Beautiful People | wlw

Thirty-three: Work

A few weeks later, Vera was outside her studio, shifting an armful of overloaded shopping bags to reach for her keys. A ripple of eyelet lace popped out of the top bag to flutter in her face. She blew it away, but the stubborn wind butted it right back into her eyes.

Muttering to herself, she fumbled at the lock until the door sprang open. She toed blindly inside, bags tottering in her arms, and bumped into the worktable, where she let it all tumble, buttons, trims, and yards of colorful fabric spilling out over the worn wood. With a sigh of relief, she stretched her arms over her head.

The studio's bare brick walls stared at her. All the framed photos of Bea's clients that used to hang there leaned now against the left wall, beside Bea's desk and chair. Marina's former stylist had been by earlier in the week to pack up her things, and later today she'd be coming with a van to move the straggling bits to her new writing space, an office in her house. She hadn't asked too many questions about how things were going with Marina, thank goodness. Since her twins had arrived in August she'd had time for little else.

Contemplating the long, narrow room lit softly by the dusty skylights, Vera ran her freshly manicured nails over her chin. The studio was all hers now. She'd told Bea she wanted to keep it because the long-term lease was stupid cheap, but she wasn't going to need this much space all to herself. It looked so big without all the seating and changing space for clients, let alone Bea's office that had lived at the back.

She shook her head. That was a problem for another time. First up, she had shopping to organize.

A haul from the sewing wholesaler always felt like Christmas morning. Fabrics she organized by color, spools of thread went into their little cabinet, interfacing and fasteners and trims each found their respective homes. Finally, the special item she'd gone all the way across town to pick up she now folded carefully into a big fancy box that she tied shut with a pink ribbon.

Another, similar box waited on the lower shelf of the workbench for the most important project of all, the one that was still an orderly heap of yellow fabric and half a shape pinned to her dressform.

Choosing two swathes of this sunshine yellow silk organza, Vera laid them out on the cleared table and grabbed her crocheted-pig pincushion.

The light overhead wore from the muted glow of morning into the blaze of afternoon as Vera worked. Scissors snipped, sewing machine clattered, and the disparate pieces slowly became one, all softness and femininity in its flowing length.

It felt so good to work on her own designs again. She had enjoyed styling other people's pieces, and as she'd sketched these new looks it had been obvious how developing a stylist's eye had changed the way she saw fashion. Still, there was nothing more satisfying than shaping a vision in her mind and then crafting it into being.

Bringing this particular piece to life felt like a revelation. The first shape of it had breathed in her sketchbook months ago, when she'd first moved in with Sharise, but the final version was more beautiful than she'd imagined it could be. With each stitch, she'd thought about Sharise asking her on their first date, her palms skimming nervously over her hips; every seam contained their first kiss on the rooftop under LA's rosy night sky; between one dart and the next dreamed that last sweet moment in Venice between the mountains of pillows. It was the most heartfelt piece she'd ever designed.

Not that she'd ever admit to Ivy that her wedding dress wasn't the pinnacle of her career.

Over her brief lunch break, she thumbed through the coverage from Paris Fashion Week for the hundredth time. Sharise had been there, front row at Fatima Bhatia's show next to a famous French DJ who looked rather taken with her. In the photos she seemed to be having a great time, which made Vera happy in a melancholy way. She was glad that Sharise was using their break to explore what was next for her, too.