Even someone as successful and seemingly perfect as Mira is just another person chasing their dreams. I feel lucky to have been made privy to hers, and I’m glad I told her mine. After all, it’s like Mira said, life would be so boring without them.
It’s almost seven o’clock when I’ve finished up for the day. Marco left a half hour ago and Holly a few minutes before me, most likely on the back of a Vespa with our favorite curly-haired chef. I don’t know for sure that they zipped away to an upbeat Italian musical montage, but I also refuse to believe otherwise.
Leaving the office, I take a deep breath of the night air as I step onto the street. I love the smell outside our building. There’s a gelato shop two doors over and their specialty is serving their frozen delicacies on freshly baked waffles. I didn’t even know waffles and gelato were a thing, but once you catch your first whiff of the combination, needless to say, you’re never the same again.
The neighborhood is mellow but still awake as I make my way toward the apartment. The erratic excitement of daytime Rome takes on an ethereal vitality at night. Stores are open and people are out, but there’s no rush. You can move at your own pace and soak it all in—every echo of radio music—the bouncing glow from the streetlights. I’m doing just that, savoring each delicious drop of ambiance, when the city seduces me into setting course for a different destination. And I don’t stop walking until I’m at the door of Louisa Tessuti.
Stepping inside, I’m immediately met with the same homelike feeling I experienced the first time I visited the store. For all intents and purposes, I should be overwhelmed by the miles of fabric stacked and piled around the space, but I’m not. If anything, I’m galvanized by the possibilities it presents for my collection. I have a general idea of what I’m doing but I need to make real decisions now. No more flip-flopping. I need to make a choice and commit. Bearing that in mind, I’m moving toward a navy chiffon when I hear someone clearing their throat. I turn around to find Louisa leaning down on the cutting table/counter with her Chanel glasses on the bridge of her nose.
“Back again?” she asks.
“I just couldn’t stay away,” I tell her. “And now I’m here on my own time.”
Louisa nods and walks around to approach me. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Sort of,” I answer. “I’m working on a five-piece evening wear collection, and I was thinking of using eerie, elegant aquatic elements, but that also feel somewhat utilitarian. Something like that, if that makes sense.”
I hold my breath as I await her response, for some reason desperately wanting her approval.
“That could be interesting,” Louisa says, eyeing the fabric I’m currently checking out. “But what will you do to make it different?”
I try to look confident instead of terrified. “That’s the million-dollar question.”
Louisa pulls off her glasses and lets them dangle from the chain around her neck. “If this is the fabric that’s speaking to you, I’ll cut you a square. You can sit with it and see what it has to say. You have paper, I assume?”
“Yes, always,” I reply, tapping the side of my tote.
She nods and walks off with the fabric. I, in turn, find one of the empty high-backed chairs and make myself comfortable. By the time I’m settled with my sketchbook and pencil out, Louisa’s returned with my square of fabric.
“Remember,” she says, “anyone canmakeclothes if they put the time and effort into it, but it’s up to you tocreatethem. New. Exciting. Innovative. Go.”
She turns on her heels and walks away, and I pick up the fabric to let it sift through my fingers. I close my eyes and imagine what it would feel like to wear it. What it would makemefeel in return. I imagine where I’d be going in it and what I would need it to be. A few seconds later I open my eyes and start to sketch. I end up drawing a formal jumpsuit and skirt overlay, but then look deeper as I try to think of something that I’ve never seen before.
I sketch again, this time coming up with a more complex neckline and a higher, cinched waist. Studying the drawing, I think about how I could take that design and make it the most comfortable as possible for the person wearing it. Next I consider which lining I’d use. I add a shoulder strap for extra support and pinpoint where I want the overlay to start. Finally, I think of which add-ons I’d want to apply, and wind up opting for an intricate beading design below the bust and tapering down the bodice.
I go on in this same way for over an hour when my cell phone vibrates once inside my bag beside the chair, alerting me to a text message. I pick up the bag and fish my phone out, looking at the display screen and seeing an unknown number. I unlock the phone and open the text, seeing only a plain “hey.” For a second I wonder how I should respond, or if I should at all. Ultimately, I text the standard:
Hi. Who’s this?
I don’t have to wait long at all before I get a response.
It’s your favorite least favorite person. And before you block me, just know that I withstood an intense amount of verbal mockery when I asked Marco for your number.
A smile spreads across my face as I recognize Matt’s gloomy voice, even when it’s in written form.
Marco would never do such a thing. He’s nothing if not discreet.
Blinking dots appear without delay.
He confiscated my phone and stored your contact with no less than twenty heart emojis. Take that as you will.
A little laugh escapes me as I quickly write:
Well, as you went through all the trouble of getting my number, what can I help you with?
Instant blinking dots.
I was wondering if you had any plans for tonight.
