Fatshionista (6 page)

“Comfort, my only
motivation is comfort. And on that note, let the sleuthing begin!” And with
that, Lizzie was off on her mission.

I was really
quite lucky to have hired Lizzie and Ryan. Both learned pretty quickly that
while it might be Marta’s name on the door, I was the one who ran the day to
day around here. Both of them were always willing to jump in and do whatever
needed to be done (the ladder incident not withstanding), and they were both
loyal to me. Marta didn’t even know their names, let alone that Lizzie was one
of the top graduates from her art school, specializing in lighting design. She
had many opportunities for internships but picked us because she wanted a feel
for boutique shows and smaller venues. Ryan was a set decorator, also an art
school graduate. As a former art school graduate myself, I knew the harsh
reality of coming out of that insular environment where you were a big fish in
a small pond, living and breathing your art because you didn’t have to pay for
anything.

Life after
college, the first job, the apartment, the bills; it wasn’t always something
that art school students thought of when they decided on their majors. The idea
of living for your art was all well and good until you realized you couldn’t
even afford Ramen noodles. Ryan also had a great eye and in a pinch could shoot
some of our smaller shows for the website. Overall, they were a great addition
to our limited staff, and I felt confident they would help me navigate through
this Scarlett situation.

Lizzie poked her
head in my office, saw the coast was clear, then pushed a dress form out of her
way to close my door. The Jenga magazine pile did not survive her entrance. The
office was so small I rarely made the effort to close the door; I just lowered
my voice or went outside if I ever needed to make a private call. Any really
juicy work conversations usually took place with Lizzie and Ryan in the bar
across the street.

“Oh my God, you
have got to see her office. It’s like Hello Kitty meets
Legally Blonde
.
The office is pink and frilly and the only thing missing is her canopy bed and
a Justin Bieber poster. How is it that we’re the same age?” Lizzie shifted in
the pleather chair, trying not to dislodge the stack of vintage
Vogues
I
had pulled for some research.

“How do you know
she’s the same age as you? You were only in there a few minutes.”

“Oh, she’s a
talker. And she loves to talk about herself, surprise, surprise. I found out
quite a bit in two minutes. Dad got her the job—we already knew that, but
nice to have it confirmed. She just graduated in May from NYU, degree in
fashion merchandising. She has no interest in running a production company; she
just wanted to be the social media specialist, whatever that means, for a
fashion-based company, and this was what Daddy could give her. Apparently Marta
and C. go way back and she owed him a favor, hence her in our staff meeting.”
Lizzie slouched back and sighed.

“Impressive. Any
chance you also happened to find out what I sent you in there for in the first
place?” I really wanted to find out whether this meeting was going to
interesting or painful.

“Why yes, my dear
Millicent.” Lizzie always used my full name, like Marta did, when she wanted to
piss me off.

“The gentleman in
question is the older brother of Scarlett’s roommate at NYU. He grew up in
Delhi but went to college in England. Studied architecture and design but
always had a passion for fashion—and apparently for the boys as well.
Rumor has it that he even dated British TV star Graham Norton.”

“Graham Norton?
Wow, impressive.” BBC America was another late-night habit of mine.

“Indeed. And as
for the last name, drum roll please.”

I obliged and
tapped out a little fanfare on my desk.

“The name is
Singh, Daniel Singh.”

“Well, I should
have guessed that one.” Singh was the Indian equivalent of Smith, so not surprising
that my newest client was a Singh.

“I wonder if he’s
related to the Singhs that you lived with when you studied in Delhi? Wouldn’t
that be a coincidence?”

“Slim chance;
Singh is such a common last name, and I think I would have remembered my host
family talking about a gay relative who lived in England and studied fashion.”
But then again, that might be the last person they would ever have talked
about.

“Well, it was a
slim chance. And I think you were around before him.”

“You mean before
he was born? How old do you think I am?” I was the farthest from vain, but no
woman liked to hear herself described as old.

“I just meant he
might not have found his calling at the time you were there, for fashion or for
men. Anyway, mystery solved; now you can Google away and be ready for your
meeting with him. I hope he’s as good as she claimed and not just someone she’s
trotting in to make it look as if she can bring in business.”

“Hmmmm. Agreed.
Well, thanks again for the sleuthing. And let’s not say anything to Daniel
about my time in India. Sometimes people like to impress you with information
about their own country; I don’t want to come off as a know-it-all just because
I lived there for a year.”

“You didn’t just
live there for a year; you go back almost every other year, and last year you
almost married that guy you found on Shaadi.com.”

Sometimes I forgot
the things I confessed to after a long night of work and an even longer night
of using alcohol to try and forget about work.

“Iksnay on the indiskay,
all right? I’m just working with this man; there is no need for him to know
anything about anywhere I have ever been, okay?”

“You got it, boss
lady, whatever you say.”

“How are you and
Ryan doing with uploading and organizing all the photos from last week? We have
the ones from the style websites, but I want to make sure we have the punch in
shots you all got of the details of the set, lighting, that kind of thing. I
want to get the website updated as soon as we can to attract any designers who
haven’t committed to a production company for their fall collections.”

“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.”