Deep South (Naive Mistakes #4)

by Dunning, Rachel

  “I’m sure Alex won’t mind.”

  “Leora, please don’t.”

  I clicked the car’s phone display and hung up before Trey could answer. “You’re not going off on your own and then coming home at whatever hour you want just because you’re angry and need to blow off some steam. I know what you want to do—you wanna go and box. And I’m coming with you.”

  He didn’t argue.

  Trey called back. “Trey,” I said, “is Alex with you?”

  “Sure. One second.”

  He put her on the phone. “Hey, babe,” I said. “I need Trey for a bit. Actually, Conall needs him.” I said nothing else. Alex already knew what I meant. It had been she who’d opened my eyes to this part of Conall’s world in the first place.

  “No problem, sweetie. We’ll go straight there.” She also knew the place; no need to mention it.

  I clicked the phone off and looked over at Conall. It was getting darker already.

  He looked out the window, slid a hand over onto my knee. Then he said, “Thanks.”

  I gave his hand a hard squeeze. He’d stopped shaking.

  But now I was.

  -5-

  The sex that night was slow and quiet. Conall lay above me, distant. I felt his need as he rode into me, pressing and pushing with all his body. His chin pressed down on my shoulder. His arms grappled around my back. He was more forceful than usual. He kissed my forehead, my ears, my nose, my neck. But not my lips. He lifted himself so I could see our pelvises joining, so I could see him exiting and entering me with a fervor that was unmatched in all the times we’d ever made love before.

  We shared no words, only sounds. Grunts and moans.

  There was a large bruise forming on the left side of his torso, but he’d gotten no cuts this time from an hour in the ring with Trey.

  I saw him grimace every time he thrust into me.

  The movement became faster, hungry. We howled at the same time. His was raw and powerful. Mine was feminine, and louder than I ever remember howling with him.

  In the end, I kissed his temple, his sticky hair. I ran my fingers through it, and I locked my legs around him, keeping him inside me for as long as I could.

  I felt him budge, trying to lift himself off me. But I kept him there, firmly. “I’m too heavy for you,” he warned, his body hot above mine.

  “No. You’re not.”

  He knew what I meant.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  -1-

  I started my apprenticeship with Carlo Fabiano the following morning. So did Kayla. Conall had arranged that she could do it as well.

  We were to be at his offices in London at seven in the morning. That means I had to get up at five A.M. so I could be ready and at the train station at six-fifteen. I got up at five-thirty instead, and it was grueling.

  Conall prepared breakfast for me and then drove me and Kayla to Crawley to catch the first train. At least it wasn’t packed because rush hour is about two hours later.

  Kayla was in a mood when I first saw her. She’s not a morning person.

  Brad and Conall would meet up later and Brad would continue his “education” as a programmer while Kayla and I worked. Conall was determined to get his new business venture off the ground now more than ever.

  In truth, Brad wouldn’t need to learn how to program as such. But Conall wanted him to take over a lot of the management stuff, and Conall believes that a manager should know how to do every job under him better than the person doing it.

  It amazed me how much faith Conall had in Brad. When I’d first met Brad, I’d thought he was simply a buff dude from the poorer neighborhoods of Brooklyn. I’d stereotyped him.

  Conall had taken a different attitude with him. It’s like he believes anyone can aspire to anything given the right amount of guidance and patience.

  On the train, Kayla told me how Brad was “giving her less sex” because he was buried in books of a thousand or more pages at a time. “And I can’t even tell you what the books are, Leo. Because they all have abbreviations on the covers! Brad tells me they’re different programming languages. He says that he doesn’t want to let Conall down, because Conall believes so much in him. Can you believe that shit? I would have never thought it possible! My Brad!”

  We watched the scenery race by outside and I flipped a news magazine that had been left lying around.

  “Why are you so quiet?” Kayla asked me.

  My head had been spinning. I was still locked on this bullshit that Conall’s father had said yesterday.

  “Is it that bitch, Bettina?” she asked.

  I shook my head, and I told her about our “lunch” yesterday.

  She also went quite after that.

  -2-

  Carlo Fabiano was a short guy with a full head of dyed black hair. He wore a pink cravat around his neck and a dark blue sports coat I’d never seen in the stores. Very expensive-looking. Probably self-designed. He spoke with expansive flourishes of his hands and wiggled his ass a lot when he walked.

  Carlo was sitting behind a table with fabrics and designs on it. Kay and I walked in, he looked up, then looked at a clock on the wall, and said simply: “Good. Now let’s-a put –a you girls-a to work.”

  I looked at the clock, and we were a minute early. I made a note to be fifteen minutes earlier tomorrow!

  He was pure business. I got the feeling that if we’d been late, he would have sent us home packing—and he wouldn’t give a damn who Conall Williams was! I’d gotten a job at a restaurant before because people in the Crawley Down village had known I was Conall’s girlfriend. This was totally different. I could feel it.

  “Work” was cleaning the place. And other gopher work. We got given beepers. We were to fetch fabrics and needles and anything else one of the staff needed. We were to go out and buy pencils or pens for designing when needed. We were to make coffee when needed. If we didn’t know what a certain fabric was, we were to learn it. If we didn’t know where it was, we were to ask. Once.

  There was something about the manner in which Carlo told us we were supposed to do these things which brooked no argument! Hard work. And, damn, did we work our asses off! By the end of the day, it felt like I hadn’t sat down for a second! I’d barely eaten lunch, and when Kay had gone out to get us both a sandwich, I’d been overwhelmed by how much more I’d needed to do while she’d been away.

  You’d be amazed at how much coffee fashion designers drink! And models, and technical designers, and seamstresses, photographers, stylists—all of them! By the end of the day I had a full understanding of the extent of the place: Fabiano’s is a six-story building in the high-end of London and every aspect of the clothing line is done in-house. Each floor is dedicated to a different part of its production and, you guessed it, we had to go up and down those stairs several hundred times that first day because the stylists working with the photographers are on the fourth floor, the fashion and technical designers are on the third, the seamstresses and anything to do with sewing or pattern making is on the fifth. The only “luxurious” part of the building is the first floor, the store itself. That floor is quiet with mellow music playing in the background. The rest? It’s mayhem! Always busy, always working, people shouting, trying to get custom garments done, ready-to-wear garments. And, of course, their coffee!

  Elevator? We tried, but soon discovered it was too slow for all the demands!

  If someone needed something, they typed it on an iPad and our beeper went off with who, what and where. No way to respond—just go go go! Sometimes we got to a person on the fourth floor and our beepers had already gone off another two times!

  Before we knew it, we were running, coffees in hand, not even spilling a drop (after having spilled several full cups, and cleaned up all the mess!)

  By the time we made it onto the train at six P.M., Kayla and I were both too tired to even speak.

  We caught a bus from the train station. Brad was in Conall’s office when we arrived home, looking a
little confused. Conall was showing him something, and Brad wasn’t getting it. Kayla and I were both too wiped out to comment. We went into the living room, sat on a couch. And we fell asleep.

  The next day, same thing. I got up fifteen minutes earlier. Conall had breakfast ready for me again. “What time do you get up in the morning!” I asked, amazed at how fresh he looked. He simply smiled and put some eggs in front of me. I ate them, half-dazed.

  On my way out of the car at the train station, he gave me a lunchbox with sandwiches. “Lunch,” he said. “I heard you were extra busy yesterday.”

  I didn’t ask how he knew, because I was still exhausted. But the sandwiches came in handy.

  Wednesday: Same thing. I was even too tired to have sex!

  Thursday. Friday.

  And then Carlo told us we needed to work on Saturday...

  -3-

  This is how it went:

  Kayla and I were at the door of his store, first floor, ready to leave, ready for a good night’s sleep and then bright and early for coffee with the girls. Carlo was behind a counter with a tall and luxurious-looking saleswoman, going over the design of a piece he’d just completed and which would be on sale in a month.

  Just as Kayla and I were walking out, he bellowed in his thick Italian accent: “Girls, I need-a you-a tomorrow. All day. We start-a at-a six sharp.”

  Here’s the funny thing: You know what we both said? Without even thinking about it? It sounded almost like a chorus: “Sure.”

  And then we walked out onto the street.

  I think it only hit us when we were waiting for the train, sitting on a huge pot-plant, resting our feet. “Did we just agree to work tomorrow?” I said to Kayla.

  “M-hmmm.” Her eyes were already closing.

  We thought about it for a second, watching the home-goers rushing to their trains, eager for their weekend.

  “Why did you say yes?” I asked.

  “Why not?”

  I felt the same way.

  There was something electric about working with him—despite the minimum wage, walking our feet off until they hurt (I was wearing sneakers to work now), not knowing what our future was with him. It felt...good.

  Fabiano’s was always buzzing. The phones would ring non-stop, press wanting interviews with him (Kayla and I dealt with some of those calls as well), calls asking about upcoming shows, minor magazines asking for his opinion on trends...

  He had an entire studio on the photography floor. There were models walking around, photographers, lighting.

  “Are we about to drop out of college to work in a minimum wage job fetching things and answering phones?” I asked.

  “Looks like it. Have you changed your mind?”

  I thought about that for a second before I answered. “No, I haven’t. I think this is gonna work out. Maybe he’s just...testing us.”

  “Isn’t Conall like some big-shot name and everyone’s afraid of upsetting him?”

  “It seems different with Carlo.”

  “Did he give you any tips? Conall. I mean, did he say you’d be put on minimum wage?”

  I shook my head.

  “It feels good, Leo. It just feels...right. I don’t know, Carlo just seems...‘with it.’ Like he knows his business and he’s just trying to get things done. And if he doesn’t, well, I’m at least gonna ask him for some tips on giving decent head! You know gay guys are the best at that!”

  “Kay!” I slapped her shoulder.

  “I’m sure it’s a test, Leo. I’m sure.”

  “So how do we pass? Do we tell him we want to do some actual design? Or do we simply do the work and say nothing until he gives us the next thing?”

  We got our answer the next day.

  -4-

  “Good-a morning, my girls!” Carlo was bright and sparkly, hands clasped by his chest. Then he put his hands on both our shoulders and pushed us together.

  We were both still too tired to react.

  He took us to the third floor (fashion and technical design) and...the place was dead! No one was there! It was suddenly like a morgue! I actually heard the traffic outside when normally I would hear people shouting and screaming for muslin or chiffon or a pair of scissors or—don’t forget—“More coffee!”

  A car honked outside. A kid started crying. All the sounds were muffled through the windows.

  Carlo put his hands behind each of our backs and pushed us forward to two empty tables. They each had a cup of hot coffee on them. And a book—on how to draw the human figure.

  We both stared at the tables, confused.

  “Leora, bella,” Carlo said from behind me, “where is-a da corduroy kept?”

  I told him, down to the floor and section.

  “Very good. Kayla, where-a is-a da wool?”

  She turned to look at him. “Which color?”

  He looked surprised. “Green?”

  She told him, down to the floor and section.

  Then to me: “Silk?”

  I told him.

  To Kayla: “Where can you buy-a B6 pencils?”

  She told him. Then she pulled out her phone and gave him the phone number from her contacts.

  “Leora. Where do we buy emergency fifty-millimeter lenses?”

  I told him the store. Then I added where we get our preferred lenses from, but that an emergency lens is purchased immediately so the photographer can keep working. And the superior lens is then purchased with high-priority delivery for the next day.

  He smiled. Somehow I got the idea we’d just passed our first test.

  “Please-a ladies”—he gestured to the coffees behind us—“have a coffee. It is getting cold.”

  We didn’t at first move for a second, a little confused and stunned. Carlo just looked at us. Then we picked our coffees up with the speed we’d learned from responding to our beepers! In chorus, we took a sip.

  Damn good coffee!

  “I-a made it-a myself. Pure Italian coffee.” He was all smiles today. My stomach started to hurt. I was nervous.

  “There is a lot to know about fashion design. There is much you must understand. Where everything-a is, is-a first. You must-a know-a fabric. You must-a know-a lines. You must-a know-a styles. You must-a know-a what is-a in, and what is-a out. You must-a know people, connections. Most of-a all, you must-a be good-eh at designing, at imagining.” He swirled his hand around his head when he said “imagining.” “You must-a know how to come up wit-a many designs-a quickly. I do not believe a fashion designer should-a be-a too used to using computer aided design. I do not-a believe a fashion designer does not need to know-a how to make a pattern! I do not-eh believe a good-eh fashion designer can-a design without knowing how to sew! You will-a learn-a all deez tings. If you ’ave no talent in design, you can always choose another profession inside-a da world of-a fashion design. But if you do not-a learn all-a da skills involved in-a fashion design, you will not-a become a good-eh designer!

  “Deh first skill to learn is-a how to draw deh human body.”

  He pointed to the tables behind us. Two books were on them. We were to read them in two hours. And then we were to draw bodies, bodies, bodies, bodies. No designs. Just bodies. Fat bodies, thin bodies, tall bodies, all bodies.

  This was not work. This was “free” education. It was also optional. But if we didn’t come here on Saturdays, we wouldn’t have a place to work the rest of the week because “nothing comes for free,” he said.

  So much for “optional.”

  Kayla and I had never been so excited.

  By the time the day had come to an end, I could draw the human body with my eyes closed.

  I could even draw Conall’s body, with all its muscles in the right place...

  And that got me thinking...

  For the first time in a week, I was horny as hell when I left work.

  And I also had enough energy left that I could do something about it.

  -5-

  Carlo was fully appraised of our “dilemm
a” at school, and that we had to go back there on Monday to deal with it.

  “If-a you don’t-a come-a to work on Tuesday, I assume you decided to-a stay in-a school. Personally, I would not recommend it. You will not learn-a creativity in school. You will learn what everybody here has learned: How to sew, how to cut, how to draw, how to iron.” He tapped his head. “Dis...you cannot teach. Dis...you either have, or you don’t.”

  He told us that, because we were hard workers, he would gladly offer us a job according to our skill-level in the future. At worst, he said, we’d become technical designers—a good paying job that required mostly technical skill. It didn’t require “dis”—imagination or creativity. It would take us six months to a year to learn all the technical skills we’d need to become an “acceptable” Technical Designer. It would take years of experience to become a great one.

  “But-a you will-a not gain-a dat experience in-a university. Dat I can-a promise you!”

  The final nail in the coffin, however, came when he told us this last thing: He never got a college degree. He was booted out, in fact. His family was “disgraced” by his actions. He’d been studying business administration (“Da most-a boring-a subject in-a da universe!”), and had grown sick of it.

  Then he’d come out of the closet as a homosexual (actually, his father had walked in on him in the bedroom with another man...) His father had disowned him. He came to America and started working as a gopher at an atelier, just like he’d made us do. He’d fallen in love with the world of fashion.

  Seven years later, he had his own line, and he was a millionaire—several times over.

  Suddenly it made sense why he’d made us run so hard. “I hire and fire at least ten or fifteen people a month who do what-a you two have been-a doing. I give-a dem no idea what-a dey are-a doing. I give-a dem no hope. I just-a make-a dem work! Most quit after four days. The rest-a quit when I tell dem to come-a in on a Saturday. And if dey complain-a even-a once, I fire dem. No questions!

  “I was-a not-a complaining when I got-eh my first-a job doing what you ’ave been doing. After-a my first-a week, I was-a also told to come in on a Saturday. And I was-a also taught how to draw bodies. I do with you, the same was done with me. I cannot teach you more. Da rest-a is up to you.”