“Okay, then I’m letting go.”
Free from her grip, I make a beeline for the information plaque with a bold black number one. There’s a life-sized black-and-white photo of a young Gabrielle Chanel in a bucket hat and tailored black coat. If I had to take a guess, I’d say it’s probably from 1910?
“I never knew Chanel got her start in millinery,” Liz says as she joins me, skimming the plaque
“Uh-huh, she worked her way up to clothing. I’ve always admired that she started with something small and ended up turning her design business into one of the largest fashion houses in the world.”
“Mm-hmm,” Liz agrees. “And where does she rank among your all-time favorite fashion designers?”
That’s a difficult question. I like different designers for different reasons. Putting them up against one another is like comparing a Cinderella ball gown to plunging V-neck evening gown. “Top three?”
“After Clarissa Lee and . . .?”
“Christian Dior.”
She snaps her fingers together. “Right, Dior. I always forget about him.”
We slowly meander toward display number two. My fingers itch to touch the fabric of each garment. “All these early pieces were probably handmade by Chanel. I wish I could have one to study and deconstruct.”
“Don’t let any of the curators hear you say that.” She snorts. “Or else they may boot you out.” I glance around us. “You’re safe. The only museum employee I saw was the one at the front scanning tickets.”
I exhale and elbow her lightly in the ribs. “Don’t scare me like that.”
“It’s payback for giving me a hard time at the Art of Menswear exhibit we went to last month.”
Liz is a menswear designer, and a talented one at that. As she explained to me, when you grow up with four brothers, you end up with a substantial number of hand-me-downs. Her parents didn’t have the money to buy her many new clothes, so she taught herself how to tailor her brother’s castoffs to fit her tall frame out of necessity.
“Fair enough,” she says.
We spend about an hour and a half wandering around the small space until we’re back to where we started. From the landing overlooking the main entrance, I take a few extra moments to soak in all that we’ve seen. I feel like I’m inside a Barbie Dream House.
“Do you think you have enough inspiration to finish putting your portfolio together?” Liz asks, leaning against the stairwell railing.
“Actually, I have a small confession to make.” Heat sears through my cheeks.
Liz turns and studies me for a moment, her lips thin. “Min, don’t tell me... Have you scrapped everything you had and startedagain?”
I look away, bobbing my head up and down.
“Gah, you’re such a perfectionist.” She sighs. “I suppose that’s why we get on so well.”
“I think from what I’ve seen here today, I have enough ideas floating around my head to get started on a new collection.”
“And to finish it?”
“I’ll go to my usual place.”
“The National Portrait Gallery?” she asks.
“Uh-huh.”
We begin descending the stairs, staying to the right.
“Are you going to be able to finish before the deadline for the Clarissa Lee internship? It’s only two weeks away.”
I wave her off. “I have plenty of time. I can get it done.”
Liz mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “I hope so.”
