’m taking my break now!” a woman shouted back. “You answer it.”

  “Now is not a good time for you to take your break,” the man replied, sounding angrier now.

  “I’m entitled to a smoke break and I’m taking it,” the woman told him.

  “Fine, take it in twenty minutes, or even ten minutes. Just not now,” the man barked at her.

  “Sorry, but my nic fit won’t wait another second,” the woman replied.

  “If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back in!” the man threatened.

  “Sounds good to me,” the woman answered. “Have a nice life, Bruce!” She opened the door and darted out into the hallway, flying past Sami on her way to the elevator.

  “Um, excuse me, do you know where Ted Fromme Fashions is located?” Sami asked, reaching out a hand to stop the irate woman.

  The woman frowned and pointed her unlit cigarette toward the door at the end of the hall. “I wouldn’t go in there, if I were you,” she warned Sami. “It’s a total hell house! And Bruce Jamison is the devil himself!”

  The vehement tone in the woman’s voice frightened Sami, and for a moment she considered following the woman into the elevator and straight out of the building. But Sami knew she had to go in there. Ted Fromme Fashions was at the bottom of her list. There were very few chances left. She had no choice but to give this one her best shot.

  The reception area of Ted Fromme Fashions bore little resemblance to the reception areas at Tara Davis, Ralph Lauren, Betsey Johnson, and Mollie Mack. Those were sophisticated businesses, and when Sami entered each room, she could feel a sense of professional excitement all around her.

  By contrast, the Ted Fromme reception area was sheer chaos! Instead of catalogs neatly piled on small end tables, there were sheets of paper all over the couch and table. Rather than being painted a sophisticated white like at Tara Davis Designs, or Mollie Mack’s shocking pink, the walls at Ted Fromme Fashions were a dingy tan, more fitting for an accounting firm than a design house. And instead of funky music being piped in through speakers in the wall, the only music here was the sound of phones ringing off the hook. And instead of an organized receptionist at the front desk, the only other person in the room was a stressed-out young man in a half-buttoned shirt with rolled-up shirtsleeves, who stood staring at the phones with a look of sheer panic on his face.

  But seeing that the panic-stricken man behind the desk was the only one there, Sami walked up to the desk. “Excuse me?” she started.

  “What do you want …?” he bellowed angrily. Then he raised his eyes and stared at Sami. He seemed to be disarmed for an instant. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just that these phones won’t stop, and Roxie, our receptionist, just quit and …”

  Sami was well aware that Roxie hadn’t exactly quit—it was more like she’d been given an ultimatum and had taken this man up on his threat—but she kept her mouth shut.

  “Anyway, what can I do for you?” the harried man asked with a half smile that suddenly struck Sami as rather sexy.

  “Well, I’m actually looking for someone in personnel,” Sami began. “You see, I’m interested in applying for a job.”

  The man’s half smile now stretched fully across his face. “Are you an angel?” he asked her suddenly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, I think you must have been sent from heaven.”

  Sami’s big blue eyes registered her confusion.

  The man behind the desk laughed. “You’re looking for a job, right?” he asked her.

  Sami nodded.

  “And it just so happens I’m in the market for a new employee. Can you answer a phone?”

  “Well, sure, but I’m not …”

  He pulled out a chair from behind the reception desk. “Then the job’s yours,” he told her. “Start with line six. Just take a message.”

  “I was actually …” Sami was about to tell him that she was looking for a job in the design department, not the reception area. But the truth was, any job would be good right around now. She only had enough money in her wallet for two more nights at the Beresford Arms, and that was only if she didn’t eat. Sami needed cash. And this was a foot in the door—even if she hadn’t gotten past the reception desk.

  Sami slipped into the seat and picked up the phone, pressing down the button for line 6. “Ted Fromme Fashions,” she said in her most professional voice. “How may I help you?”

  The man in the button-down shirt waited until Sami had taken messages from the three callers Roxie had left on hold. Then, when things had settled down a bit, he dragged a chair over beside Sami. “Hi there,” he said, putting out his hand. “I’m Bruce Jamison. And you are …”

  “Sami Granger.”

  “Welcome to Ted Fromme,” Bruce said with a bright smile. “You couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  “What do you do here?” Sami asked, suddenly wondering who this man was and whether he had any authority at all to hire her.

  “I’m a junior designer,” Bruce told her in a voice filled with pride. “I’m also the office manager. In a place like this, everyone’s got two jobs … at least.”

  Sami smiled. “Well, you’re getting varied experience.”

  Bruce laughed. “That’s what we need around here. A little optimism. And”—he stopped for a moment and studied Sami’s body an
d face—“and a lot of beauty. You know, when you first came in here, I thought you were one of the models for the fall show.”

  Sami blushed. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

  Bruce shook his head. “That’s one bet you’d lose.” Just then, the phone rang again. “You’d better get that,” he said. “But I’ll tell you what. I’ll take you to lunch at twelve. We can talk about your salary, responsibilities, and all that other dreary stuff then.”

  Yes! Sami practically jumped up and down, but at the last second she remembered she needed to make a good impression and instead she nodded and picked up the phone. “Ted Fromme Fashions. How may I help you?”

  “That’s just what I like to see. A girl who likes to eat,” Bruce teased as he watched Sami twirl a huge portion of spaghetti onto her fork and put it hungrily into her mouth.

  Sami chewed for a moment, swallowed, and smiled. “I guess I’m kind of hungry,” she confessed. “I didn’t eat breakfast. And I didn’t expect to start working today.”

  “It was kind of quick, wasn’t it?” Bruce admitted. “But that’s how things work at Ted Fromme. Think about it. When I started with Ted, I was right out of college. That was two years ago. No one had heard of us. Now we’ve got a show coming up in New York, and possibly another one in Milan. You’re in on the ground floor of a great company, Sami.” He took his napkin, reached across the table, and gently wiped a dribble of tomato sauce from her chin.

  That act, so innocent and yet so intimate, sent a shiver through Sami’s body. All through lunch she’d had a tough time not being obvious about just how handsome she thought Bruce was. His big green eyes were the first thing you noticed about him, but there was plenty more eye candy to go around. His mouth had an easy smile that lit up his oval-shaped face. And underneath that button-down shirt lay a pair of broad shoulders and some pretty substantial muscles. And the way he ran his fingers through his thick, neatly cropped sandy blond hair was enough to cause several female heads to turn his way.