Odette

24

" G ood afternoon, everyone," I greet as I walk into the workroom. There are eight students here now, making it a busy day. But it's the Monday before the long weekend for Thanksgiving, I used to get as much done before school breaks, too. Nothing ruins a vacation like stressing over work you didn't get done.

They all ring out their own greetings while I casually walk the room, looking over what each is working on. A couple of them are still trying to perfect their newly acquired patterning skills, but they're getting there. It's one thing to have an eye for fashion, it's another to be able to execute it yourself with patterns and sewing techniques.

Most of us learned to sew with the basics of hemming up a pair of pants that you loved but were two inches too long. Or a maxi dress that you wanted to turn into a mini. Those are easy enough, but darting, buttonholes, sleeves, zippers, pleats…that shit takes some learning.

Drake, who exclusively made menswear before starting school, is draping a dress on his form. I stop and watch for a few minutes as he adjusts, then steps back, then adjusts again.

"That print is gorgeous," I tell him.

"I thought so, too," he says. "I found it in the dollar bin at this fabric shop near my mom's house in Boise. I've been holding on to it for inspiration to strike."

"Looks like it has."

"It's for Tori," he says, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"Is it a secret?"

"For now."

"It's safe with me," I say, stepping closer. "The dress form doesn't have the same curves as her. I'd suggest bringing the waistline up."

Drake cocks his head, then makes a few adjustments to his pins before he smiles and nods.

"Thank you. Something felt off, this falls much better."

"Anytime. You've got this, she'll look fantastic in it."

I move to Celine, who sits on her table, scraps of different fabrics strewn around her while she sketches on her pad.

"How's it going today?"

"I'm frustrated," she says, sighing.

"What's up?" I ask, hopping up to sit next to her.

"Another student suggested my designs aren't commercial enough and I'll never make money."

Oof.

"What makes you design the way you do? What do you want people to think of your designs?"

"I want women to slip on one of my dresses and feel like they're wearing a piece of art," she says after a moment.

"They will. Because you are an artist. Typically, I'd say money isn't always good for art, and sometimes it's even the death of art. However, fashion is different. Jean Paul Gaultier has a net worth of about three hundred million. All by creating wearable art. I wouldn't call his design history commercial."

"No," she agrees.

"It's said that Cecil B. DeMille was asked how you make an epic film. He said, start with an apocalypse and build up from there. I don't know if he really said that, but I believe in the concept for all art. And you, my darling, are a brilliant artist. Don't let commercialism get in your way, make your own success. Be loud and unashamed."

"Start with an apocalypse," she muses. "I like that. Thank you, ."

"It's what I'm here for," I tell her. "And you're here for a reason, too. Don't ever forget it."

For how much I questioned taking this position in the beginning, I'm happy I did. I'm more than a mentor to these students; I'm a consultant, and advisor, a therapist, of sorts.

I love being every one of those roles. So much so that I haven't missed styling at all.

Tori comes in after a time and gets busy at a worktable. I watch from my office to see if she looks like she might need help. Occasionally, she'll look up and send me a smile that borders on bashful. Instead of trying to puzzle out what it means by myself, I walk out to talk to her.

"What are you up to today?"

"Not too much, just finishing off this jacket," she says, making a cut to the fabric she's working on. "I wanted to say something, though."

"I'm all ears."

"I'm really happy for you and my dad. I don't want it to make things weird, even though I realize I probably just did."

"You didn't make it weird. I'm glad you said something, I wasn't sure how much you knew."

"He was tight-lipped about it. I think it's that sport superstition thing where if they say it, it won't happen. He likes you a lot."

"That's mutual."

"I'm glad. Truly," she says. "Will you be at the game tonight?"

"We're trying to work out how to get Britton there without causing a scene."

"Oh my god," she says under her breath. "Dad said you two were friends, but it would be amazing to meet her."

"Hopefully, we'll see you there." I pat her hand before moving back to my office, hiding my emotion as I go. Her acceptance of me means so much because she means so much to Gavin. Honestly, she's beginning to mean a lot to me, too.

That might be the big downside of this job, I can easily see myself getting attached to these kids.

"Maybe we should have gotten a suite," I say for the fourth time.

"No," Britton protests. "I told you I don't want to see the game that way. I'm sure it will be fine with the wags."

"The wags will be fine, I'm not sure about the crowds sitting around them, though."

"It will be fine," she reassures. "Vanessa is meeting us there?"

"Yes, she's only been to one game before."

"You say that as if you're a seasoned vet. How many games have you been to?"

"Just the one, asshole." I laugh.

"The first of many, I'll assume by how much time you and Mr. Vaughn have been spending together the past week."

"We'll see."

"I'm proud of you, . It's not easy to give second chances."

"It's terrifying, Britt."

"It's brave. And love is worth the risk."

I hope she's right. There's still a feeling of impending doom that has settled at the bottom of my heart. It's a constant, quiet chant. The end is nigh, the end is nigh. I can't shake the fucking thing and it worries me that I'll self-sabotage.

It's human nature to avoid painful situations, to avoid danger. Maybe it's human nature to see the dream ahead and tell yourself you'll never reach it. Being cognizant is the struggle. I'm trying very hard to stay in the moment, keep to reality, and take what Gavin tells me as truth.

"Logically, I know you're right."

"Old habits are hard to break, though, yeah?"

"Most definitely."

At the arena, Vanessa's waiting for us at the entrance closest to where the families sit.

"Can we get inside now, it's as cold as my mother-in-law's heart out here," Vanessa says in way of greeting.

"Yep, we're ready," I tell her, pulling the tickets up on my phone.

"Shouldn't you both be wearing jerseys emblazoned with your men's names or something?"

"Hugo is not my man," Britton says. "We're just having fun while I'm in town."

"When I can figure out how to make it stylish, I'll consider it. Until then, I'll stick to my own wardrobe, thank you very much," I add. "Come on, drinks and food, first."

"Didn't that throw you into a flare-up last time," Vanessa warns.

"I'm going to be much pickier tonight. But Britt wants the full experience." We walk into the arena and immediately people pause mid-step, making double takes at Britton. She pretends she doesn't see or hear. If someone comes up to her, she's always very pleasant, but once it starts, it's hard to stop the crowds of people.

It makes it hard for her to experience mundane things, like a dinner out at a burger joint, or popping into a Target to grab a box of tampons. She's not the type of person to rely on an assistant to manage every little detail of her life. Britton lives for these moments, when she can go somewhere with a crowd of people and just…live.

Getting food is easy enough, there aren't interruptions from fans. Nobody seems to notice her except the young gal ringing up our veggie burgers, whose smile grows the size of her face when she notices who is paying her. The kid looks like she might cry from excitement. Britton winks at her and throws a fifty-dollar bill in the tip bucket, a silent thank you for not drawing attention.

We get to the seats early, most of the others aren't here yet, but Tori shows up shortly after. She takes a seat next to mine, her fingers nervously tapping on her knee.

"Britt, this is Gavin's daughter, Tori," I introduce.

"Hi," Tori says loudly. "Shit, sorry. Hi."

"You're stunning," Britton says to her, causing Tori to blink in astonishment. Having a famous Hollywood starlet tell you that is probably jarring, even though it's not a lie. "It's great to meet you."

"You, too. I mean, it's nice to meet you, too. But you're also so pretty."

"I like you already," Britton says.

Isla, her daughter, and Willa arrive next, and conversation turns to our meals. Sadie is a vegetarian and applauds our food choices. I ask her about her favorite meals and favorite restaurants. She rattles off all sorts of information and suggestions. Making note of many of them, especially one vegan restaurant that specializes in breakfast.

Soon enough, warmups start, and Britton's sight is glued to the ice.

"I could get used to this," she says, causing Willa to laugh.

"It's not a bad view," she agrees, homing in on Zander Fane, one of her two boyfriends.

"Where's Damian tonight?" I ask.

"He was in New Orleans for the weekend, but his plane should have landed in SeaTac a few minutes ago. He'll come straight here."

"Can we make big neighs the next time I stay over?" Sadie asks her aunt.

"Beignets? Yes! Those turned out delicious last time you helped."

"Yeah. Plus, Uncle Damian lets me put so much sugar on mine. He's the best."

"I might have to have a talk with Uncle Damian," Isla says.

"No, I don't think you need to do that," Sadie says emphatically, shaking her head, making all of us laugh. "I'm his favorite niece. He always says so."

"You're his only niece," Isla says.

"For now, but I'll still be his favorite after you give me lots of sisters and brothers."

"Who says I'm giving you lots?"

"Daddy."

"With the number of nights I babysit, I'd say Cillian is right," Willa adds.

"Shut it," Isla says to her sister, looking a little ashamed. The lights dim, saving Isla from any more teasing about her apparently active sex life.

The first period moves fast but neither team scores. Britton gets animated every time Blom makes a save, which is a lot. He's a beast in the net tonight. Or that's what Tori tells me. I've been trying to watch more games at home, but it's hard to learn it all without someone explaining it to you.

At first intermission, I excuse myself to use the restroom. My phone vibrates in my handbag, and I see that I missed a call from Fallon. Reception is spotty in the arena, but if I walk outside to make a call, I can't get back in. I type out a text message instead.

Me:

I'm at a hockey game. Is it urgent, or can I call in the morning?

After grabbing another beer for Britton, I make my way back down toward our seats. Many women are standing, giving hugs to a woman whose back is to me.

"Why didn't you sit up here with us?" one asks her. "We've missed you."

"Oh, we have seats down by the benches tonight," the newcomer says. She turns just enough that I can see her profile.

Caroline.

She's missed. This is her world. Her family. My mind reels as panic sets in.

I glance at Britton and Vanessa, who notice me and give me wary looks. My hands shake, a little, at first, then violently. I look down to see that my phone is vibrating.

Fallon:

Josephine thinks it's an emergency, but that's just theatrics. Call me in the morning. NOT TOO EARLY!

I stare at the message, unmoving, unsure of what to do, when more messages come through.

Vanessa:

This is your spot, . Not hers. Not anymore. Remember who you are.

Britton:

What Vanessa said.

Remember who you are .

Who am I?

I'm motherfucking Quinn. Stylist to the most A-listers of all A-listers. I've dressed wives of presidents and prime ministers. I've had dinner with literal princesses on private yachts in the French Riviera. I've been to the Oscars, the Grammys, the Emmys. I've hobnobbed with the most rich and most famous and never felt like I was less than any of them.

I'm a woman who doesn't take shit, who doesn't cower. Who doesn't run away from a fire that she can put out herself.

I'm not the girl in her mother's flower bed crying over a broken heart. Not anymore.

Setting my shoulders back and my head high, I take the few steps down to my seat with the wives and girlfriends. Where I fucking belong.

"Mom," Tori says to Caroline, getting her attention. " is back."

"Oh, sorry," Caroline says, turning to me. "I just came up to say hi. It's good seeing you, ."

Is it? Or is it as strange for her as it is for me?

"It's nice to see you, too, Caroline." Not a lie, not the truth, either. I haven't seen her since she wed the boy I loved. But that's not who we are anymore. Now she's the woman that raised an exceptional young woman I've come to care for. It's a fine line that I stand on with Caroline.

"I'll see you for breakfast, sweetheart," she says to her daughter before waving and walking off.

Had I expected her appearance tonight, my reaction may not have been so visceral that I needed my friends to bolster my backbone. But I didn't expect, there was no time to fasten my armor tightly. Did Gavin know she'd be here?

Did he hope that we wouldn't run into each other?

"Sorry," Tori says quietly. "She didn't mean to make anything uncomfortable."

"It's fine, you're here, her friends are here. Of course, she'd want to come say hello."

"You're the wag now, though," she says. "Dad wants you here with the team family."

I cling to her words. Gavin wants me. If he'd known Caroline would be here, he would have told me. My insecurities need to take a back seat to what I know.

The game starts back up and my nerves settle as I watch Gavin skate around, handling the puck like he was born to do. I rarely pull my eyes away from him, even when he's nowhere near the puck. If he's on the bench, I watch the bench. I watch him as he watches the play in front of him.

The second period passes without me really seeing the game. Just him.

When the third period starts, I try to stay engaged in the game that is now tied two to two. All the women around me, as well as Damian, who arrived late in the first period, are feeling the intensity, knowing how much our players want this win.

Quickly, we score another goal. Cillian slapped the puck into the opposing net, assisted by Zander. The arena erupts in noise, the enthusiasm so contagious even my prim friend Vanessa is on her feet, hands raised in the air with both Britton and I smiling at how she's living in the moment.

With only a few minutes left in the game, Gavin scores a goal, making it much harder for the other team to catch up. Not impossible, Sadie is quick to say, but difficult.

My phone starts buzzing in my handbag again.

Fallon:

I'm so sorry. But yes, emergency. Call when you can.

What absolute shit timing.

Josephine Marcus is about as diva as they come. A singer with a voice to rival the likes of Whitney Houston and Celine Dion. The attitude of a demon spawn. Why I have not dumped her from my client list by now, I still question. She's an awful person, but she pays a premium for us to put up with her.

She's a great reminder of why I wanted to step back from my business. I don't miss the late night or early morning calls because a client is fretting over what to wear to a party that might result in a single photograph of them hitting the press.

I still want to make people feel beautiful in what they wear, but my perspective has changed.

As the last second ticks off, a player on the other team slams into Gavin, knocking him flat on his back, his head bouncing off the ice.