by Mj Fields
My eyes still locked with Mademoiselle Acord’s, I nodded.
“Come to see me Friday, I’ll have a list of students.”
I stood and held out my hand, “Thank you.”
She nodded and shook it, “Thank you, Natasha.”
After she walked away, Stella leaned in, “London College of Design, money.”
I laughed at the thought, and she smacked my arm. “We have a plan now.” She scratched her head in thought. “Well, you have a plan, I need to get one.”
We both laughed, and just like always, it was for two entirely different reasons.
When I was done with classes at school, while waiting for Mom to finish up work, I’d finish my homework or sketch at her workplace, de la Porte USA.
On the executive level, just down the black and silver flecked marble hallway from my mother’s office, was a black door with frosted glass and the words ‘la placard’ etched into it.
La placard is French for the closet.
Jean-Paul de la Porte is the owner of de la Porte Worldwide. And just as his name sounds, he’s a French native who began working in the industry as a designer for a top fashion house and his brand grew from there into his own.
Unlike so many others, including Donna Karan, Tommy Hilfiger, and Mossimo Giannulli, you’ll never find de la Porte fashions in a department or chain store. You won’t even see his label in a market sale, boutique only.
The only retail store with the world renowned black and silver logo on it is in the city in which he seldom leaves– Paris.
De la Porte caters to the five percent of the world who Autumn said, “Could wipe their asses with hundred-dollar bills and flush them right down their gold-plated bidet… if they actually wiped their own asses.” This was one of many of Autumn and my after-school discussions.
Mom would put it differently. “The majority of de la Porte’s clients are men who buy what they’d like the world to see their wives in. The fabrics are exquisite, and the designs are classically beautiful.”
“Well, I hope underneath those threads their women are rocking Fredericks of Hollywood.” Autumn had quipped
I had to Google that. Um… yikes!
“Autumn,” Mom had gasped.
“She’s seventeen for the love of thongs.” Autumn rolled her eyes. “I bet their Cinq A Septs aren’t wearing de la Porte.”
“What’s that?” I had asked.
“The women they ravage before going home to the wives they drape in ten thousand-dollar pieces,” Autumn laughed.
Mom closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m sure that’s not what Jean thinks about as he designs the clothing he puts out for the world.”
Autumn laughed, “I have a theory.”
“I wish you’d keep it to yourself,” Mom murmured.
“I haven’t seen our boss photographed with a woman in years. Hell, I haven’t seen him with a man, either.”
Mom chimed in, “He’s a private man, Autumn.”
“I wonder if he has his mother’s mummified corpse stashed away in that big old mansion on the river Seine and is still breastfeeding–.”
Mom jumped up. “Oh my lord, Autumn, really!”
I couldn’t contain the giggle that erupted from deep inside my chest.
“No employee has ever been inside it. Something’s up there,” Autumn defended.
Mom winked at me, “It’s often those creative types that need a place to escape, a place of their own.” She looked at Autumn. “You’re nasty.”
My mother is Jean's executive assistant and is trusted enough by him to handle the US side of the empire. He’s rarely in the US. Autumn is her secretary, and the most unlikely best friend. Think the old school show, The Odd Couple. Oscar and Felix. That’s them. And I love every moment I spend with the two of them.
I swipe Mom’s security card and hear the click of the lock on the door to la Placard. I take a deep breath as I turn the handle and push open the door.
Stepping inside on the same marble floor, I toe off my shoes before taking the four steps to the black, plush, fur carpet and sinking my toes into it, wiggling them around a bit.
Haute Courtier = heaven.
This is precisely what I imagine God’s closet would be like, except white instead of black.
After my feet and toes feel lavished, I walk across the carpet, sketch pad in hand to the plush white boudoir sofa where I sit and lean against the circular divider, tuck my feet under me, and take in the three stories of clothes, shoes, and accessories.
The first floor is the future, where the next season’s samples hang against white marble walls lit by platinum sconce lighting around the perimeter of the room. I look up at the second floor, the present. This season’s clothes hang around the perimeter in the same fashion, but as all employees know, the faux walls slide behind each displayed outfit. Visible employees of de la Porte are encouraged to wear the nine to five workplace clothing and get a deep discount on the pieces, and they can use their seasonal clothing bonus, so it costs them next to nothing out of pocket. The very top floor is only accessible by private elevator and is known to lead to Jean’s private penthouse that no one, not even my mother, his most trusted employee, has ever gained access to. But from right here in the middle, you can steal a glimpse at what I imagine are Jean de la Porte’s most beloved pieces of the floor perfectly referred to as, the past.
An artist gives birth to his or her dream in the most curious of places. This was the very place I was sitting when the realization struck that I one day would be a fashion designer.
After a few minutes, or an hour, maybe a few days, I’m unsure because there is no perception of time when I am in my world, the door clicks and then opens.
“I thought I’d find you in here.” I look up from my sketch pad and see Autumn.
I smile as I finish the last line in the drawing, before looking up again.
“Your mom wants to know if you’d like to get the hell out of here.”
I take in a deep breath, inhaling the scent that is uniquely la Placard. Rich, earthy, and slightly sweet. Its smell reminds me of an old workshop, a luxury car, and comfort, only found in those with privilege. The past, the present, and the future.
“Sounds good. You coming with?” I ask as I close the sketch pad and shove the pencil behind my ear.
“Not tonight, I have a date.” She winks.
As I walk towards her, I laugh, “You think you could talk Mom into one of those?”
“She’s on strike.” She links her arm through mine as I push my feet into my leather loafers.
I look up in question, and she winks “But movie day Sunday?”
“Soup and salad?”
“Sans bra, my favorite day of the week,” she grins.
“Mine too.” I grin back.
After dinner at The Smiths, we ride the train towards home.
Mom’s looking at emails on her phone, I’m looking at my group chat with my friends, both of us able to ignore the noise around us. I lean against her, and she leans into me.
I get a text from Stella asking what my mom said about tutoring and wants to know how many entitled assholes I had to tutor to pay for a flat in London. I laugh out loud.
“Natasha,” Mom’s laugh cuts through my thoughts,
“Stella, she’s being silly. But I forgot to tell you, I was asked to tutor after school. Apparently, I’ll be paid for it.”
“Will it interfere with your studies?”
I shake my head.
“Is it something you’d like to do?”
“Yeah,” I smile. “I think I’ll enjoy it.”
“Then we’ll make it work.”
4
Natasha
On Friday afternoon I walk into the office to get the information on my peers, the ones I’d be tutoring starting next week, and the courses I’d be assisting them with.
Mademoiselle Acord’s secretary is on the phone but smiles and nods to the thick packet atop the counter with my n
ame on it.
I pick it up and shove it in my bag to look over once I get on the train.
When I get to de la Porte, I wave to the security guard, Ronald, and he gives me a small chin lift. I swear they all must have trained with the Queen’s Guard in England, never a smile; heck, not even an emotion.
Sometimes I imagined doing something uber stupid or silly to see if I could crack that granite facade.
I smirk at the thought as I walk into the building and bump right into someone. The laughter gives it away, Mom.
“What are you imagining, Natasha?” Her eyes sparkle in amusement as she grabs me so I don’t fall on my butt.
After gaining my footing, I roll my eyes, at myself. “You’re done early today.”
“It’s Friday.” She links her arm through mine and heads us toward the door. “Dinner in the city?”
We walk outside the quiet confines of de la Porte onto the busy and bustling city streets and fall right into line, stepping faster than necessary when we don’t even have a destination because everyone else is in a hurry.
“I was thinking Italian. Misi’s?”
“Back to Brooklyn, it is.” She turns us to walk toward the train.
Once we get onto the train, and by some odd happening find seats at this time of day side by side, we both sigh and sit back.
“Rough day?” she asks setting her bag between her feet.
“No, it was good,” I admit.
“I’m so glad you’ve found your place.”
“With the freaks and geeks,” I shrug.
She corrects, “With creative people who seem to know what they want in life.”
I set my bag down between my feet and catch sight of the folder. I pull it out to see what students and classes I have to prepare for.
“Tutoring?” Mom asks.
Pulling the pile of papers from the packet, nausea hits.
Looking over the list of peers, the names all are a blur, except his.
Aaron Esposito
I look to the right of his name at the class, English literature, my favorite. And the subject, Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Not my favorite… not yet, anyway.
I feel my smile begin to fall, and by fall, I mean drop like an elevator whose cable has snapped, when U realized, I wasn’t imagining this.
“Oh, God.”
“What is it?” Mom asks
Unable to say a word, I point to his name.
“Aaron Es-.”
“Shh!” Devastated, I look around to see who may have heard her.
Mom’s giggle reminds me of how silly it is. In a city of millions, Aaron Es-, wouldn’t turn a head.
In a seventeen-year-old freak and geek, it can turn a stomach though.
“I can’t believe this,” I grumble, palm against my tummy hoping to steady it.
She leans in and whispers, “You built it.” I give her a sideways glance, and she winks. “You, my dear, will be fine.”
“What if he has halitosis? Body odor? A giant piece of spinach in his teeth when he smiles at me the first time? He’ll ruin the illusion for God’s sake.”
To that, she laughs out loud, and well, so do I.
I let out a long sigh and look at Mom. “This is going to suck,” I lean back, “Like a hoover.”
After pushing my food around my plate at Misi, unable to eat, Mom has it boxed up. And we walk home. When she takes a left instead of a right, I know exactly where we’re going.
I glance at her.
“It’s been a while,” she shrugs slightly, and I nod in agreement.
Two blocks later and we’re strolling as we check out the art on Troutman Street. Some may not agree that it’s art, but it indeed is. It’s someone’s secret dream, turned someone’s vision.
Mom stops me when we see a man with a handkerchief covering half his face. He’s tall and covered in tattoos. From a distance, we watch him bring his vision to life. Spray can in hand, he works fast, adding to his creation. He’d already painted a black and gray mural of a woman with long wavy dark hair and curves in all the places I lack.
The blue from the can streams out, and he paints a tear on the woman’s cheek. He adds a bit of blue to her eyes as we watch.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper.
A siren blares and startles the artist and us. He pulls an earbud out of his ear and looks past where we stand.
“Fuck,” he huffs and quickly reaches in the duffle bag next to him.
He tosses the can in it and grabs another.
Across the woman’s body, vertically, he sprays the words She. Is. Mine. in silver then squats down next to her feet and he writes the word Tag-ed.
As the siren sounds again, I glance behind us and see the traffic light turn green.
I glance back and he’s gone.
I hold my hand over my rapidly beating heart. “That was amazing.”
The rest of the night I spend in my room looking over all the information for classes and the peers I will be working with.
Mom asks several times if I need help and I decline.
After adequately stalking my five fellow seniors on social media, I’m regretting taking this ‘job.’
My phone chimes alerting me of a message.
So?! Who are we tutoring and how many sessions must you endure before having money enough for your self-appointed BFF to room with you in @LCF?
Stella
Pressure. I hate feeling like I’m under pressure. Thus, the decision to hole up and make sure everything is perfect for my session with Aaron… I mean, my students. Oh lord, what do I call them? I’m not a damn teacher!
I take a deep breath and think of how to respond.
Apparently, it’s too long because my phone rings.
I sit up and crisscross my legs, take another deep breath and answer the phone.
“Hey Stella.”
“So, come on, spill it.”
“Um, spill what, exactly?”
She laughs, “The names, the amount of time these dip-shits are going to take away from our very limited hang out time, and lastly, how much bank.”
I flop back on my bed and breathe in again.
Exhaling, I tell her, “Five, half hour sessions, three days a week.”
“WHAT? That’s too much. That’s like-”
Knowing my bestie isn’t a math whiz, I do the math for her, “Two and a half hours on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.”
I rattle off the names, making sure I casually say Aaron’s in the middle, I don’t want anyone, aside from Mom and maybe Autumn, to know I think he’s stunning.
“Well, make sure you schedule Saliva and Aaron as far apart as you can, or you’ll end up in the middle of something you don’t want to be part of.”
Her voice is different, so different than normal. Fear?
No, not Stella. Warning?
But why?
When she laughs, I’m no longer worried. “Unless you enjoy a good shit show.”
Eager for more information I ask, “What does that mean?”
Stella goes on to explain that Sylvia Whitaker; who she calls Saliva, and Aaron Esposito have been dating on and off again for the past year and a half. She calls it toxic and she says anyone who he shows the slightest bit of interest in, she ruins their reputation.
“I thought you just started here the semester before I did. How do you know all of this?” I ask.
“That’s a story for another day.” She yawns and quickly recovers. “Plans for the weekend?”
“Same old, same old,” I reply nonchalantly. “You?”
“Dad’s got weekend shits, that puts me in charge of the little bother.”
“You mean brother,” I laugh.
“Hell no, he’s a pain in the ass,” she laughs.
“Mine too.”
“Wha, wha, what? I’ve known you for how long? I thought you were an only child. Why am I just hearing about this brother?”
I suppose out of sight is truly out of mind. Since starting M
anhattan School of Art and Design, I’ve gone to my father’s less than a handful of times. I’d like to say I missed them, but that would be like saying I would miss my braces when they finally came off. A bold-faced lie.
For as long as I can remember, I have made people uncomfortable simply by being me. The only time I didn’t feel that way was at home, with Mom.
“Johnny is my stepbrother. Jordan and Joy are my half-sisters.”
“All names starting with a J, huh?”
Yet another reason I’d always felt like the odd girl out.
“Except yours,” she acknowledges out loud.
Apparently, I take too long answering because Stella laughs, “Well, fuck them.”
I suppress a laugh.
“Say it with me, Natasha, fuck them.”
Now I do laugh.
Sitting on the couch, sandwiched between Mom and Autumn, red leather journal in hand, snacks littering the coffee table in front of us, and the movie Crazy, Stupid, Love on the TV, I glance over at Autumn’s list.
Suit and Tie.
What about casual days? Can he wear chinos? Pajamas to bed?
Taller than me, preferably towering.
Shrek.
Fit. Bulging arms and shoulders I can sink my teeth into.
Gaston, from Beauty and the Beast meets Edward from Twilight.
Chiseled features.
Too harsh.
Six pack abs.
For what? To wash clothes on?
Tattoos.
Gross.
Gentleman on the streets, freak between the sheets.
Huh?
Oral AF
Oh. My. God.
I feel Mom nudge me and when I look at her, she’s trying not to smile. She whispers, “What are you imagining?”
Autumn answers for me, “We have different taste in men.”
“I… I… I…” Stop, I scold myself.
Mom reaches over and snatches her book.
“Busted,” Autumn fanes irritation, but her eyes appear mischievous.
I watch Mom glance over the list and her eyes widen when, I assume, she gets to the last two.