Fatshionista Page 5

  “I’m on it.” Lizzie hopped up, and I watched as in slow motion all the copies of Vogue gradually slid into the floor in the wake of her hasty departure. Lizzie was always in a hurry, and it was usually my office that suffered for it.

  So, Daniel Singh. What have you been doing in India? And why are you coming to America?

  Ten minutes into my search I froze. I increased the size of the picture as much as I could on my iPad. Holy shit. My jungle room lover, blue-suede-shoe-wearing, gorgeous Indian man was also my newest client. Maybe there was still time to pass this one on to another producer. Drooling and slobbering over a new client was not looked kindly upon in any professional environment.

  An hour passed before my phone beeped, startling me out of my daze. I had been alternating between looking through Daniel’s portfolio online and trying to find someone else to produce his show. His work was excellent. Very traditional design work, very traditional color palette, but he appeared to be working almost exclusively with modern fabrics. Saris made out of digitally printed rayon, fitted suits with traditional zardosi work, but in modern, clean patterns. He also used black as a backdrop for all that color. Much of what walked the runway in fall collections were shades of black, charcoal gray, and brown, but even his muted tones were more in the rust, mustard, and olive green shades. On the one hand, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on him, and on the other hand…well, yeah, same thing, I guess.

  Needless to say, I was impressed. The only thing I saw lacking was his ability to edit. There was a little too much going on. Even in Indian fashion, which was heavy on embellishment, there could be too much. And as he was obviously attempting to break into more traditional Western wear markets, he was going to have to learn how to turn an editing eye to whatever he was presenting stateside.

  It was hard sometimes to remember that my role was not that of a critic or a design consultant. Certainly we had many clients I had worked with over the years who trusted my input and judgment. But I had also learned when to keep my mouth shut and let the artist live and die by their own sword, with us simply providing the stage on which the drama could unfold.

  But I was itching pick this man’s brain and find out where he wanted to go with a Western collection. Apparently I was itching to get my hands on all kinds of parts of this man, if my jungle room fantasy was any indication.

  I must have been so out of the game, my poor brain latched on to the one man who I could indulge in a fantasy world romance with and never have to let him in on the secret. Normally I wasn’t attracted to men who were attracted to other men, but there was something about Daniel Singh that made me forget to care about that. Or anything, for that matter. Anything that didn’t immediately involve the removal of his clothing and, of course, mine.

  Maybe if I concentrated real hard tonight, I could imagine myself in a front-hook bra, one that even the most uncoordinated man could manage to open. He would be so proud of himself when he conquered this feat of mechanical engineering. He would sigh in delight as the silky black fabric parted to reveal—

  “Hi! You must be Millicent?”

  I was staring. I knew I was staring, and there was nothing I could do about it. My brain said Daniel Singh, the gay, Indian fashion designer was in the doorway. But my body and especially the twin rocket engines from the jungle room were saying please, please come here and make all these rough, heavy layers of clothing disappear and take us out to play.

  “I’m sorry, am I in the wrong office?” he leaned back out of the doorway, looking left and right.

  I shook my head and for a second thought I could actually hear the Scooby Doo noise that accompanies his headshakes when he first sees the ghost or ghoul or whatever horrible creature was stalking him and Shaggy in this week’s episode. Focus, Millie!

  “No, you are in the right place. I’m sorry; I just have a lot on my mind and my brain is working faster than my mouth, which is a good thing when you come to think of it. Usually my mouth is way out in front of my brain and I’m constantly apologizing for that very crime.” Oh dear God, I was a Chatty Cathy doll whose string had been pulled. First I couldn’t speak at all, and now I couldn’t shut up. What was it about this man that had me running mental laps around myself?

  “Oh, brilliant. I hate being in the wrong place. I think life is awkward and difficult enough without us embarrassing ourselves in front of total strangers.” He stepped into my cubbyhole and looked around, trying to figure out where he was supposed to sit.

  “Yes, I know all about embarrassing myself in front of others; I’ve practically made an art of it. Please, just move the rest of those Vogues to the floor and have a seat. Or if you have something to show me, we could move into the conference room if you need more space.” Or a table that you could throw me down on, I finished mentally.

  “No, no, this is great. I didn’t bring anything with me; I knew Scarlett had the link to my latest show that she said she would send over to you, and I thought if you had any other questions about my work, we could look through what was out on my website, if you so desire.”

  Desire, yes, there were many things I seemed to desire these days. Normally I could control my wayward thoughts and maybe if he was sporting another ridiculous ensemble like the one he had on at the Ram Patel show I could do a better job of it. But heaven forbid he actually helped me out over here. Today he was dressed in a white t-shirt, faded denim jeans, and a soft heather-gray cardigan that was just masculine enough. The scarf around his neck was loosely knotted and a lovely shade of blue that matched his eyes perfectly.

  GRRRRR. Snap out of it, Millie. He is not on your team; my God, you all don’t even play the same sport. Let it go, work, work, work, this is work. Everyone settle down, this is a drill, I repeat, just a drill.

  “So, would you like to look at what I have?” For God’s sake, man, shut it down. How was a girl supposed to concentrate when you were verbally crawling across the desk toward her?

  “Absolutely. I’ve been thoroughly impressed with what I’ve seen so far; you certainly have a solid vision and your own aesthetic, but first I would just like to start by hearing about why you’re moving into New York fashion now. What’s driving this? Are you going to continue showing in India and the US? Or will this be a transition to a more Western market for your brand?”

  “Hmmmm. That is an excellent question.” He leaned back in the chair, seemingly at ease in the ancient office chair. He crossed his legs and slowly began to swing one back and forth. “My hope is to have solid, successful shows in the US. I want to focus on ready-to-wear, mainly career clothing. Most of what I do back in India is very fanciful, more formal occasion or ethnic dress. I think by keeping the two lines separated by purpose, it will keep each portion of the brand separate. India will be what it has always been, and the US side will be more Western and marketable daywear.”

  “All right, and why now?” Everyone had hidden motives and objectives. To work with him as closely as I would have to, I needed to know what that motivation was so I could ensure that our company goals did not conflict with his. While we rarely turned down work, we also had to choose designers who were a good fit for what we were trying to cultivate.

  He stared at me from under hooded eyes as his hands fidgeted with the buttons on his cardigan. “Millicent.”

  “Please, everyone calls me Millie. Well, everyone except Marta.”

  He smiled at that and seemed to relax a little bit. “Millie, I’ve reached a point in my private life where my business life has to evolve into what it is going to be, and it has to do it quickly. I know that sounds veiled and convoluted, but for your side of it, just know I am extremely motivated to launch my brand in the US and the resort wear collection will be a trial run for the fall collection in February. I need to start off with an easy win, and resort wear is very similar to what I have been designing in India. I will work tirelessly; I will give you whatever you need to make this launch a success.”

  Well, that told me absolutely
nothing. I could hear his passion, I could see his passion for this move to New York, but I still felt as if there was something more riding on this than his professional success. I knew I shouldn’t care or be concerned, but on some level, I wanted to help him. Maybe it was the ridiculous fantasies, maybe it was the way his eyes changed when he spoke about his passion, but I knew I would do whatever I could to help this man become a success.

  “All right then. Sounds like we’re on the same page. I’ll tell you up front that you need to be clear about what you are asking for from our company. Some designers are the creative thinkers and we’re simply the hands that make it so. I know you were at the Ram Patel show—that is an excellent example of us executing the client’s wishes with no creative input from our side. Ram was very clear on his vision for the show from the color scheme to the music. If that’s what you are looking for, I have no problem with that; it’s just something we need to understand up front. Certainly we can offer whatever support you need from editorial to stage design. We even have our own photographer who can show you how your looks will photograph on the runway.”

  “How did you know I was at the Ram Patel show?” he asked.

  Great. Here I thought we had this cosmic, viscerally charged connection and he didn’t even remember me. Maybe he couldn’t recognize me without a headset, glasses, and dark circles under my eyes?

  “Mr. Singh, you plowed into me on stage after the show. I don’t usually forget being run over by an Austin Powers look alike.” Crap, maybe that wasn’t offensive? Maybe? Kind of? Smile, Millie. Ha, ha, new client, a little joke between friends…

  “Hmmmm.” While professional Millie was squirming in her seat, after hours Millie loved the way he made that thinking noise. There was nothing more attractive than a beautiful man in deep thought.

  “Austin Powers? I take it you didn’t care for my choice of attire that day. At least now I know you were in awe of my charming wits and good looks and not my clothing. I thought maybe it was the boldness of my fashion sense that caused you to stare open-mouthed at me.”

  “So you do remember meeting me?” Little liar.

  “I remember it quite well, Millicent. I was just teasing you a bit. It’s the one thing my sisters hate about me.”

  Don’t compare me to your sisters. I don’t want to be your sister, mister.

  “So, support? What exactly are you looking for our company to provide, Mr. Singh?”

  “Let me get back to you on that, Millie. My first instinct is to ask for everything, all the help that you and your team can offer. But I am a stubborn son of a bitch, and I don’t want you getting pissed off and dumping me on the side of the fashion highway, as it were. So let me mull that one over a bit.”

  I couldn’t help imagining a limo pulling to the side of a deserted highway and the door opening as I shoved him out of it. “Mr. Singh, I assure you that you will not be the first designer I’ve worked with who pisses me off, and you won’t be the last designer I would be tempted to throw out of a moving vehicle. I’m sure we can find some type of middle ground; just let me know what you decide. In the meantime, shall we look over some of your past collections?”

  “Certainly, I have my iPad with me if you would—” Suddenly the loud grumbling of a stomach rose up over his words and drowned him out. Thank God it wasn’t mine.

  “Well now. It would seem that I have once again forgotten to eat. Would you be so kind as to join me for lunch while we look over the collection? Unless of course you’ve already eaten, in which case I can just order something in.”

  “No, I normally pack a lunch, and I haven’t had a chance to eat just yet. There’s a great café just around the corner—nothing fancy, just soups and sandwiches. Does that sound like it would work?” I had to raise my voice at the end to be heard over the second grumble.

  He grinned and stood up, gingerly avoiding the magazines piled around him. “I think anything sounds good at this point. Please lead the way.”

  That, based on the close proximity of the office walls and hoarder-like stacks around us, was easier said than done. I had to swing out around the edge of the desk to avoid picking my sweater and brush by him, front to front, to make my way out the door. So much for Defcon 5. That little brush-by created just enough friction to send all my reactors to Defcon 1. Good Lord, I had to find some human contact somewhere. Maybe I needed to join one of those groups I had heard about where total strangers gathered together and hugged each another. They lay around in piles on the floor and hugged and held on to each other—nothing sexual, nothing kinky, just comforting human touch.

  I pasted on a smile and led the way out of my office. I turned to see if he was following, and he was just standing there with a puzzled look on his face. He probably could read minds and now knew I was a complete sex-starved maniac who wanted to climb all over him. He caught my look and smiled as he followed me out of the office.

  CHAPTER 5

  Any hope I had of impressing this man was lost when I decided to order the soup instead of the sandwich. As a woman with an ample bosom, I spent almost as much time dropping food on my chest as I did getting it in my mouth. Normally, I could brush the crumbs off and draw little attention to my obviously ravenous breasts.

  Not the case with soup. Soup dribbles and runs and stains and generally makes a complete mess when spilled. Add to the fact that the soup of the day was my favorite tomato basil with chicken and that I had chosen an off-white wrap blouse, and let’s just say by the time lunch was over, I was sporting quite the Sweeney Todd look.

  Oh well, as long as I was eating, I might as well feed them, too. Daniel seemed to take it all in stride. It certainly didn’t slow down the telling of his life story. I didn’t know what it was about designers that they thought I needed to know their whole life’s journey to produce their fashion show. I thought it was an ego thing; they needed to feel like I understood who they were as a person and not just as a designer.

  I really didn’t. I just needed to know what they wanted their clothes to say and who they wanted to see them. I could take the rest from there.

  I was glad I had decided to keep my familiarity with India a secret. He went on for thirty minutes about the neighborhood in Delhi where he grew up. He described it in painstaking detail, right down to the smell of the street food vendors and the sounds of the truck horns. I had to bite my tongue a couple times when I didn’t agree with his take on something. He claimed that the neighborhood was a poor, humble area.

  But it wasn’t. Some of the largest houses I saw when I lived in Delhi were in South Delhi. He either really lived in South Delhi but wanted me to think he was poor, or he wasn’t from Delhi at all. He wouldn’t be the first designer I had met who claimed an exotic background but was really from some non-discrepant American (or in this case, maybe British) suburb.

  However, since I was keeping mum about my knowledge of the city and I was preoccupied with covering my breasts in tomato soup, I let his inaccuracies slide.

  What I couldn’t let slide was how comfortable I felt with him. And not comfortable like when-you-were-with-a-gay-man comfortable. Comfortable like when you were starting to really hit it off with someone and you were thinking maybe this might actually go somewhere. I didn’t know where my wires were crossed. He had made several mentions of men he had dated and that he left India to go to school in the UK because he was following the love of his life, Dean. But I still felt like we were clicking in a very rub-your-boy-parts-against-my-girl-parts kind of way.

  It didn’t matter, though. If by any chance I was right and we had any spark at all, however delusional that may sound, I had thoroughly doused it in tomato soup. Yes, I was one classy broad. I would have to go back to the office and beg Lizzie to let me borrow her overalls. Setting aside the fact that my hips could never shimmy into her size-two coveralls, I didn’t even think they could cover the extent of the damage I had inflicted upon my poor, defenseless blouse. The poor thing looked like something out of Silence of
the Lambs.

  Daniel finally paused to take a breath and for the first time, I think, actually noticed there was another, living human being at the table with him.

  “Uhm, Millie, I hate to spoil your lunch by pointing this out, but you seem to have dropped a spot of food on yourself.” He seemed almost embarrassed to point this out.

  “Well, I think it stopped being a spot about nine or ten spills ago. I am fine; this happens all the time—one of the perks of having breasts. You men have no idea how lucky you are, and you especially, since not only do you not have to deal with them yourself, you don’t have to worry about a partner who has to deal with them. It must be nice to live in a world where breasts play absolutely no role whatsoever,” I said as I cupped both my breasts, as if to better articulate my point.

  As his eyes shifted to my chest, I quickly dropped my hands. How did I get so carried away? It was bad enough that I had covered myself like a Jackson Pollack painting and was sitting here spinning bumping parts dreams around an obviously gay fashion designer—now I was groping myself to visually illustrate my point? I had been so divorced from polite society, working all the time with only the occasional social event on my calendar, that I had lost the ability to even have a casual lunch date.