Lady Bettencourt Read online

  Captivating.

  She has a mane of fiery red, curly hair. The kind of hair that must be a pain to maintain, but is gorgeous to look at and makes you desperate to touch it, although the fear of getting your fingers ensnared in it, stops you. (And the fact it’s someone else’s hair.)

  Her eyes are a colour I’ve never seen before. Amber, maybe? I want to keep looking at them; they’re so cool.

  She’s wearing a tailored, dark grey pantsuit with a beige blouse underneath. She looks polished and professional, but with a hint of something else . . . seduction.

  I may have a girl crush.

  Vanessa comes back to the table with our drinks. I try to stop gawking at her.

  “So, Erin! It’s great to finally meet you,” Vanessa says, grinning.

  “Me, too. I mean, you, too,” I say, blushing.

  Vanessa gives me a knowing smile. She has to realize the effect she has on people. She’s probably had to deal with it her whole life. We seem to be around the same age, it’s hard to tell, but I haven’t had to deal with that sort of thing.

  “Sorry we couldn’t meet at the agency. We’re in the process of moving offices.”

  “No problem. I like cafés,” I say, giggling. (I don’t know why that’s funny.)

  “Good,” Vanessa says with a cautious look, as though she may have a nut job on her hands. “Well, I’m glad we’re meeting because I have a ton of ideas on how to get the Lady Bettencourt brand out there. But we have to move fast on them before the hype generated from this past weekend dies down.”

  “You’re a publicist, right?”

  I’d just sort of assumed she was when she called, but now I’m not sure. I can’t believe I didn’t Google her and her agency before this meeting.

  “Sort of, but much more. I look at the entire brand: what’s best for it and how far it can go.”

  “So like a super publicist, then,” I say, making up my mind.

  “I suppose so, if you want to look at it that way. Do you have any branding experience?”

  Now that’s a tricky question. Technically, I worked as a sales and marketing coordinator for almost five years, but I didn’t do much sales or marketing in that job. I mostly surfed the web.

  “Not really.” I want to impress her, but I need her help more.

  “Okay, so we’re starting from scratch here. I checked your online shop—very impressive design, by the way—but I couldn’t find your social media handles anywhere.”

  I’m flattered she likes the shop. I designed it myself over many, many long hours. All that web surfing had some benefit: I know what looks good.

  “I’m not on social media,” I say, sensing that’s the wrong answer. Social media sites were blocked at my former job, so I never got into the whole thing. I lurk on some celebrity and fashion blogger profiles, but I have yet to sign up myself.

  “Not even a personal Facebook or Twitter account?” she asks hopefully.

  “Nope, none of those, either.” Why would I want confirmation of how few friends and “followers” I have?

  She pauses before speaking again; she’s probably wondering what she’s gotten herself into.

  “With an online dress shop, you should be on Instagram and Pinterest, at a minimum. Your dress photos are great, so it should be easy enough to get that up and running. Did you take the photos yourself?”

  “No, all my photos are blurry. My sister, Betty, does all the photography.”

  “Is she a trained photographer?”

  “She’s an accountant. She’s just good at stuff.”

  A loud noise emanates from my purse. I feel the eyes of everyone in the café turn towards me. I open my purse quickly and take out my phone.

  The phone’s latest malfunction is this loud, shrilling noise at random times. I’ll think I have a call or a message, but it turns out to be nothing. Maybe it’s trying to talk to me. I turn the phone off.

  “Is that—is that your phone?” Vanessa asks, the cautious look returning.

  “Yeah . . . it’s vintage,” I say, joking.

  “Hmm, maybe we can work with that. Old becomes new, like your dresses. Let me have a think on that.” Vanessa picks up her smartphone and types something into it.

  “I guess, to me, social media is like this phone,” I say. “At one point, everyone wanted it; it was the coolest thing. But today, it’s pretty much useless. Social media just seems like a waste of time.”

  Vanessa’s still typing. I don’t think she’s paying attention to what I’m saying, so I stop talking.

  “Uh-huh. Well, I’ll take that into consideration.” She puts down her fancy phone and returns her attention towards me. “And now some exciting news: I got you a spot on Breakfast Television as part of their film festival coverage this week!”

  What? I can’t believe it! Erin Bettencourt on Breakfast Television!

  I’ve always wanted to be on that show. (Any show, really.)

  “That’s amazing! Wait, what day this week?”

  Vanessa gives me another cautious look and says, “Thursday at 8:15am. Is that a problem?”

  “Dammit! I’m on the early shift on Thursday.”

  “The early shift?”

  “At the coffee house. I have a 7am start,” I say, realizing how that must sound from her perspective. “But I can try to get it covered.”

  “Erin, I need your full attention if I’m going to represent you. I can’t have you worrying about covering shifts. You can always get another barista job, but you may never get another opportunity like this. You have to strike while the iron is hot; before people lose interest in indie designers with a socially-conscious mission. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Vanessa asks, as if she’s speaking to a four-year-old.

  “Yes,” I say, feeling like a four-year-old.

  “Good.” She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a folder, taking a document from it. “I’ve put together a contract that lays out the terms of our working together. Take some time to look it over, but we can’t move forward until it’s signed. I also can’t guarantee you the spot on Breakfast Television without a signature. I don’t want to push you. I know this must be overwhelming for you, everything happening so quickly. But we need to get moving on this. Trust me when I say that I will do anything—anything—it takes to make Lady Bettencourt a success.” She slowly slides the contract to my side of the table.

  I flip open the document and pretend to read some of it. It’d take me forever to get through it all. I should at least have Betty take a peek at it before I sign.

  But what if that’s too late, and someone else gets my spot on Breakfast Television?

  I look back up at Vanessa, searching her riveting eyes for a long time. She never flinches or turns away.

  “I trust you,” I say, then sign my name.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I QUIT.

  I called Joaquin, my manager at the coffee house, and told him I had to quit, but that I’d found someone to cover all of my remaining shifts.

  He said he was sad to see me go, but he understood.

  During what I hadn’t realized was my last shift yesterday, I’d filled him in on the events at the movie premiere.

  He told me he saw this coming, and that I’d always be welcome to come in for a chat and a latte on the house.

  I thanked him for everything, especially for taking a chance on me when I didn’t have any barista experience and no one else wanted to hire me.

  I loved working there. It was the first job I ever had where I could say that.

  Now that I’ve officially quit, I’m not only sad, but worried about what this means for my budget. My job at the coffee house represented more than half of my income. I won’t have that anymore. I’ll have to rely solely on Lady Bettencourt.

  But I guess it’s time I take a chance on myself.

  Later that afternoon, I drop off a round of dress orders.

  I like to use this special post office that’s located in the underground
path, an intricate network of tunnels covering the majority of Toronto’s downtown financial core.

  This post office and I have a history, and it’s not just because the employees are mailing magicians who never mess up a shipment.

  No, I go there in the hopes that I may run into someone. Someone I refer to as Suit Guy.

  Suit Guy is my long-standing crush. I used to see him on the subway all the time, but ever since I moved downtown to live with Betty, I don’t run into him anymore.

  The last time I saw him was almost two years ago, on a day that changed my life forever. That’s also the day I found out he had a girlfriend.

  But it’s been two years. A lot can happen in that time. I’m proof of that. So I go to this post office and hope for another chance encounter.

  What I don’t hope for is an encounter with my former boss, Bradford, who has also been known to frequent it. That would be an awkward reunion.

  I’m still embarrassed by the whole “getting fired” situation, even though it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I only wish I’d handled it differently.

  And whenever I think of Bradford, I can’t help also thinking of Carol, his evil administrative assistant and the person who got me fired.

  I thought I was done with Carol the day I left my miserable cubicle job, but she still haunts me in my dreams. Every time I have a nightmare with Carol playing the leading role, I always wake up in a pool of sweat, shivering.

  If only I could have dreams starring Suit Guy, instead.

  But I suppose I don’t get to choose which people stay in the past, where they belong, and which ones I’d give anything to catch the tiniest glimpse of . . . even if only in my dreams.

  I need to pick a dress. It’s not as though I have that many options. Three to be precise. But considering tomorrow will be my first television appearance, in my twenty-nine years of life, I want to pick the right one.

  I love all the Lady Bettencourt designs. They each hold special meaning for me.

  To begin, I try on “The Betty,” which was named after . . . Betty. It’s a boat-neck, knee-length sheath with varying sleeve-lengths, depending on the season. I use secondhand wool skirts and dresses to make them. For the summer versions, I use linen, which is a thrift store score whenever I find it.

  The Betty is the most professional of all the dresses. It’s also the one I wear the least. Partly because I don’t have an office job, but I wanted to have a work appropriate option in the line for those who do. And it’s perfect for when I want to look really put together. It’s what I wore to my coffee meeting with Vanessa.

  Next, I try on “The Gabby,” named after the fashion designer Coco Chanel. Her real name was Gabrielle. It was only fitting to have a dress named after her, as her Chanel 2.55 bag was what led the way to my being fired and starting Lady Bettencourt.

  The Gabby is a sleeveless shift dress suitable for work or cocktails, but can also be dressed down. I try to use darker materials for this design, à la little black dress, but I have done it in brighter colours, and also with cuts of different fabrics. It’s my top seller.

  Finally, I try on “The Lizzie,” the one that’s the most special to me . . . and my personal favourite to wear. It was named after my mom.

  I debated for a long time what I’d choose for her design. After pouring over countless old photos, I chose a shirtwaist dress, as she seemed to gravitate towards that style.

  This dress also has varying sleeve-lengths, depending on the season. It’s the fun design in the line, as it’s more casual than the others. But it can be dressed up with the right accessories and shoes, and can be made more formal depending on the fabrics I use. I mostly use men’s dress shirts, which are always in high supply at thrift stores. Many of them have interesting patterns, like funky stripes and paisley.

  Although I personally own all the designs in various materials and colours—I wear my dresses almost exclusively; it’s been my only form of advertising—Vanessa asked me to make three new ones for the show. Whichever two I don’t wear will be on mannequins on the set.

  Vanessa also asked me to recreate “The Rosie,” the dress Rachel McAdams wore to the movie premiere. She thinks viewers will get a kick out of seeing it, even though it’s not part of my regular line. She wanted me to rename it “The Rachel,” but I said no.

  I’m grateful to Rachel, I am, eternally. But my dress names all end in an “ie” or “y.” I want to keep it that way. Plus, that dress already has a name.

  The Rosie is named after the shared middle name, Rose, of my mom, my sister, and me. It’s a halter dress with a partially exposed back and a full-skirt that flows to the ground. It’s beautiful.

  But I’m not sure I want to add an evening dress to my online shop. They take me a long time to make, especially with the special pockets I add. Although, it’d be a great use of all the secondhand prom and bridesmaid dresses I find. Maybe I could make one exclusive evening dress per season. Women love owning something exclusive. Actually, that’s the cool thing about my dress line. Each one is unique, an original.

  I’ve spent the last few days sewing the new dresses, taking my time with The Rosie, as I’m making it my official maid of honour dress for Betty’s wedding. The dress is a deep purple. (Betty’s wedding colours are purple and silver.) I’d already found the perfect materials for it, some time ago. With the wedding being a month away, I needed to finish the dress, anyway.

  Yesterday, Vanessa came over to the condo to give me a bit of media training. We did a mock interview and everything. There’s so much to remember. I don’t want to let her, or myself, down.

  She asked me a bunch of questions and took notes on my background and why I started the business. She said she had to give the producer something to work with.

  Imagine: tomorrow morning, I’ll be one of those people inside the TV.

  I take another look at myself wearing The Lizzie in my full-length mirror.

  Without realizing it until now, I know it’s the one I was always going to choose.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I BARELY SLEPT last night, fearing I wouldn’t hear my alarm go off. So when it did at six in the morning, I was already awake.

  Back in my cubicle days, it was a struggle for me to get up by eight. But when I started working at the coffee house, I became an early-riser. Now I love the quiet of those morning hours while the city is still half-asleep.

  I’ve left for the Breakfast Television studio earlier than necessary. I had too much nervous energy to wait around at the condo. My stomach is in knots. I haven’t been able to eat anything. I almost forgot to use shampoo when I showered. Thankfully, they're doing my makeup. I’d hate to think what I would’ve looked like if I’d done it, given my trembling hands.

  Betty wished me luck as I left. She had asked me if she could come, but Vanessa said it was better to keep things professional and arrive on my own. I wish Betty had come. I could use her moral support. Instead, she’s watching from home and recording my appearance so I can see it later.

  Once I arrive at the studio entrance, I take a deep breath before opening the door.

  Vanessa is waiting for me inside. She takes the dress garment bags I’m carrying and gives them to a girl wearing a headset.

  “You’re early, good. It’ll give us some time to go over a few things. And you picked The Lizzie—excellent choice,” Vanessa says, grinning.

  She’s wearing her tailored, dark grey pantsuit. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen her not wearing it. Maybe she bought it in multiples and it’s her uniform.

  Vanessa reminds me that it’s live television, so there’s no second take. No matter what happens out there, I have to go with it.

  “What’s rule number one?” she asks, quizzing me.

  “Don’t look directly into the camera.”

  “So where do you look?”

  “At the hosts.”

  “And what if you forget how to answer a question?”

  “I take a deep
breath and trust it’ll come to me.”

  “Okay, you’re ready . . . well, almost. Let’s find the makeup person.”

  My makeup looks amazing. You can’t tell I barely slept last night. Wouldn’t it be great to have a personal makeup artist at your beck and call?

  I met the producer while I was getting worked on. He told me to relax and that even the pros got nervous. That made me feel better.

  But as it gets closer and closer to my segment, the butterflies in my stomach quadruple, and I feel really nauseous and lightheaded.

  Oh, my God. What if I puke or faint on live television? Worse, what if I puke, and then faint on top of my puke on live television?

  No, no. Don’t think like that.

  During a commercial break before my segment, I’m introduced to the co-hosts, Dina Pugliese and Kevin Frankish. They’re just as nice as I thought they’d be. Dina’s even prettier in real life and super tall, like more than six feet with heels. She towers over Kevin.

  And then, the producer gives us a signal and says, “Show time!”

  I can’t believe this is really happening.

  The first thing I do is look directly into the camera.

  Rule number one, broken.

  And I’ve forgotten how to blink.

  Dina’s giving a brief introduction, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.

  “So, Erin, it’s been an exciting week for you,” Dina says, trying to draw my attention.

  Look at host, Erin. Look at host!

  But the camera is so damn appealing. I slowly turn my head towards Dina, whose sitting on the opposite end of a light-blue sectional with Kevin at her side.

  Deep breath. “It has been. Very exciting,” I say.

  It’s really hot in here. It must be all the lights. I hope I don’t sweat through my dress. Just thinking that makes me sweat more.

  “How did you feel when you saw our hometown girl, Rachel McAdams, show up at the film premiere you were attending, wearing one of your dress designs?” Kevin asks.