Page 30 of The Devil Wears Orange
“They’re Philipe’s old clothes. Marianna insisted I do better. I had forgotten how meddlesome those two are, and I think she has Jean burning my clothes as we speak.”
“If he’s not, I certainly will.”
“They’re only clothes.”
My back stiffens. “Only clothes? You do realize fashion is my livelihood? Don’t be a snob.”
Jack shrugs it off.
“There’s a correlation between art and fashion. There are some pieces done at an atelier shop that is an absolute work of art. One time, Hermès sent a craftsman to their store in New York, and every day for one solid week, I visited him, witnessed the progression he made on a Birkin, working the leather in his hands, smoothing it, stitching. It’s an art form. I’ve visited the ateliers in Paris, where artists worked on couture pieces with hand-embroidered fabric. That’s art. But you don’t see it, don’t recognize it because it doesn’t fall into your idea of what constitutes art. It’s wearable art. You assume art can only hang on a wall.”
“I stand corrected.”
“Damn, right.” I laugh, but it dies down too soon. I play with the bread in my hand, a heavy sigh escapes me.
“What’s on your mind, Charlotte?”
“Just thinking about New York. I think it’s time I go home and try to salvage whatever’s left of my career. I’m emotionally spent. I’m on edge here.”
“But we haven’t accomplished anything.”
I turn to him. “Were we supposed to accomplish something? I don’t know where the painting is, Jack.”
“Last night, you announced a big reveal about the Prince, and now you expect me to forget it?”
I wince. “I hoped you wouldn’t remember. If Favreau knew whom I suspected, he’d laugh at me. He already thinks I’m guilty. Imagine what he would say if he thought I was trying to frame someone like the Prince. You know I’m not talking about William, right?”
“Understood.”
“Prince Rashid.”
“Got it.”
“It sounds so ridiculous to hear it out loud.” I bury my face in my hands. “Just forget I said anything.”
“If you want to clear your name, then you can’t leave now before we even get started,” says Jack. There’s no mistaking the desperation in his voice.
My eyes flick to him, but I remain silent.
“Well, do you? Remember what they’re saying about you? Not just in the mainstream media, but social media where trolls can post anything they wish with no regard for truth. You were trending number one on that platform with the ridiculous rebrand. And that meme of you is grotesque.”
My mouth falls open.
Jack carries on. “I admit I had to look up what trending and memes are and, I’d have to say, in your particular case, it isn’t good.”
As of late, I’ve avoided browsing through social media. It’s my reputation, my career, my life on the line, affected by a tabloidstory based on a misunderstanding. Captain Favreau must know I’m innocent, but with no other person of interest and no arrests, media attention — not to mention social media gossip — will remain focused on me.Price of Fame = Price of Shame.
Jack pops a bit of bread into his mouth and before he finishes chewing, says, “We simply can’t let them get away with this.”
Jack gets me riled up, and I nod along as he lambasts the faceless trolls.
“Let’s get to work then.”
“You going all Danny Ocean on me?” I say with a smile and a wink.
“Not the first time I’ve been compared to Clooney.” He winks back.
My sudden laughter startles him. “All right, Danny, who’s the target?”
