Lady Bettencourt Read online

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BOOKS BY AUTHOR

  HOUSE OF BETTENCOURT PREVIEW

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  LADY BETTENCOURT

  Copyright © 2016 by Sandra Cunha

  Preview of House of Bettencourt copyright © 2018 by Sandra Cunha

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, except for brief quotations in articles or reviews, without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. And, of course, never sign anything without reading (and understanding) it first. Your name is your word.

  eISBN: 978-0-9939429-2-1

  Author website: sandracunha.com

  For the women who make our clothes.

  “The most courageous act is still to think for yourself. Aloud.” ~ Coco Chanel

  CHAPTER ONE

  RACHEL MCADAMS is wearing my dress.

  Rachel McAdams is wearing my dress!

  Is this really happening?

  Maybe someone stole my dress design.

  No, I remember those materials, taking them apart and putting them back together to sew my first-ever evening gown.

  And now it’s on Rachel McAdams’s body.

  Across the street from the Elgin Theatre, behind temporary fencing, a crowd is shouting Rachel’s name, demanding her to “Look over here!”

  I’m blinded by camera flashes coming from every direction, from her fans across the street, from the media in front of the theatre, and from those, like me, standing in the ticket-holders line.

  The flashing stops for a brief moment, and I see Rachel wave to the crowd before making her way towards the red carpet.

  It’s a gorgeous Saturday evening in September, and I’ve been waiting almost two hours to watch a world premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival. Little did I know when I woke up this morning that I’d be making my own world premiere.

  The festival volunteers are telling us to move forward and to have our tickets ready. I’m near the head of the line and can catch glimpses of Rachel speaking with someone in the media about her film.

  I need to know what she’s saying.

  So I squeeze my way to the outer edge of the line, trying to get as close to the red carpet as I possibly can without security stepping in.

  Rachel is beginning to move on to the next entertainment reporter, but the current one stops her and asks her who she’s wearing.

  This is it.

  Please say, Lady Bettencourt. Please say, Lady Bettencourt!

  I’m frozen to the spot as the other film-goers push past me and head into the theatre.

  “It’s by a local designer,” Rachel says. “She uses all secondhand materials in her dresses. It has deep pockets, too. No need for a purse! The designer is . . . uh . . .”

  Lady Bettencourt! LADY BETTENCOURT!

  “Lady Bettencourt! Almost forgot that,” Rachel says, smiling with those twinkly eyes of hers, then moves on to the next entertainment reporter.

  Yes! Yes! Yes!

  Maybe I should jump the ropes and announce that I am Lady Bettencourt. I’ve always dreamed of walking the red carpet. (But I’d probably get arrested.)

  “Ma’am, please move along. You’re slowing down the line,” a festival volunteer says to me, drunk on his new-found power.

  I head into the theatre with the other film-goers while looking back repeatedly. I need to make sure it’s real; that I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.

  But there’s no denying it.

  Rachel McAdams is definitely wearing my dress.

  I grab the first aisle seat I can find in the beautiful, old Edwardian theatre, although I’m too preoccupied to appreciate its grandeur. Other film-goers squeeze past me to find their own seats.

  If only I could call my sister, Betty, and tell her what just happened. But she’s in Chicago with her fiance, Matt.

  Betty’s engaged!

  Finally. It only took thirteen years. (They’ve been dating since the tenth grade.) Matt even asked me for Betty’s hand in marriage. Their wedding is next month.

  Matt’s still working as a consultant, but his project is wrapping up shortly before the wedding, and then he’ll be in Toronto full-time. It was one of the conditions of Betty accepting his proposal.

  Betty’s “no calls unless it’s an emergency” policy is still in effect whenever she’s away with Matt. We have different definitions of what constitutes an emergency. We have different definitions of a lot of things.

  But she never said anything about text messages.

  I reach into my purse for my phone. I lost my smartphone in the Great Subway Incident, two years ago, so now I’m using Betty’s old Motorola Razr. And as it was Betty-the-accountant’s phone, it’s grey, not one of the fun-colour versions.

  The theatre goes dark. I flip open the phone. Sadly, the backlight no longer works, so I’m not sure what I’m typing into the ancient keyboard. I’m tapping away, taking my best guess I’ve chosen the right letters, to make the right words.

  An older gentleman sitting next to me keeps glancing over and shaking his head; probably because the keyboard volume has also malfunctioned and makes a loud, beeping noise every time I press a button. I’ve learned to tune it out.

  “Do you mind?” he asks irritably.

  And even though I do mind, I quickly send the message and flip the phone closed.

  “Sorry,” I say, smiling at him through the darkness.

  He nods his head.

  I’m forgiven.

  Betty’s good at puzzles. She’ll be able to decode my message.

  I sit in the pitch-black theatre, wondering what this all means.

  Am I famous now?

  Maybe not this very second, but it has to mean I’m going to become famous. People who’ve never heard of Lady Bettencourt will now know it exists. This is how it starts, isn’t it?

  Erin Bettencourt will finally be a somebody!

  Not that I’m not already a somebody. I’ll just be a somebody, more somebodies, know about.

  And it’s all because Rachel McAdams chose me.

  She had to know by putting on that dress and saying who she was wearing that she was about to change someone else’s life, forever. She had to. Imagine having that kind of power.

  Maybe I should put on a fashion show.

  I can see it now: the models wearing my dresses down the runway, the oohing and aahing increasing with each dress . . . and a juggler on a unicycle weaving in and out of the models?

  Hmm, I’m not
sure what that’s about. Or why there’s a tightrope walker above the runway and lions roaring in the audience. Maybe it’ll be a circus-themed fashion show? Really, you’d think I’d have more control over my own daydream.

  At the end of the fashion show, I see myself coming out from backstage to take a bow. I wish I could do a cartwheel and splits, like Betsey Johnson. Although, it’s important to be original. So I finish the show by doing a cross between the Charleston and the Robot. (I’ll have to work on that part.)

  One of the lions is by my side as I walk the rest of the runway and wave at the audience, who is on its feet. For some reason, I’m not afraid of the lion.

  The daydream feels so real: I can actually hear the audience applauding and see everyone standing up. I’m about to take a final bow when I’m brought back to reality.

  And there is an audience applauding and standing up, except it’s for the film and actors, not me.

  I missed the whole movie!

  How could that have happened? Unless, I fell asleep.

  As I’m contemplating the probability of this, a spotlight comes on, and everyone turns in its direction. It’s focused on Rachel McAdams and the cast of the film. She’s several rows ahead of me, waving at the audience.

  She was there, wearing my dress, the entire time.

  I stare and stare, willing her to look over at me until . . . it works! I catch her eye and wave, then I yell out, “Thank you! Thank you!”

  Rachel will understand one day.

  “What did you think of the film?” the older gentleman beside me asks.

  “Um . . . I think it’s Oscar-worthy.”

  It must have been good, given the standing ovation; festival audiences are critical. I’ll have to remember to watch it when it comes out to the general public next year.

  And where will Lady Bettencourt be next year?

  “I see it becoming a huge success,” the older gentleman says, nodding.

  I blush.

  But then, I realize he’s talking about the film.

  As I’m exiting the theatre, I’m questioning the events of the last few hours.

  Maybe it was just a dream; my imagination playing tricks on me. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see. I’ve been known to do that.

  It couldn’t be. All my dresses are made from unique materials, and that dress was my first-ever attempt at evening wear. It was meant to be a practice dress before making my maid of honour gown for Betty’s wedding, but it turned out so well, I put it up for sale on my online shop.

  Plus, Rachel specifically said Lady Bettencourt—unless that was part of the dream.

  I need concrete evidence.

  My text message to Betty!

  Hopefully, people can’t text while sleeping.

  I flip open my phone, which causes a teenager walking past me to snicker at it. (I’ve gotten used to this.)

  There are several messages from Betty, asking if I’m okay. The last one, sent a minute ago, says she’s calling the police if I don’t message her back in the next half-hour.

  Wow, that’s dramatic, especially for Betty.

  I go back to my original text and realize why. It looks like the message reads: “Ray hell mad warring my distress!!!”

  Eek. I should text her back.

  But before I can, I get an incoming call. It’s probably Betty checking up on me. (My call display no longer functions, either. Every call is a surprise.)

  “Hey, Bett—”

  “Hello,” a woman with a hypnotic-sounding voice says, cutting me off. “I’m looking for Erin Bettencourt of Lady Bettencourt. Is this her?”

  “Yes, this is her,” I say, waiting with bated breath.

  “My name is Vanessa Moore of The Moore Agency. I want to represent you and the Lady Bettencourt brand.”

  I release my breath.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’VE SOLD OUT. All of the dresses listed on my online shop have been purchased.

  That was fast. It’s only been a few hours since I made my grand debut onto the world stage.

  Most of the orders are from Canada, but there’s a bunch from the U.S., a couple from Europe, and even an order from Japan. To think, someone named Mari will soon be wearing one of my dresses on the streets of Tokyo! It’s almost too much to process.

  I’ve never had international orders before. Or this many emails. Some are spam, but most are from women saying they love my dresses and asking when I’ll have more in stock.

  Vanessa Moore said this would happen. She said the TV show where Rachel mentioned who she was wearing was live. Plus, there were all those photos taken of her by the media that have been posted online. And some of those photos make reference to Lady Bettencourt, too.

  So while I was sitting in the theatre, not watching the film, all of my dresses were being snatched up. Now there’s a waiting list. I’m so glad I added that function to the online shop. I can keep track of who wants a dress without (hopefully) losing a potential sale.

  Vanessa and I are meeting on Monday morning to discuss the future of Lady Bettencourt. She wanted to meet tomorrow, but I have a shift at the coffee house. She made me promise that I wouldn’t talk to anyone else until then. I’m not sure who she thinks I’d be talking to.

  I’m still pulling espresso shots to pay the bills. I’m also still living with Betty, in her condo, in the den.

  Although, Betty won’t be living here for much longer. She bought a house with Matt; they’re moving in just before the wedding. The house is really cute and cozy, and it’s in a great neighbourhood, but that means I may be homeless soon.

  Betty is keeping the condo as an investment property. She’s letting me decide if I want to rent it, or if she has to find a new tenant. She’s given me until the end of the year to make up my mind, which is very generous of her. Betty is very generous.

  I’ve been living in her den for practically nothing while I get back on my feet after losing (okay, getting fired from) my office job. I’ve managed to pay off all of my debt and built up some savings. I even have a credit card again. (Betty says it’s important that I “re-establish credit.”)

  But I still don’t think I can afford her place. Even though she’s generous, Betty needs someone who can pay the going market rate for her condo. She can’t carry me forever; I need to start making it on my own again.

  It’d be nice to have the whole place to myself, though. I could setup the den as my sewing room and take over Betty’s bedroom as my own. Right now, my “workshop” is in the small dining room. That’s where I keep my mom’s old sewing machine, along with a dress form (that goes by Sally) and a clothing rack (nameless) for finished items. I use the table for laying out patterns and cutting materials.

  My teeny-tiny bedroom has just enough space for my old futon but not enough space for my clothes. I store them in the front hall closet. Not only does my bedroom lack space, it also lacks a door. So I’ve hung up a curtain for a bit of privacy.

  Betty tells me repeatedly to use her bedroom whenever she’s gone for the weekend, but I like sleeping in the den. It’s as if I’m in a cocoon. It’s funny how I gravitate to small spaces—I once had a walk-in closet I was particularly fond of—when I couldn’t stand my former grey cubicle.

  As I’m looking around my current work setup, my eye catches on a couple of large bags filled with secondhand clothes, beckoning me, on the dining room floor.

  So I grab my seam ripper (a horrible name for a tool that produces a calming, even therapeutic, effect) and begin taking the clothes apart to turn into usable material. Because I have to start making more dresses right away.

  A lot more dresses.

  I need a new phone.

  During my barista shift today, I kept wishing I could check the online shop to see how long my waiting list had grown to. But, no, impossible on a crummy, ancient flip phone with no Internet capabilities.

  When I get back to the condo, Betty’s sitting on the couch, eating a bowl of pasta. She’s definitely not one of those
brides who obsesses about their weight leading up to their wedding day.

  “Tell me everything,” she says, making room for me on the couch.

  So I do.

  I tell her about the moment I realized Rachel McAdams was wearing one of my dresses, how I wanted to explode when she actually said Lady Bettencourt, then getting the call from Vanessa Moore, and finally, coming home to see all of my dresses had sold out.

  When I finish my recap, she says, “I really wish I’d been there with you.” She pauses to take a bite of spaghetti. “But what about this woman, Vanessa Moore? Are you going to meet with her?”

  “Yeah, tomorrow morning. She wants to discuss how to grow the Lady Bettencourt brand,” I say, throwing out the terminology Vanessa used.

  “I could take the morning off and come with you?”

  “Thanks, but it’s only an initial meeting. We’re just having coffee.”

  Although I’m not entirely sure that’s true, as I’ve never had a meeting like this before.

  “Okay, but remember, you don’t have to go with the first person who shows interest. Take your time and find someone who really gets you and what you want to do with Lady Bettencourt.”

  “I know, Betty.”

  Except, no one else has shown interest. Women want to buy my dresses, but I didn’t get any emails or calls from anyone, besides Vanessa, who wanted to help with the business side of things. And if I’m being honest, I don’t know where I want to take Lady Bettencourt. I’m still new to all of this.

  I need help.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I GET TO the café at nine o’clock sharp. Vanessa is already there waiting for me.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’m taken aback when she introduces herself.

  Vanessa asks me what I want to drink, and then goes up to the counter to order. This gives me a chance to . . . stare at her.

  She’s captivating. Not beautiful. Not pretty. Not cute.