Page 13 of The Faking Game

No, no, no. No thank you. No, please. Thanks but no thanks. When I tried dating at twenty, and the guy was lovely on a first date, but then texted just two days after to ask if I wanted to come to his place for dinner. I was still trying to decide whether I liked him, and he already wanted me in his apartment.

At twenty-one, when my model friend’s nerdy brother asked me out, and I thought it was time to try again. We were on our second perfectly nice date in London when he surprised me by kissing me wetly against a brick wall outside my apartment. Then he asked me with shining eyes if he could come inside.

I sputtered something about an early morning and ran off.

And finally, at twenty-three, just last year, when I searched for therapy online and found Zeina’s practice. Opened up to her in a two-hour session about how much of a failure I was, only for her to hand me a tissue with a kind smile and say “let’s do this again next week.”

Because paying to feel all the emotions you usually suppress is a fantastic pastime. Very fun.

It took two more sessions for her to issue her verdict, and it fell over me like a scythe.You only see relationships astakingfrom you. You bend, because you’ve been taught that if you don’t, a relationship will break.It won’t.

Youcansay yes and then change your mind.

Youcansay no and not have it kill you. Or them.

Youcannegotiate boundaries and compromise.

Apparently she has more belief in me than I do, because I feel like I can’t. I don’t do arguments, or conflicts, or disappointments.

Like my mother calling the next day and spending almost thirty minutes venting to me about the frustrations she’s having with my brother. I try to softly end the conversation four times before she finally asks me how I’m doing. We say goodbye when I’ve already left my apartment, two guards in tow.

Madison again, and a curly-haired, ruddy-cheeked guy named Sam. He’s tall and has a puppy-like quality to him. Like he’s a bit gangly and his paws are too big.

They follow me as I walk to the place that’ll be my workspace for the next few months. I’m renting one of over a dozen worktables in an atelier near my apartment. I need all the time I can get to work on my collection.

Only twelve designers can compete in the Fashion Showcase. I was selected after submitting my designs anonymously online, and now I have less than two months to perfect and put together the final collection.

The judges will be industry leaders, and they’ll rank us without knowing who we are. Not our names, ethnicities, backgrounds, age or gender.

I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to be there.

Several new designers have been discovered that way, and I’m going to be one of them. Based on the power of my designs. Not on my last name or because of my connection to my brother.

Not that Rafe’s particularly supportive. He saidgood jobwhen I got into fashion school, but only in the way you are with a child who has a dream.

When I applied for the Fashion Showcase, I did it without telling him. And when I got accepted and told him I was moving to New York, he called it my little pet project. He assumes that, sooner or later, I’ll come back to the family business, work in an office every day, and look at numbers the way he does.

That’s not going to be me. I just haven’t told him that yet, because again,conflict. Boundaries.

Just as I haven’t told my agent or my mom that I’m done modeling. It’s what I’ve done since I was fifteen, when my mother took me to the first audition and told me it would make her so happy if I booked it.

Since then, I’ve been in campaign after campaign for Maison Valmont. The company my father started, that my brother now runs, which owns most of the world’s largest luxury brands. I’ve been in campaigns for all of them.Brilliant,my mother says about her own idea, that one of the Montclairs should be photographed for Montclair-owned brands.

But I want to feel fabric between my hands and a sketchpad beneath my fingers. I want to work for no one but myself.

When I’m designing, I don’t care about anyone else. I care about the garment and the woman who’s going to wear it.

It’s sacred.

When I arrive at the shared atelier, I nod hello to a few designers hanging out in the lounge. There’s a woman in a bright green dress behind a reception desk, and I give her a smile.

“Hi. I’m Eléanore,” I say, extending a hand.

“I know.” She smiles broadly back at me. “Diana. It’s a pleasure. You’re at table number twelve. Let me show you.” She stands and strides away. “It’s right by the big, beautiful windows.”

“Oh, that’s amazing. Lots of natural light.” I hitch my giant fabric bag up on my shoulder and follow her. She glances past me at Sam and Madison, but they stay outside the workspace. Sam seems to be doing his very best to look interested in a poster for a thrift sale pop-up.

I follow Diana into the buzzing room. The sounds of several sewing machines echo. “We got a delivery for you this morning,” she says over her shoulder. “I popped it in some water and set it on your workstation.”

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