Page 32 of These Thin Lines

“I’ve heard of DeVor. I think my stepmother worships at their altar.”

“Ha, of course she does. I mean, good on her for having great taste, but no one has ever accused Gwyneth Courtenay of not being trendy. There were pictures in the evening paper of her and your dad attending something or another at George V. She looked very chic.”

Gwyneth always looked chic, even as Vi’s father laid off another maid without paying her for the month she’d been hired for, claiming she, ‘had not met the expectations of the probation period.’ Vi mentally calculated how much was left in her bank account and fervently prayed she’d be able to score more dinners here at Lilien Haus, because she had to pay that poor woman something. And her parents were already looking for a new patsy.

“In any case, it’s not important, kid. Whatisimportant is that this was the first year ever where Chiara didn’t have any ideas. I didn’t get any midnight calls to discuss the cut and stitching, to argue halter over blouson and pegged line versus V-line.” Aoife sighed, and Vi wanted to go and give her a hug.

After a few seconds of deliberation, she chose not to interrupt. She wanted to hear this out all the way through.

“So now, this particular collection? It gives off these wedding vibes that you homed in on that first night. She is holed up there all day and all night, and it doesn’t help that Frankie is never around—”

Aoife stopped mid-sentence, narrowed her eyes, and gave Vi a pointed glare.

“This conversation never happened, kid. I will just say that she has struggled with this concept and hence I’m struggling too, because I don’t understand it.”

Vi nodded, intent on showing Aoife that she could absolutely be trusted. Plus, she really didn’t want to hear about how Frankie, once again, was not there for her wife, leaving Chiara to do all the heavy lifting of conceptualizing and putting together a collection.

“In any case, perhaps it’s better this way. At least this year, with the Lucci thing. And now, have you heard? Word is D&B are being blackmailed too. Except, unlike Lucci who stood their ground, D&B are actually willing to pay, so that they don’t have to cancel their latest line since they are headlining Paris and plan to do a showing at Cannes before then.”

Well, this was news to Vi. She felt a chill run down her spine and unbidden, a piece of conversation at the dinner table came back to her. Her step-sisters boasting about access. Vi shivered. First Lucci and now D&B?

This wasn’t happening…

Aoife, oblivious to Vi’s internal dread, simply continued.

“So, us not having finalized anything before Paris and New York and London is a good thing this time around. But, as your skinny butt knows—I assume that’s why you’re bouncing around my workstations and counters—Frankie insisted on doing a soft opening of sorts, a pre-showing if you will, and managed to get the head of Hollywood’s number one movie studio, Gannon-McMillan’s very own Neve Blackthorne, to throw open her mansion’s doors to host a private but massive ball. We will be showcasing the new collection—such as it’ll be by then—among canapés and good champagne.”

Now, Neve Blackthorne Vi had heard of. Even if she wasn’t a movie buff, one knew about Neve Blackthorne. One simply tended to. She was inescapable, ever-present. Sort of eternal, despite only being in her late thirties. She ran Hollywood with an iron fist and her name alone sold magazines and movies and goddamn ice cream at the North Pole, if she were to ever lower herself to promoting anything like that.

Even though her stomach was still in knots, Vi couldn’t contain her excitement and bounced even higher on her perch.

“Oh, god, you are such a baby gay! Stop that, the woman is married! Not to mention straight.”

“The womanis going through a very ugly divorce, Aoife, keep up. And I honestly don’t care. She is scary as hell, and I doubt I’ll speak one word to her. But, I am just so freaking excited to even be there! To actually be contracted to photograph the ball. A dream, Aoife.”

Yes, it was an extremely limited showing in terms of pieces, and yes, Vi was part of a bigger team of photographers, but none of that mattered. Vi wasn’tjustgoing to a ball. She was one step closer to making that dream of having a career in photography come true.

Vi squealed and then glanced down at the cooling mug in her hand. She set it aside carefully, conscious she was always likely to spill it all over her white cargo pants or her equally white Converses. And with her luck, she’d damage the camera too, and that was one thing she cherished most these days. The camera was her ticket to the ball.

Vi was still unsure how it had happened. Her evenings with Chiara had become a fixture in her workdays and so had the photography lessons. She listened to professional podcasts on the subject all the time, devoured every single issue of Poise magazine she could get her hands on, and poured over all the books Chiara’s library held.

And Chiara thought she was good. In fact, Chiara had such a high opinion of her skills, she had asked her to shoot the showing of the collection at the Blackthorne Ball at Lago di Como. Vi squealed again and hugged herself. She was going to Italy. In two weeks!

Her enthusiasm almost made her completely skip over the part of the conversation that suddenly let dread into her chest. She wanted to avoid it, wanted to cling to the camera, and maybe sidestep it entirely in her joy. But the cold held her, the numbness of it making her even more aware.

“Aoife… You said D&B are in trouble?” Her own voice sounded rusty, like she had forgotten how to speak, and Aoife’s head shot up from her work. She gave Vi a long stare, eyes narrowing before she returned to the sewing machine.

“Not the Lucci kind of trouble, because they’re just a different kind of breed, I think. Lucci just changed hands after whatshisface croaked…”

“You mean Santiago Lucci? The late, great Santi Lucci, inventor of no less than twenty variations of the pleated skirt? Like the one you’re stitching together right now?” Vi gestured vaguely in the direction of the gown Aoife had been working on and brought the camera to her eye, happy to hide behind it, taking a precious picture of Aoife’s disgruntled face.

“Smartass. Didn’t know your Dior from your Chanel, your bootcut from your skinny and now you’re giving me fashion history lessons? I know all that. And I also know that no one can sew this better than I can anyway, other than the person who designed this gown to begin with. Speaking of which, she’s been making you read up on stuff, hasn’t she?”

“She has, plus she just loves to talk about it. And I enjoy listening to her.” Vi felt her color rise as she stopped abruptly, wishing she could make herself scarce.

But Aoife just shook her head and let the comment slide without mocking her or warning her, or giving her any kind of lecture about crushing on a married woman.

Vi wondered if Aoife was well aware of how hopeless it was anyway, and wasn’t even a little bit concerned about Vi making a fool of herself by trying anything. Not that Vi would. Ever. Try anything. She respected Chiara too much. And she was well aware she had exactly zero chances, even if Chiara were single.

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