5. Over

CHAPTER5

Over

Wyn

Oh my God! If it was me, I would have left that alphahole years ago. Honest to God, Wyn, I do not know how you put up with his shit!

“Earth to fashion queen, come in fashion queen.”

I jerked in my chair, Bea’s remembered words fading from my mind, and blinked up at Noel, who was not only standing beside my desk, holding a coffee I knew was for me, he was snapping his fingers in my face.

“My gawd, gurl, you were so far away, I was worried I’d have to call Chris Pine and request he board his spaceship to go get you. And by the way, shame on you for coming back into the room. Now I can’t call Chris.”

“I have a lot on my mind,” I mumbled.

“Mm-hmm,” he said, putting my coffee down, leaning a hip against my desk, putting his index finger to the skin under his soul patch, and watching me. “I know. Cock and Snacktails, sister. On Saturday night. That is before that hunka hunka burnin’ looooove shows at your house on Sunday with your three love children in attendance for Lucie’s crab cakes and lobster rolls.”

“Please tell me you didn’t order the lobster rolls.”

“Wyn, you’re rolling in money. Stawp with the poor girl syndrome already. You can afford lobster.”

“It isn’t about the money, Noel. It’s the way they’re cooked.” I gave a shiver.

“How do you think they cook crab?” he asked.

“Yes, well, my son asked for crab cakes,” I reminded him.

He did an exaggerated eyeroll that had me squinting at him. “Oh, how you spoil those children.”

“They’re grown, and what’s with the I’m-gayer-than-gay act?”

His vibe took on an aura of excitement.

“I’m honing it because I’m pitching our YouTube show again, and I have to flame for ratings, guuuurrrrrl.” He lifted both hands and spread them out while saying. “Wyn Gastineau, Stylist to the Stars, and Her Plucky PA Noel has a nice ring to it.”

He dropped his hands and I stated (again), “We’re not doing a YouTube channel.”

“You give good style, hunnee, and the fact Fiona Remington’s assistant called yours truly not five minutes ago to share Fiona’s in town next week and your two asses better be at the bar at Durant’s or she’s firing you, isn’t the only thing that proves it. And bee tee dub, you’re having drinks with Fiona next Tuesday. But you’re Insta numbers are not oh…tee…dee…see only because of you.”

“OTDC?”

“Off the damn charts, hun.”

I drew in breath and released it.

Noel spoke through this.

“I flame all over your Insta.” He did a fall back snap to punctuate that, something I’d seen him do exactly two times before in our acquaintance when he wasn’t doing it for social media. “I’m like a one-man Queer Eye inserting my gems of wisdom in between your fabuloso fashion suggestions, and so I claim at least a quarter of your millions of followers.”

He was not wrong about this.

“Now, tell mother what has your mind so far away,” he urged.

“Yves is gay.”

Noel snapped straight (or at least his body did, away from my desk).

“What?” he whispered.

“He came out to us yesterday.”

“The family meet wasn’t about Sabre becoming a baby daddy?”

Although (after I got through Sunday) I decided I’d give Remy a wide berth (it was September and I was thinking the next time I saw him should be Sabre’s graduation in May), I was rethinking that, since all thoughts went to baby daddy when they considered Sah calling a family meeting. And perhaps Remy and I should discuss it.

(Sah was his nickname because his full name was pronounced the French way, “sah-bru,” soft u, rather than the English way, “say-brr,” and because Manon couldn’t say it when she was little, she called him Sah-Sah, and a version of that stuck).

“No, Sabre stepped up for Yves as an effort at deflection,” I explained to Noel.

“Why on earth would he feel the need to deflect?”

“They were concerned how Remy would respond.”

“Who was?”

Yes.

Good question.

And it was because Noel had been with me six years. Pre-divorce, and after. He knew Remy well, loved him and quietly grieved our end right alongside me.

And he never stopped sending Remy a custom-made dress shirt for every birthday (last year, Tom Ford, from Ford’s modistes) and suits for Christmas (last year, Saint Laurent).

In return, Remy sent Noel things like monogrammed sheets and Montblanc pens.

Back in the day, I’d helped Remy pick. But even after we were over, Remy had not stopped. Though Remy had excellent taste, I suspected his assistant Lisa did the ordering.

So, Noel knew the man Remy was.

And the man he wasn’t.

“All three of them,” I told him.

He nodded, but I didn’t feel he was committed to it. “It’s an emotional time, and scary. But obviously, Remy set that to rest right away.”

“No, he lost his mind and asked Yves what kind of father he thought Remy was that he’d be worried how he’d react.”

Noel stretched out his lips and said, “Yikes.”

“Then they hugged, and Manon and I started bawling.”

He nodded. “I could have called that, at least the last part, not Yves. I never picked him as batting for our side, but what a lovely addition. And when he goes on the prowl, rahrwwrr.”

I put my hands over my ears and chanted, “La la la.”

“Stop it, Wyn,” Noel chided. “You don’t do that when Sah is dating someone.”

“Only because that band-aid was ripped off when Remy caught…gulk.”

I couldn’t finish or think too long on the time Remy came over and shared he’d found our son and a girl doing things no mother needed to know her son did in his bedroom at Remy’s house.

“And I do believe you two had your five thousand two hundred and seventh we’re-fighting-because-we’re-no-longer-screwing fight over how Remy made it easy for Sabre to rid himself of his pesky virginity by giving him a”—air quotation marks, which regrettably quoted an actual quote…of mine—“‘bachelor pad within a bachelor pad.’”

“Sabre practically has his own wing of Remy’s house,” I defended.

“Boys gonna fuck, baby, girls too,” Noel returned. “Be ready for when Manon decides you’re well and truly the Mom Friend and no longer the Mom Unit, and she gives you the dirty.”

I might vomit.

“Oh my God, how have I not fired you in six years?” I asked.

“You have. I just kept coming back. You barely know how to use our phones, no way you’d be able to call in a want ad.”

Maybe now I was realizing why he never let me do anything practical. When someone made themselves your right arm and your left, you couldn’t exactly cut them off.

“Noel, do we not have work to do?” I asked, reaching for my coffee.

“We do, indeed, but spill. How was Remy with you?”

Noel lived for the day we got back together, and that wasn’t about my connections with various ateliers and how that might affect his future presents.

That was because he wanted me happy, and Remy too.

“The same,” I lied.

Noel’s shoulders slumped.

And I really wanted to tell him.

But I wasn’t about to get his hopes up by sharing the knowledge that Myrna was out and Remy was sending strange signals.

I wasn’t going there.

So Noel’s mind shouldn’t go there.

For his own good.

And mine.

“So what had you so far away?” he asked as I took a sip. “And don’t say Yves. That’s hardly a blip for you two, outside someone needing to provide the Famous Gastineau Drama before you all decided to be real.”

Vanilla latte.

Perfect.

As usual.

Honestly, I’d be lost without this man.

As for his question…

“Bea and I had a thing yesterday before I went to Remy’s.”

His face shut down.

I went alert.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“What?” I pushed.

He sighed.

Then he said, “Okay, so, when I was arranging Cock and Snacktails, Bernice lost her shit…on Bea. And I’m me, and as she ranted and raved, in her sweet Bernice still ranting and raving way, I did my best to hold the floodgates, I truly did.” Two fingers went up. Then they came down. “But I failed. And Wyn, the three of you, I do not get why you put up with that venomous snake. She’s awful. And she’s never been anything but awful.”

I said nothing.

“She nearly ended Bernice and Cornell after she stuck her fangs in when Cornell screwed the pooch.”

“Cor kissed an ex-girlfriend, Noel.”

Noel lifted a hand and waved it in surrender, shaking his head at the same time.

“Not defending him, he fucked up. But his life is Bernice. I don’t know what was in his head then, but I know men, not only because I am one, but because I’ve dated lots of them, and shit goes through our heads. Again, no excuse, but what-might-have-beens are shiny and distracting, and it isn’t okay that Cornell got distracted. But he fessed up immediately and he was a mess when things got rocky in a way he thought he might not ever smooth them out. Fortunately, Bernice didn’t let Bea’s drivel penetrate, or he wouldn’t have, and we all wouldn’t now have the beauty that is Anton.”

I felt something unpleasant skate over my skin. “And is that what you think happened to me and Remy? I let Bea’s drivel penetrate?”

“I think everyone who understands these things knows there are two preeminent architects of our age. Prentice Cameron in Scotland, and Remy Gastineau in Phoenix. And I think one of the people who knows that is Remy. I think his ego got the better of him, and when you started to compete in your own field with his success in his, he started acting like an ass. And I think that Bea was in fits of fucking glee that he did, and she pounced on that faster than you can say, ‘we need a marriage counselor.’”

I stared in his eyes and whispered, “That’s what I think too.”

He whirled to the desk, fell to his forearms and whispered back, “Oh God, gurl, really?”

“I’ve let him go, Noel.”

His face fell. “Oh God, gurl. Really?”

“It’s time. High time. Past time. It’s just…” I nodded once, decisively, “time.”

“Because of that Myrna.”

I shook my head. “It’s just time.”

“Manon hates her, baby,” Noel said.

Important note: Noel was tight with all my kids too.

Oh hell.

I had to spill.

“They’ve broken up. She’s moving out.”

Noel brightened.

“We’re over, honey. Don’t get excited,” I said swiftly. “It’s done. He’s moved on. Now, I need to too.”

“Well, I suppose there are silver linings here, what with you realizing you weren’t really over him and Bea got you in her evil clutches. But this still makes me sad.”

“Bea isn’t that bad.”

He twitched his head so he was looking at me out the sides of his eyes.

“Is she?” I asked hesitantly.

“I wasn’t around when she was brought into your crew, but since I met her, I’ve been fighting asking if I could hand her a piece of coal so she could shove it up her ass and make me a ten-second diamond. And trust me, I know you care about me. I know I’m family to you. I also know you’re my employer. So understand, I know me talking trash about a friend is not cool in the best of circumstances, and you having future payments of my mortgage in your hands, you understand the risks I’m taking in sharing this opinion.”

“And Bernice?”

“I’ll let Bernice share Bernice’s take during Cock and Snacktails.”

I drummed my signature “wildfire red,” long, rounded nails on my raven-black desk blotter and stared at my pearl-gray walls.

“How about we get back to work,” Noel suggested.

I stopped drumming and took a sip of my latte before I answered, “Yes. Let’s.”

He started walking the long walk to his office that was outside my office.

But I stopped him when I called, “Did you really order lobster rolls?”

Noel didn’t break stride or even look back when he answered, “Those are Remy’s favorite, darling.”

Well then.

Whatever.

He closed the door behind himself, and I glanced around.

When I’d decided to expand the brand into exclusive subscription boxes and online sales of curated pieces, I also decided that brand needed a headquarters.

So I left my home office and took this space between Thomas and McDowell, close to the Botanical Gardens, that had been abandoned during the recession before it had ever gotten the chance to be anything.

And in it, among other things, was my office. Long, starting with an area that looked like a living room, complete with flat screen TV, and ending with my white desk in front of my built-in covered in a sheen reminiscent of mother-of-pearl.

The room had recessed ceilings, lit exquisitely. Two crystal chandeliers dripping from carved installations. A couch upholstered in gray silk with various toss pillows covered in white, black or gray. There were mirrors. There were black-shaded, crystal-bottomed lamps. There were fabulous leather armchairs. There were black-framed, black-and-white photos of me with clients or sitting beside runways.

Even if the building was surrounded by the city but felt like it was in the middle of nowhere, my office was elegant, glamorous, luxurious, and the like of which Fiona Remington (now a good friend), or Helena Abraham (another client), or Chloe Pierce (daughter of perhaps the most famous actor in the world, Imogen Swan), would not walk in, stutter step and think, “What on earth?”

The reception area was much the same, but dialed down several notches, and Noel’s office was half the size of mine, in the same colors but had more blacks, whereas mine was more whites, and that dial for him had gone back up (way up).

Attached was an open office space for the rest of my staff.

Beyond that were two massive spaces: one, a warehouse where the subscription boxes were carefully hand compiled and sent out four times a year. The other where we kept our limited, exclusive stock of clothes, shoes, handbags, accessories and makeup items I deemed worthy of Wyn’s List and sold on my website, this stock shifting out for a new list that shifted in every two months.

Outside Noel, who along with taking direct care of me, managed our two managers (subscription boxes and website sales), I also employed our receptionist, Jana, two computer engineers (one in charge of maintaining our website, the other in charge of all of our machines), one IT tech (who designed and sent newsletters and assisted the engineers), two creative directors (who reported directly to me, one who designed all editorials, the other who designed catalogue shoots for sales and marketing), three customer service reps, five stockists (who saw to inventory and filled orders), a marketing director and assistant, a rotating intern (who assisted Noel), and another who shadowed me. We contracted with various photographers, hair stylists and makeup artists when they were needed. And finally, I had a scout, Sabrina, who did what I used to spend a lot of time doing: traveling, shopping and monitoring trends.

I, however, with Noel and Sabrina, went to the runway shows.

In other words, Noel took care of me and the local operations.

And for the most part, Jana, my current intern, Maria, and I took care of personal clients, of which I had many, and many of those were famous.

I limited the number of our subscription boxes—we mailed twenty thousand of them four times a year—and our waiting list to get one was just under fifty times that.

And every curated collection I created sold out weeks before it was rotated, and I had current designers and up and comers, clamoring to be selected.

I was a small one, but there was no denying I was my own brand of a fashion mogul.

And I might not sit to the side of Anna Wintour next to the runway at Prada.

But I hadn’t been in a nosebleed seat since I dressed Fiona for awards season.

And truthfully, my seats before that far from sucked.

Twenty-two years ago, I had interrupted the pursuit of my own dream while Remy continued on the path to his, for nine years.

I did not regret this or wish that time back. I made precious memories with my babies when they were babies and I gave time to my husband, who I adored, to do the thing his father demanded he not do: follow his own dream to building the structures into realities that had plagued his head since he was a little boy.

But once I began again, I hit the ground running, I’d busted my ass and—I took my office in again—I’d created this.

And for the last three years, I’d obsessed on failure.

The one I’d made of my marriage.

That wasn’t all on me.

It wasn’t all on Remy.

And it wasn’t all on Bea.

Last, there was no point dissecting it now because there was one thing it was.

Over.

On that thought, I set Bea aside, Myrna, and most importantly, Remy.

And I got back to work.