At this point, I wonder why I even bothered getting out of bed this morning. Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. I was out of coffee pods. There was no hot water in the building this morning. My phone charger fell out of the wall socket during the night, leaving my phone with only fifty percent battery life. The Tube line I normally take into Central London was down, so I had to make two transfers to get on a train that would take me to Notting Hill. I wish they’d just open the doors and let us walk the remainder of the way, but someone was saying it isn’t safe.
Today was supposed to be a straightforward morning. I was going to meet Clarissa and Sonya and sell myself and my designs to them. Now, I’m already an hour late and I have no way of reaching them. What kills me the most isthat my fashion hero is going to think I don’t care about her.
“Ladies and gents.” The conductor’s voice comes onto the speaker system. A hush grows over everyone in the train. “I just wanted to advise you that I still have not received any word from the?—”
“Rubbish!” a man shouts. “Don’t update us if you have no update!”
“Here, here!”
My fellow occupants on the train car cheer.
I close my eyes. A few hours ago, I was living a real-life dream. I imagine Sam’s lips on my lips and his hands holding me against his broad chest. He’s the perfect escape from the nightmare.
Suddenly, the lights in the tunnel flicker. There is a jolt. Everyone crashes into one another.
“Attention passengers, please hold on tight. This train is about to move.”
Elated cheers fill the car. I grasp on to the nearest railing for dear life, and finally, after being trapped in an airless sardine can for over an hour, we’re free.
I jogas if my life depends on it to the Clarissa Lee Atelier on Portobello Road. Normally, I’d love to stop and explore the area, especially the antique market. It’s one of the largest, if not the largest, in the UK. You can find anything in the shops and stalls set up here. I love searching through the vintage clothing for rare and unusual treasures.
Today, however, I have to have tunnel vision. I’m late for a very,veryimportant date. Breathless, I slow my pace asI approach the lilac facade of the building. A hand-painted sign contains swirly blue lettering and the logo for the shop.
My steps slow and turn into a brisk power walk, before I stop and stare at the stunning collection of spring dresses in the front display windows. They are bright, fun pastel colors—pink, baby blue, light green, and yellow—offered in a variety of silhouettes, lengths, and sizes.
While Clarissa earned her fame for creating evening and wedding wear for petite women, over the years, she’s branched out and has become the only premiere designer who promises a perfect-fitting gown for any customer who walks through her shop’s doors.
When something off the rack doesn’t work, the Clarissa Lees team steps in and offers alterations, pattern changes, and customizationsfreeof charge. Normally, that’s a type of service only the most expensive fashion houses like Chanel, Dior, Saint Laurent, Hermès, and Louis Vuitton offer. But not Clarissa. She ensures her gowns stay affordable. She wants the everyday woman to feel like they’re royalty. That’s the type of designer I aspire to be.
Through the glass, I can see Sonya chatting to one of the sales associates near the bridal-wear samples. I quickly use my hands to sweep my hair into a low bun. The one hair tie and bobby pin I have will hopefully keep everything in place. Once my mane is semi-secure, I square my shoulders, tuck my portfolio under my arm, and march through the front door.
“Hello, can I help you?” a female shop assistant clad in all black asks me.
“She’s here for me, Lottie,” Sonya replies, greeting me with a warm smile. In person, she is a giant. Okay, she’s not as tall as Sam, but she’s probably about five foot ten. She haslong legs, blonde locks, and reminds me of Gwyneth Paltrow. I wonder if she’s ever modeled.
“Sonya, I apologize for being late.”
“I’m just happy you made it. Come with me. Clarissa is waiting for us.”
All I can do is bob my head up and down. Like Mary’s little lamb, I follow her. My throat goes dry, my breathing quickens, my legs quiver. I’m led to a snug office. Clarissa is sketching on an antique writing desk. She’s a petite Asian woman with jet-black hair.
“One second, Sonya.” We stand silent as she spins the pad of paper around, eyeing her design from different angles. “It’s still not working. I can’t figure out what I’m missing.” She huffs, pushes the paper to the side, and glances directly at us. All traces of frustration disappear, replaced with a bright, cheery smile. “Brilliant, you’ve made it! We were beginning to worry.”
Before I can stop myself, I say, “I love you.” My hands fly to my mouth. My portfolio falls to the ground. The sketches disperse in piles. My body burns. That was my one moment to play it cool and I ruined it. “I... I mean your work!” I fall to my knees and scramble to pick them up.
Clarissa and Sonya also kneel down and assist.
Clarissa hands me a sketch. “Breathe, Minerva. I promise, I’m just a girl from Birmingham who is lucky enough to be able to create clothes for a living. I’m human, just like you.”
“But . . . but you . . . you’re you.”
“I am me.” She giggles.
“And soon, she’ll be Lady Renbrook.” Sonya winks.
“I think I prefer Mrs. Paddy Nelson to the fancy title.”
I shove the remaining papers into a semi-organized pile. We stand.
