Say the Word

by Julie Johnson

  “I think just focusing on the hippie, flower-girl angle is going to limit us. It’s tired, it’s been done before,” I told them, impassioned as the idea bloomed in my mind. “We need a fresh angle — something that focuses on the huge changes that happened in society during that decade.”

  The two Jennys nodded in unison, their eyes thoughtful as they absorbed my words.

  “Clothing evolved with the culture — we could explore the fashion revolution theme. From the refined elegance of Jackie Kennedy and Audrey Hepburn — arguably two of the classiest 1960’s icons — to the sexually liberated culture of the late 60’s, where everyday women were finally free to wear what they wanted — from mini-dresses to go-go boots,” I prattled on, foolishly unaware of the reason my two conversation partners had grown wide-eyed and silent. “I just think that would be more interesting than a photo spread of the same frizzy-haired, headband-wearing model, running through a field of tall grass in a flowing floral print dress.”

  “Well, thankfully,” an icy voice snapped from behind me. “No one cares what you think.”

  Shit. That tone of unparalleled bitchery was unmistakable.

  I turned slowly, dreading the encounter, and came face-to-face with Cara, who dwarfed me ridiculously in her five-inch stilettos. I tried to shutter my annoyed expression but was likely unsuccessful, given the fact that Sebastian was standing immediately to her left, gazing at me stone-faced and giving me heart palpitations.

  “You’re a nobody,” Cara sneered. “No one here wants your opinions. Why don’t you stop breathing my air. Oh, and go get me a latte while you’re at it. Double shot espresso, skim milk, extra foam, no whip.”

  Bitch.

  I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment, and I could practically feel the sympathy radiating off the two Jennys, who had front-row seats to my humiliation. My gaze moved from Cara to Sebastian, who was staring at me with an unreadable look in his eyes. Obviously, I’d be getting no help from that front. I turned to leave, but stopped when I heard Sebastian’s voice.

  “Wait, Ms. Kincaid.”

  Ms. Kincaid? There was that forced formality again. I pivoted in place, meeting his eyes, which were as inscrutable as ever. Sebastian sighed and raised one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

  “Cara, Ms. Kincaid is not here to fetch your coffee. She is not an intern. She’s a consultant and will be treated with the respect normally afforded one. She also reports to me, not you.” He didn’t bother to look at her, but his tone was cold, nearly scolding, as he spoke.

  My eyebrows lifted in surprise and I heard Cara’s displeased huff, but didn’t tear my gaze away from Sebastian’s face. It was still fixed in what seemed to be a permanent frown.

  “Cara, don’t you have a fitting to get to?” He may’ve phrased it as a question, but it was clearly an order. She cast one last scathing look at me before stomping away to yell at whatever poor soul had been assigned to do her fittings.

  “Everyone!” Sebastian yelled, causing the thirty or so people in the room to fall instantly silent. “Huddle in for a minute. Morning meeting.”

  I watched, fascinated, as designers, artists, assistants, and consultants all dropped what they were doing and rushed to the center of the room where we’d gathered. Sebastian commanded a lot of respect around here, that much was apparent. And though this wasn’t what Jeanine would consider an official meeting, considering we weren’t jammed into a small conference room listening to her drone on needlessly for a half hour, Sebastian’s short and sweet, informal approach seemed equally, if not more, effective.

  “We’ll be working chronologically through the decades: the 1910’s through the 2010’s,” Sebastian said, once everyone was close enough to hear him. “Each decade gets a unique set, costumes, everything. Brainstorm new ideas, seek out fresh angles,” he said, locking eyes with me for a brief moment.

  I felt my breath catch in my throat, but his eyes were fleeting, moving away to scan the rest of the crowd.

  “Use the old shoots for inspiration.” He gestured toward the room perimeter, where a series of easels displayed a multitude of shots from Luster history. “We’ll get this done as quickly as we can, shooting two or three sets each week, if possible. Angela, my production manager, has split you into teams for this week — see her for your assignments. Use today and tomorrow to develop ideas. Wednesday, we’ll meet as a large group to finalize the plans for the first few shoots. Thursday and Friday we’ll do sets and trial runs. Next week we’ll begin shooting for real,” he explained, his tone brisk and to-the-point.

  “Any questions?”

  The pervasive silence in the room gave him his answer.

  “This is a unique project. Try to have fun with it, guys,” he said, nearly — but not quite — smiling with tight-pressed lips. “Thanks.”

  At his dismissal, everyone except the two Jennys and me hurried over to a beautiful petite Asian woman in her mid-forties — Angela, I presumed — who was handing out color-coded badges and assignments. I was about to follow suit when Sebastian spoke again.

  “Jenny S. — you’ll be working with Philippe on the 20’s set design concept. Jenny P. — you’ll be with Sam over in costumes. Ms. Kincaid — you’ll be with me.”

  With that, he stormed away toward the large conference room table on the opposite side of the room. People scurried out of his way and trailed in his wake — he was the epicenter of activity and attention for every worker in the room. I stood in a daze, my eyes trained on his back, until I realized that everyone else had scattered as soon as he’d doled out their duties and I was now alone in the middle of the room. Hoping no one had seen my momentary Sebastian-stupor, I hurried after him.

  I came to an abrupt halt when I reached him on the far side of the room by the windows. He stood with his hands planted against the conference room table, looking over a wide array of photographs from previous Luster shoots. It felt foolish to interrupt him by announcing my presence, so I simply hovered by his elbow unsurely, staring out the glass panes at the skyline below. I wasn’t even sure he knew I was there, until he spoke.

  “It’s funny,” he muttered in a serious tone that undermined his words. “I thought I knew exactly what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, after all these years.”

  He pushed up from the table, turning to face me. His hazel gaze immediately captured my own, and in a fraction of a second the air between us became tense, growing thick with seven years of unspoken words and unkept promises. I fought the urge to move a step back from him, wary of whatever he was about to say.

  “But now, with you standing here in front of me, all my words seem to have fled.” He laughed, but it was mirthless, bitter. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  He might’ve been looking at me, but I’d swear he was talking to himself. When his words trailed off, we simply stared at each other until the silence became unbearable. I had to say something — anything — to smooth things over between us, even if it was only on a superficial level. Otherwise, we were both in for several weeks of torture while the Decades project came together.

  “Maybe we can just start fresh?” I asked naively, holding out my hand for him to shake. “Clean slate?”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  He flinched back from me, staring at my hand where it hung in the space between us with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. I’d been wrong — very, very wrong — to assume things with us could ever be wiped away with a few pleasantries and some misguided wishful thinking.

  “Why don’t you go get that latte for Cara after all,” he bit out in a cold tone. “After that, report to Angela. I’m sure she’ll find some use for you.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me staring after him in near tears. I’d been dismissed. Snatching my hand back from where it was still suspended in midair, I headed for the elevators. In the future, I’d have to tread more carefully. With Sebastian, each conversation would be like walking through a field of liv
e land mines without a guide — make one wrong move, and things would explode.

  Cara grinned and waggled her fingers at me as I passed by the costume fitting area, no doubt having witnessed my arctic encounter with Sebastian. If I were a lesser woman, I’d have contemplated spitting in her latte. As it was, I’d just order one with whole milk instead of nonfat — that would be enough to set her off in a caloric panic of epic proportions.

  I smiled as I headed for the Starbucks in the lobby.

  ***

  The victory from my latte-trickery was short lived and, unfortunately, the day spiraled even further downward from then on. Not only did Cara insist that I bring her another latte with the correct milk, she told two of her model friends that I’d be their designated coffee and errand girl for the entirety of the Decades project. The three of them expressed unmasked delight in rejecting the lattes and macchiatos I’d procured each time I returned with a new cardboard tray of drinks, sending me back down to the lobby four separate times before noon.

  I became fast friends with Greg, the barista; every time I reappeared in the lobby he’d grin sympathetically and tell me a coffee-themed joke to lighten my spirits. Who knew caffeine humor could be so sexual?

  When I was finally released from Starbucks duty, I found Angela and quickly discovered that despite her short stature, she was a force to be reckoned with. In fact, she was kind of a self-important bitch — one of those people who thought the world would cease to turn if they failed to show up for work one day. She didn’t even look up from her clipboard when I asked her for an assignment.

  “See those issues?” she asked, gesturing at the mountain of magazines sitting on the conference room table across the room.

  I nodded.

  “Some of the designers flipped through them for historical inspiration earlier this week and scanned the images they liked onto their computers. Now the magazines are a jumbled mess. They need to be reorganized and carted back to the stockroom. Go through each issue and catalogue it by month and year. You’ll find boxes, string, and a label-maker over by the wall,” she said, her brow furrowed as she scribbled a note on her clipboard. “Tie the 12 issues from each year together, ordered by month, with a piece of string. Then stack the years together by decade. Each decade gets stored away in a box.” She spoke rapidly, flipping through her notes as she fired off instructions. “And don’t forget to label the boxes by decade.”

  “Alright, thanks.”

  “Oh, and — what was your name again?”

  “Lux.”

  “Well, Lux,” she said, finally looking up from her notes to examine me. Whatever she saw, she evidently found lacking, if the slightly distasteful crinkling of her nose was any indication. “Make sure you finish them before you leave tonight. Men will be coming to take the boxes back to storage first thing tomorrow morning.”

  I nodded and walked away, figuring any assignment was better than an eternity of coffee runs for Cara and her snooty posse.

  My mistake. I might not be a math genius, but even I should’ve realized that organizing 100 years worth of magazines — in which each year has approximately 12 issues — is equivalent to a hell of a lot of work.

  Unfortunately, I had this realization a little too late — pretty much the exact moment I reached the conference room table and saw the extent of back-stocked magazines littering the tabletop and stacked in messy piles inside the ten large cardboard boxes beneath the table. The stack sitting on the tabletop was in a similar state of disarray, seemingly having been piled without order or organization. It looked like a pack of rabid toddlers had been looking through the stacks, rather than a group of professional designers.

  Joy.

  Four hours later, my stomach was rumbling in protest after skipping lunch, my eyes were tired from ceaselessly reading issue dates, my back was aching, and my fingertips were coated in a slightly dusty residue from flipping through century-old pages. With a growing sense of dismay, I glanced from the watch at my wrist to the still largely unorganized pile of magazines. Work would be over in an hour or so, and people would soon start to filter out of the office. Seven boxes sat on the ground to my left — organized, labeled, and ready for pickup. But to my right, nearly four hundred remaining issues were still piled in a haphazard fashion.

  I sighed and got back to work, subtly slipping my phone out of my purse to text Desmond.

  Stuck at work. Can’t make it to dinner. Sorry.

  Poor Desmond. This was the third time in a row I’d cancelled on him. He deserved better, but I could honestly say that — this time at least — it wasn’t my choice. I also texted Simon, warning him that I’d probably miss happy hour. If I failed to show up without any explanation, he’d be on the phone with the police trying to issue an Amber Alert within the hour, regardless of the fact that I was a legal adult.

  The thought of Simon cheered me enough to jump back into my task. I picked up my pace, becoming so absorbed that the rest of the office faded away and the next time I looked up, I was nearly the last one left on the floor. A few costume designers conversed by the fitting area, and Angela was seated at one of the workstations, her cellphone clutched in one hand and her clipboard in the other, but other than that, everyone else had gone home for the day. I hadn’t seen Sebastian since our terse encounter this morning, and I thought that was probably for the best. If we were going to attempt to be civil and professional, he’d likely steer clear of me from now on.

  I tried to be okay with that, reminding myself that I was here only to serve my sentence and move on. I shouldn’t have expected him to treat me with anything but disdain. After all, I was here to be punished — and on his orders, no less.

  It was already well past five, and magazines from two whole decades remained on the table before me — at least another hour’s worth of work, maybe two. Once Angela — and her watchful glare — left for the night, followed soon after by the two designers, I was alone on the floor and could finally collapse into one of the conference table’s leather swivel chairs. The lights, programmed on automatic timers, dimmed considerably after their departure, but I didn’t bother to find the switch. I was far too comfortable to move.

  I began to pick through the issues spread across the table, thinking as I did so that the 1990s grunge fashion era was better left unresurrected in Luster history. I stretched my arms above my head and arched my back, letting out a low groan as my cramped muscles found some relief. Hunching over a table for the last five hours had pulled my muscles tighter than a bowstring.

  When I’d worked the kinks out of my spine, I made short work of pulling the clip from my hair, the intensity of my headache ebbing as soon as the heavy locks tumbled free. My fingers combed through the strands, then moved to rub my temples in an attempt to eliminate the ache altogether.

  The chime of the arriving elevator froze my hands in place, and my head swung immediately toward the sound.

  I gasped soundlessly as the doors slid open and Sebastian stepped through them. He took several strides into the room, the dim lighting no doubt lending the impression that he was alone here. His expression, for once, was unguarded. With his brow furrowed and his eyes trained on the floor, he appeared distressed, as though he were waging an internal war within his mind.

  I was captivated by his sudden appearance — so much so, I didn’t realize how awkward it would be when he inevitably reached the conference table and found me sitting there, practically drooling at him.

  Shit. He was closing in — barely fifteen feet away.

  Uncomfortably, I cleared my throat.

  “Um, hi,” I called loudly, wincing at the sound of my own voice as it echoed through the empty room.

  Sebastian’s head snapped up, his eyes going wide as he saw me at the table. He started and took a half step backwards — I couldn’t help but wonder if he was considering making an abrupt about-face and heading for the elevators to escape me — but eventually stilled and seemed to resolve himself to stay. Straightening hi
s shoulders to full height, he held himself as though he were about to do battle with a formidable enemy.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice quieter this time but my words flowing out in a torrent. “I didn’t know you’d be back here tonight. I’m supposed to finish these before I leave, but I’ll just come back early tomorrow morning and do it.” I pushed my chair back and stood, shuffling the messy magazines into a singular stack as fast as possible and grabbing an empty box from the floor by my feet. “I’ll be out of your hair in just a minute,” I babbled on, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t know how long this would take. I’m sorry.”

  I was repeating myself, filling the silence with everything I could think of, as if that could somehow reduce the awkward strain of the moment. I lifted the stack of magazines and was preparing to drop them into the empty box when he spoke.

  “Don’t.” His voice was soft, and much closer than I’d anticipated — he’d moved toward the table at some point during my nervous monologue. I didn’t dare look up to see just how near he now stood. “It’s fine, Ms. Kincaid.”

  “It’s okay,” I murmured shakily, eyes still trained on the magazines clutched in my shaking hands. “I’ll be gone in just a minute.”

  “Ms. Kincaid,” Sebastian said, so close I could practically feel the heat emanating from his body. “I said stay.”

  A tremble moved through my entire body at his words. I had no idea what expression was playing out across my face — fear, attraction, embarrassment? — I just prayed the dim lighting would be enough to conceal my emotions.

  A frozen moment passed between us. I didn’t move, I didn’t speak, I didn’t even breathe, for fear of shattering the stillness. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, but kept my own eyes aimed down at the table.