Lady Bettencourt Read online

  I turn to look at him. “I was very . . . excited.” (Note to self: learn another word for excited.)

  The hosts look at each other, which leaves me no one to look at.

  This is when I finally notice the big window behind us with a view of the street. There are some passersby peering in, trying to get on TV. One of them is a girl who reminds me of me. The old me.

  She smiles at me, and I smile back.

  I can do this. I have to do this. For her and for me.

  “Your label was created after you found your mom’s old sewing machine and started sewing again,” Dina says. “What inspired you to use secondhand clothes to make your dresses?”

  “Um, well, I use secondhand clothes because of all the waste I saw in the industry. I didn’t see the point of using new materials when there are so many clothes at thrift stores that have been worn for only a season or two. Sometimes they haven’t been worn at all before being discarded. I wanted to give them a second life,” I say, getting back on track.

  Vanessa had prepped me on how to answer this question. My answer was partially true. It was the reason why I continued to use secondhand clothes to make my dresses, but it wasn’t the reason why I started.

  In the beginning, I was only making a couple of dresses at a time. I couldn’t buy materials in bulk, and new materials at fabric stores were too expensive. That’s when I thought of using secondhand clothes because they often came with the added bonus of zippers and buttons that I could also reuse. I was just trying to save money. Only later did I realize it was socially-conscious.

  “In fact, the dress you’re wearing today was made from a man’s shirt, is that right?” Kevin asks.

  “That’s right. And some day the one you’re wearing may end up on a woman’s body,” I say, gesturing to his shirt, only realizing after I’ve said it, how that must sound.

  He laughs and says, “That would be a first!”

  “Take us through some of your dress designs,” Dina says, motioning me towards the mannequins that have been setup beside us.

  We both get up, while Kevin stays seated. The Rosie is in the middle, with The Gabby and The Betty flanking it.

  I describe The Gabby and The Betty. When I say that The Betty was named after my sister, I purposely look into the camera. I know Betty’s watching, and she’ll get a kick out of my doing that, so I had to. Then, I share the significance of The Lizzie, the dress I’m wearing.

  I’m starting to get the hang of this TV business. I even crack a few more jokes.

  “And now the dress our viewers have all been waiting for, The Rachel,” Dina says.

  The Rachel?

  “You mean, The Rosie,” I say, causing Dina to look down at her show notes. “It’s a re-creation of the dress Rachel McAdams was seen wearing, except this one’s purple. It’s made from an old prom and bridesmaid dress.”

  I’m about to say it’s what I’ll be wearing to my sister’s upcoming wedding, but I’ve taken a breath, and Dina asks me about The Rosie’s special pockets before I can.

  “Oh, yeah. Those were sewn-in using a technique I invented. Well, I think I invented it, anyway. Because it’s a full-skirt and the pockets are reinforced, they can hold a lot without the dress looking or feeling bulky. It’s perfect for those times when you don’t want to carry a purse.”

  “I love that. All dresses should have that feature,” Dina says.

  “I agree!” Kevin shouts from the sectional. “I’m tired of carrying my wife’s purse.”

  We all laugh happily together. This is so much fun.

  Dina guides me back towards the sectional, then says, “And one of our lucky viewers will get to test out those pockets. Enter online at BT’s website for your chance to win The Rach—Rosie, as well as two tickets to the closing night gala of the Toronto International Film Festival this Sunday. Contest closes tomorrow at midnight, Eastern-standard time.”

  What? No! That’s my maid of honour dress!

  I look over at Vanessa, who is standing off-camera. She’s making a rolling gesture with her hands and mouthing, “Go with it.”

  I’m furious, but I know there’s nothing I can do.

  “That’s not all,” Kevin says. “We’ll also be giving away two tickets to the Lady Bettencourt fashion show, featuring Erin’s new spring line, taking place on . . .”

  Fashion show? What fashion show? I don’t have a spring line! It’s not even officially fall!

  I don’t bother looking over at Vanessa this time. I know what she wants me to do.

  Dina turns towards me. “This is your first fashion show. You must be feeling . . .” She stops to catch Kevin’s eye, and they both say in unison, “Very excited!”

  I make an effort to laugh, but it comes out sounding flat.

  “Well, we wish you all the success in the world,” Kevin says.

  I mumble a half-hearted, “Thank you.”

  It had been going so well. I don’t understand what just happened.

  “Coming up . . .” I hear Dina start to say, but I can’t make out the rest of her words.

  My mind can focus on only one thing: I need to talk to Vanessa.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “IT WAS REALLY nice meeting you,” I say, shaking Dina’s and Kevin’s hands, backstage. And it was. It’s not their fault things went downhill. That credit goes to Vanessa.

  “You did great,” Dina says, as Kevin nods in agreement.

  “Yes, she did,” Vanessa says, approaching us.

  I avoid making eye contact with her. I need to calm down before I can look at her, much less speak to her.

  “Well, we better get back,” Kevin says. “We have to go pet some llamas or something.”

  I’m left standing with Vanessa in a hallway as various petting zoo animals and their handlers make their way around us.

  Vanessa grabs my arm and pulls me into an empty room, closing the door behind us. “Okay, I know you’re mad, but—”

  “Mad? Mad? I’m not mad; I’m furious! Why didn’t you tell me about the fashion show? Or that they were going to raffle off my maid of honour dress?” I’m pacing the room; its size too small to contain my anger.

  “That was your maid of honour dress? I didn’t know. I thought it was just a replica of what Rachel wore. The producer asked me at the last minute if they could give it away. I said yes, not thinking it was a big deal.”

  She does look surprised. And I never actually told her it was my maid of honour dress. But still, she’s not getting off that easy.

  “What about the fashion show? Was that the producer’s idea, too?”

  “No, that was me. I felt we needed to announce something big to keep our momentum going. What better announcement than a fashion show. You said yourself that you wanted to have one.”

  “You should’ve told me. I’ve never put on a fashion show. I have no idea what to do!”

  “But I do. That’s why you hired me. It’s going to take a lot of hard work, but we’ll manage. Together.”

  I stop pacing and look at her. She seems sincere. Maybe this is the right move, the next step.

  Vanessa takes my hands in hers. “I’m sorry things got confusing out there. But you really were great—except for that first bit. I promise I’ll prep you better for the next show.”

  Next show? I’m going to be on TV again?

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I guess I’m partly to blame, too.”

  I’m backstage putting the remaining dresses into their garment bags when my phone rings.

  “Erin, it’s Betty.”

  “Hey, Betty Boop!”

  “Really? We’re still doing that?”

  “C’mon, you love it.”

  “No. I really, really don’t.”

  “So . . . how was I?” Betty’s opinion is always the most important to me.

  “Amazing, considering you’ve never been on TV before. I recorded the whole thing; we can watch it tonight. And thanks for the shout out. That was cool.” (I knew she’d love
it.) “There was just one thing . . .”

  “Oh, my God—what? Was one of my buttons undone? Was there lipstick on my teeth? Please, don’t tell me my dress was in my tights!” I’m getting vivid mental images of all the possible things that could’ve gone wrong.

  “No, no. It’s the fashion show—”

  “I know! Vanessa surprised me with that. Can you believe it?”

  “Not the fashion show itself, but the date of it.”

  “I kind of zoned out during that part. Um . . . when is it?”

  “The same day as my wedding.”

  Fuck!

  “I’ll get Vanessa to change it to after the wedding,” I say quickly. “I’m so sorry, Betty, but I honestly didn’t even know about it.”

  “It’s okay. I knew it had to be a mix-up,” she hesitates, then adds, “Are you sure about Vanessa? Something seems off with her.”

  “Don’t worry, I have it all under control. I’ve already exchanged some choice words with her about . . . stuff.” I was going to say the fact that Vanessa raffled off my maid of honour dress, but I don’t think Betty wants to hear that right now.

  “Hey, that wasn’t your maid of honour dress that they gave away, was it?”

  Crap.

  “Um, no. It was a . . . replica. I haven’t started sewing my dress. I’m working on it this week.”

  “Okay, good. I have to go; I’m almost at the office. See you tonight at home,” she says, ending the call.

  Not only is the fashion show the same day as Betty’s wedding, but that means it’s also just a month away.

  A month!

  I need to have another chat with Vanessa.

  “Ready to go?” Vanessa asks when she returns from the restroom.

  I nod. “But I have to talk to you about the fashion show.”

  “Let’s wait until we’ve left the studio,” Vanessa says, sensing the seriousness in my tone.

  When we get outside, we walk for a while in silence.

  “So?” Vanessa asks.

  I take a deep breath. “I need to change the date of the fashion show.”

  “Not possible. I know it’s only weeks away and that you’re nervous, but we have to keep the momentum going while people are still interested.”

  “It’s not that it’s just weeks away—although that’s enough to give me a nervous breakdown—it’s that it’s the same day as my sister’s wedding.”

  “Oh. Hmm. Is there any way she can change her date?”

  “Of her wedding?”

  “No, I guess not. What time is the wedding?”

  “One o’clock, but—”

  “Perfect! The fashion show is set for ten. You can do both.”

  “But there’s things leading up to the actual ceremony, pictures and stuff. I have to be there. I’m representing our whole family.”

  “Erin, I’ve already booked the venue and some of the suppliers. It has to be that day because it has to be held around Fashion Week. All the key players will be in town for the shows. We need the press, editors, and buyers there for it to be a success. I barely managed to get us a venue.”

  We stop walking to wait for the streetlight to change.

  Vanessa sees the conflicted look on my face and says, “I don’t want you to stress out. We’ll make this work somehow. What I need you to do is focus on creating. Leave everything else to me.”

  “But—”

  “I know how to handle this: I’ve dealt with crazier scheduling before. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.” Vanessa smiles.

  I can’t see how it could possibly work out. But maybe Vanessa’s right, and it’ll only take an hour or so. How long are fashion shows?

  Maybe I should talk to Betty, and we could make the day a two-part event: the morning for my fashion show, and the afternoon and evening for her wedding.

  I don’t think Betty will go for it. She didn’t sound happy on the phone at the prospect of having it the same day as her wedding. It is supposed to be her big day.

  But what about my big day?

  This could be my one and only chance to become a success. Can I really pass that up? Betty is getting on with her life. I need to get on with my life, too.

  Maybe I don’t have to decide.

  “I’m not missing my sister’s wedding,” I say, stating it for the record.

  “No one’s asking you to. Now let me buy you breakfast to celebrate your first-ever television appearance!” Vanessa smiles her spellbinding smile again, then links arms with me as we walk across the street.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Days to wedding / fashion show: 26

  THE BEST TIME to shop at my favourite thrift store is Monday mornings when it first opens. Hardly anyone is around, so I can take my time picking through items without having too much competition for the good stuff.

  After my appearance on Breakfast Television last week, my waiting list has grown even longer. It’s up to six weeks. Not only do those orders need to be fulfilled, but I have to buy lighter fabrics I can use to create the spring line for the fashion show . . . which I also need to start designing. On top of that, I have to replace the materials for my maid of honour dress.

  How am I supposed to get all of that done?

  I wish I’d remembered to bring a paper bag with me. I’ve started getting these mini-anxiety attacks and breathing into a paper bag really helps.

  Instead, I remind myself to focus on the task at hand. One step at a time. I can do this.

  I browse the thrift store for a while until I spot some tablecloths. Maybe they could be made into dresses. Normally, I stick to clothes, but I’m not finding what I want, and I need a lot of material.

  As I’m searching for a tablecloth without any stains on it, I hear a woman beside me ask, “Are you Erin Bettencourt?” in a familiar accent I can’t quite place.

  Turning to my right, and then down, I see an adorable, middle-aged woman smiling up at me. I don’t recognize her. This must be . . .

  My first celebrity sighting!

  Well, I am a sort-of celebrity. I hope I look okay. I don’t want this lady to be disappointed with the real-life Erin as opposed to the one she saw on TV.

  “Yes, I am,” I say, smiling.

  Maybe she’ll ask me to sign something. I’ve been practicing my autograph (since I was seven-years-old). I should start carrying a Sharpie.

  “You remember me?” she asks.

  Do I remember her? Great, my first stalker, too.

  “Um, no, have we met?” I ask, edging away slightly.

  “It’s Gloria! I work with your mom years ago. I babysat you and your sister sometimes.”

  Gloria . . . Gloria . . . GLORIA! The Portuguese lady!

  “Oh, yeah! You use to bring us those delicious custard tarts!”

  She nods proudly. “How is your mom? I haven’t seen her for so long.”

  Me, neither.

  This is the first time I have to break the news to someone who knew her. It feels like opening up an old wound that will never truly heal.

  “My mom . . . she . . . um . . . she passed away.”

  “Oh, no!” Gloria’s hand raises to her chest and tears form in her eyes. “She was such a nice lady.” She shakes her head in disbelief.

  I reach into my purse and hand her a tissue.

  “Obrigada, querida,” she says, taking the tissue from me.

  I remember her teaching us those words, meaning “thank you, sweetie,” even though I haven’t heard them in years.

  “When did she die?”

  Die. Now there’s a word I wish I never learned the meaning of. I can’t stand the sound of it. It sounds so ugly.

  I do the math. “Almost seven years ago.”

  Wow, has it really been that long?

  “Your mom and me used to be close, but then, she leaving the shop for new job, and we losing touch. I’m sorry I not there for you and your sister. That is bad time to lose your mom when life just beginning.”

  Now I’m getting tea
ry-eyed. Things are getting quite deep at the thrift store, so I change the subject.

  “Are you still working at the alteration shop? With the old man who had hair . . .”

  I was about to say, coming out of his ears and nose, but decide that might be rude and stop myself.

  (Betty and I used to call him Hairy Scary because not only was he hairy, but he scared the crap out of us with his crooked fingers and cloudy, blue eyes. He was always offering us candy. We’d take it, and then hide behind our mom.)

  “Anestis, the Greek with the hair,” Gloria says. “He closing the shop and retiring few years ago. I do alterations from home now, but little business. People don’t want to fix clothes no more. They just throw away.”

  Wait a minute. What if . . . “Gloria! How would you like to work for me?”

  “Doing what?” she asks, looking a bit startled.

  “Sewing dresses! I have my own online shop, Lady Bettencourt. I’m getting all these orders, and I can’t keep up. And then, there’s the fashion show and my sister’s—”

  She places her hand on my arm to stop me, meeting my eyes. “I help you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course!”

  I let out a long breath.

  She gives me her phone number, and I tell her I’ll call her to discuss the arrangements.

  “I’m so happy to see you again, querida. I hope to see Beatrice soon.”

  Gloria always called Betty by her full name. My name was also a struggle for her, hence the default to querida.

  “I’m glad to see you, too. But Gloria . . . how did you know it was me? You haven’t seen me since I was a kid.”

  “Your face.” She smiles, then cups my chin and examines my features. “You look so much like your mom.”

  As she walks away, with a slight waddle, I can’t help thinking this wasn’t a chance encounter, running into Gloria after all these years.

  Maybe my mom is still watching out for me.

  Vanessa will be at the condo any minute now. Last night, she called to say she wanted to come over to take a look at my preliminary designs for the fashion show.