The one spot of the wall not taken up with sewing materials hosted my #Goals bulletin board. In my dream world, in which I wasn’t still living in my childhood bedroom, I had a chic apartment—one of those prewar ones with tall ceilings, a chandelier, and original molding. I wanted a corgi and a nice kitchen and a cute husband. I would have a sewing room with huge windows with a ton of natural light. Most of all, I wanted a Louis Vuitton Stokowski steamer trunk with a fold-out table. But those were big and extravagant, and I could never in a million years fit one in my bedroom even if I did have the money (ha!) to buy one.
“I just need a rich husband,” I told the dream board. Henry Cavill’s face smoldered at me from the pinned picture.
Kind of looks like Mark Holbrook.
Traitorous thoughts. Mark Holbrook was the worst!
“No one is as great as you,” I whispered to Henry’s picture.
I took up my sketchpad and listened to my parents talk to the Roombas as I began designing a gown for Liz.
* * *
It waspitch-black outside as I tramped up the steps of the subway station to Weddings in the City’s office the next morning. Talk about rich men buying a nice piece of real estate—Ivy’s new billionaire boyfriend had bought her the coolest penthouse on top of the Brookview Hotel, a repurposed clock tower. The round two-story windows let in a flood of natural light. It was exactly what I needed to sew.
The only problem? It was an hour and a half away from my parents’ apartment. I yawned as I made a pot of coffee. It was my third cup today. I usually drank a coffee immediately when I woke up, then I bought one on the way to the train, then I drank a fancy breakfast coffee in my office.
“Yum, hazelnut roast!” I said, inhaling. I was finally starting to wake up as the coffee brewed.
Breakfast coffee was special. It was like the sweet, nonalcoholic version of those Bloody Marys that come with a grilled cheese, bacon, and shrimp balanced on top. My breakfast coffee went into a giant mug that said YOU’RE SEW AWESOME! On top went a scoop of birthday-cake ice cream, then a donut, and then whipped cream and sprinkles. If there was any leftover wedding cake from Sophie, I put that on there too.
I drank-slash-ate my coffee and selected an audiobook. The sun shone in through the window as I sewed and listened. This was how women had worked for hundreds of years, doing needlework to the sound of someone reading or other women gossiping.
“Morning!” Ivy sang out, making me jump.
I pulled off my headphones. “Sorry. I didn’t think you were going to be in this early,” I said as my friends filed into the office.
“You texted us franticly last night about Liz’s wedding, and then she also sent me a five-page, single-spaced document outlining her vision for the wedding. Plus a courier sent over this.” Ivy held up a scrapbook titledMy Dream Wedding.
Ivy had started Weddings in the City as a collaborative so that brides could have a one-stop shop for a beautiful, high-class wedding. She was the wedding planner. Amy, short and bubbly, created beautiful, locally grown flower arrangements. Sophie baked delicious wedding cakes decorated with her signature sculpted sugar flowers. Elsie cooked the tastiest catering ever. Yours truly designed and sewed one-of-a-kind, ethereal wedding dresses, and Grace was the wedding photographer extraordinaire.
While we no longer did business out of a corner café, we still needed to get ourselves together. Maybe raise prices, hire a secretary—preferably a hot one who looked like Chris Hemsworth.
“I’m surprised you need to read about billionaires considering you half had one yesterday,” Grace teased, motioning to the sexually suggestive book cover on my phone.
Thoughts of Mark Holbrook flooded back.
“He’s a wedding-hating robot,” I told them. “He has some sort of complex.”
“I bet he has a big bank account,” Sophie said, waggling her eyebrows. “And an even bigger dick.”
“Ladies!” Elsie admonished. “Mark is the relative of a client. We need to keep it classy. This is a high-end establishment.”
“Yes,” Ivy smirked, “we don’t use that word. Call it a ‘member’ or a ‘little Mark.’”
“That just sounds skeezy!” Amy retorted.
“Yeah, like a brothel,” I added.
“We are small-business owners!” Elsie barked over our shrieks of laughter.
“Barely. Brea had ice cream for breakfast!” Sophie complained, holding up my empty mug.
“And I’m having it for lunch,” I said, going back to my sewing.
6
Mark
