Fatshionista (14 page)

Jennifer had come
on stage to walk through the sets with Marta, asking a question here and there
about lighting, music, etc.—nothing earth-shattering. I was behind the
back curtain making some final selections with the DJ when the two of them
wandered into earshot.

It was then I
heard it—heard the information that would put my blog on the map.
Jennifer admitted that no one was going to succeed her mother because her
mother had written into her will that the company would be dissolved after her
death. There would be no new designs, no new ideas, if she was not a part of
it. The lawyer had instructed the family to keep quiet because he felt the
publicity would impact the sales and orders for the new collection. I knew,
though, that if it got out that this was the last Carlton collection ever, it
would drive the sales through the roof and cement the name Carlton in the
fashion history books. Many lines died a slow death with new director after new
director put in charge, but this was the first time I had heard of a designer willingly
dismantling a company simply because she did not want it to exist without her.

I went home that
night torn between what to do. On the one hand, obviously the family wanted to
keep this quiet, but on the other, I knew it would be the boost the company needed
to go out with a bang. And it would serve as the biggest scoop my
little-blog-that-could had ever had. It would put it on the map. My
monetization of the blog was based on the number of subscribers. I had a decent
amount, but the more people I had following the blog, the more I could charge
advertisers and the more links I could put on it; I had a chance to make it in
this city as a writer.

So I published
the story. It was picked up by the
New York Times
and the
Wall Street
Journal
. The family was concerned at first because this was in direct conflict
with what the attorneys advised and because they thought the leak had come from
the attorney’s office.

However, when
orders came in from buyers before the collection was even shown, they knew the
leak had been a good thing. The collection went on to be one of the best-selling
collections in New York fashion history. Cindy had her own display at the
Costume Institute of America, and everyone was a winner.

Granted, every
scoop after wasn’t all hearts and flowers for the people involved, but I tried
to publish the truth and just spice it up a little bit if the story was on the
dry side.

The challenge
with the blog taking off so quickly and becoming so popular practically
overnight was there wasn’t enough information coming into my little world to
keep me in good, lucrative gossip. That was when the idea of having eyes and
ears out there, bringing me what they had seen and heard, launched. I had made
a lot of contacts through the years, and a well-placed comment about the blog
(oh yes, I was a huge fan; I had no idea who the author was, but he really had
his finger on the pulse of the industry) and how they had an inbox for tips and
tidbits garnered me more information than I could drudge through in a day. And
with the fourteen-hour days I worked for Marta, I had no time to sort through
all the leads.

And that was how
Avis found me one afternoon when we were out for our weekend lunch. I was
slumped over my grilled cheese and practically in tears because I couldn’t
figure out how to keep both careers running. If I quit Marta’s, then I lost the
source of the information I trusted the most: myself. If I quit the blog, then
I had to admit I was not a writer and just embrace the job I had.

I was completely
aware that these were the best of the worst problems to have: too much to do,
too many choices. But it was wearing me down, and Avis told me if I didn’t come
clean about what was bothering me she would have to force it out of me. While I
doubted physical intimidation was what she meant, it did dawn on me that she
was a great listener and might be able to help me sound out this particular
dilemma.

Imagine my
surprise when the solution she offered was that she would become my assistant
and troll through the mound of information coming into the inbox and then just
give me the stuff she thought was worth me looking into.

Avis had been a
librarian her whole life, and while she never followed high fashion, she knew
about fashion history, and she knew what people wanted to hear. She was one of
the few members of the greatest generation who loved technology, and she had
learned years ago how to Google and research, and she was close friends with a
network of other retired librarians.

Also, it gave
Avis a reason to get out of bed in the morning.  For this new “career” to
give her a spring in her proverbial step (although I instructed her to not
actually spring, as she was getting older and didn’t bounce as well when she
landed) and made my life easier; it was a win-win for both of us.

We fell into the
comfortable routine of spending Saturdays (when I wasn’t working for Marta) at
the deli discussing the posts for the coming week and the feedback/reaction to
the posts from the past week. We tried to put something out there every other
day. If I didn’t have time to write anything, I had a folder of picture posts
Avis could upload. With the advent of Pinterest, my photo postings were almost
as popular as the gossip. This was in large part due to the research Avis and
her band of retired librarians had done on the history of fashion and how those
ideas were influencing current styles. The resurgent interest in vintage
fashion brought on by the popularity of stylists such as Rachel Zoe had been a
big plus for adding new followers.

I was anxious to
sit down with Avis today and see what she had been working on all week. One
thing I had asked her to research was the history of fashion in India and put
together some info about the current scene in India. I wanted to run a few
Indian-themed posts before Daniel had his resort wear show, and then maybe even
a few afterward. I loved being able to support the designers that I liked and
worked with through the blog, even if they never knew the publicity and support
came from me.

With Daniel,
though, this seemed more personal. I really liked him, and I wanted him to
succeed. I added a little tidbit last week about an outing he had to a local
gay club. I thought if I could work his name a little more into the daily
lexicon, it might help him when the show debuted. People would feel as if they
already had an idea of who he was.

But I couldn’t
fool myself; it hurt a little to write that blurb. It was one thing to try and
think of him as gay when I was working so close with him, taking in his scent,
feeling his hand on the small of my back as he escorted me around his workroom.
But the cold reality of him disco dancing, sweating, and otherwise getting all
up on some hot gay men on the dance floor…well, that was a harder pill to
swallow.

Nevertheless, the
show must go on, and the wiring between my brain and my lady parts would have
to be upgraded to something that could distinguish between gay and straight.

As tired as I was,
I jumped out of bed that morning looking forward to my day with Avis. She kept
me laughing, she kept me honest, and she kept me excited about getting up every
morning, same as I did for her.

****

We had some soup
and sandwiches at our favorite deli after we ran all of her errands. By the
way, how was it that when I was out with my eighty-year-old neighbor, not a
drop touched my top?

I was gathering
up our trash when I got a text from Daniel.

“Who is that
bothering us on our Saturday?” Avis said while she folded her napkin back into
a neat square.

“Sorry, you know
I try to keep the interruptions to a minimum when we’re out, but it’s the new
designer I was telling you about, the one from India.”

“Now don’t let me
keep you if you need to work. It wasn’t so long ago that I don’t remember what
it was like to have to stop what you were doing and earn a living. I can make
it back home on my own if I need to; don’t you worry about me.” This from the
woman who fussed if I let go of her arm while we were crossing the street.

“Actually he said
he’s over on this side of town, and he knows I live near here and wants to come
by. He said he needs to talk to me, but he doesn’t want to do it at the office.
Boy, this one is all about the mystery and intrigue.”

“Any sparks with
this one? You know I worry about you growing old and alone. I know your career
is important, dear, but finding someone to be with is also important. The two
are not mutually exclusive. I was a driven career woman but was able to make
time to meet and marry the man of my dreams.” She always smiled when she talked
about her late husband.

“Avis, you know
good and well I believe in love and I haven’t given up hope, but from
everything I’ve seen and heard, this man is as interested in finding the
perfect man as I am, if you get my drift.”

“Well, I do
remember that tip we had about him hanging out with that drag queen at the gay
club. What was that drag queen’s name again? Black Lightening…Dark Storm…shoot,
I can’t remember.”

“Chocolate
Thunder,” I mumbled, as I was half listening to Avis while texting Daniel back,
asking him to give me thirty minutes, and then I would let him know where we
could meet. I still hadn’t decided if I wanted to invite him to my place or
not. Somehow the idea of him being in my space was…disturbing. Almost like he
might be able to sense all the wicked and crazy fantasies I had been having
about him.

“Right, Chocolate
Thunder, such a lovely name for a drag queen. I wish we had gotten a photo in
with that tip; I would love to see what she looks like. I am picturing tall and
dark and sweet.” Avis giggled at her description. There was nothing cuter than
watching a sweet, older woman crack herself up—and about drag queens, no
less.

“Are you inviting
him back to your place? Might be just the setting you need to find out if he
really is playing for the other team. You’re young and you have such a cute
figure; surely if he isn’t attracted to you, we can firmly put him in the gay
category.”

“Avis, please.
You and I both know that by today’s standards I would not fall in the ‘cute
figure’ category. I’ve always been under the ‘she has such a pretty face, if
she would just lose some weight’ category. But you’re very kind to think otherwise.
This man is around sexy, sophisticated models all day; I’m sure the sight of a
cute but plump woman wouldn’t be the thing that would pull him over to the
hetero side.”

“But didn’t you
say he had a dress form that was more plus than minus size? I think it sounds
like this young man has an excellent idea of what a cute figure is.”

“His mother. He
uses that dress form because that was the size his mother and sisters were when
he designed clothes for them. Even if he does believe larger women are more
attractive, I don’t think reminding him of his sisters or his mama is going to
work in my favor.” Bless her heart, she was always trying to make me feel
better about myself.

“Well, if he was
a smart man, he would know that a few extra pounds on a woman is good thing. We
aren’t fragile; we can be tossed around a little bit and we bounce back, and as
my dear departed husband used to say, it was just more cushion for the pushing.”
She smiled wickedly and wagged her eyebrows at me.

The combination
of her naughty words and her eyebrow wiggle had me spewing my drink out. Of
course. Of course now that I knew Daniel was somewhere within a twenty-block
radius, I would start decorating my shirt with various stains. Fabulous.

I tried to wipe
my shirt off as best I could with my napkin. “You are out of control. And we
both know that your husband didn’t come up with that; it was in that Jack Black
movie we were watching the other week. You’ve just been dying for a chance to
use that line ever since you heard it.”

She laughed as
she helped me mop up my mess. “Guilty, but you have to admit it’s true.
Sometimes a man likes a larger woman, someone soft to sink into.”

“Stop, stop! We
can talk about almost everything, but I will not talk to you about the benefits
of having sex with a plus-sized woman! You’re like a grandma to me, shut it
down!” While the idea of continuing this conversation completely grossed me
out, I was grateful that I had at least one person who was always looking out
for me. In a city this big and a town this harsh (at times), it was nice to
feel like I had someone to count on.

“All right, you little
sex fiend, let’s get you back home so I can find out what the dire emergency is
that has forced the young, hip designer to make the arduous journey to Brooklyn.”
I took the brakes off her walker and rolled it up to her chair. I was curious
about what Daniel wanted. We had worked well together, and I was due to show
him the new concept on Monday. Whatever it was, it meant I had lost my day of
me time. Oh well, duty called. 

I navigated Avis through
the street traffic while mentally ticking off the pros and cons of having
Daniel in my home. Pro, I was never more relaxed than in my own home, and
seeing how his mere presence made me a bundle of nerves (the dreaded Chatty
Cathy doll syndrome), being relaxed would be a big positive.

Con, he would be
privy to a side of me that even my closest friends didn’t see. My home was a
complete reflection of who I was, and that included, in large part, the part of
me that was connected with India. I didn’t know how I would explain the
painting of the ten Sikh gurus or the carved Rajasthani elephant head hanging
on my living room wall. I had never said a word to him about my Indian
connection.