Page 1 of Play of Love
Shape of My Heart
Chapter 1
Amy
* * *
Irested my hands on my lap then brought them together over the silk fabric of my skirt.
I’d been sitting in the manager’s office at Orbit Consultancy for the last half an hour looking around and taking in the strange combination of décor. While it had quite an attractive floor-to-ceiling window, which faced the main road, I wasn’t sure what to make of the rest of the room and supposed that the designer must have been going for a…
Well that was just the thing. I wanted to say modern, but didn’t think that was quite correct so maybeoriginalwas a better choice of word to describe and interpret it.
It was the only explanation for the black-and-red-striped polka dot walls. And why anyone would put a lovely oil painting of the Trevi Fountain next to what looked like an African mask made of string cheese that dangled from the edges?
And the French windows… While the glossy white polish made us gleam, the wrought-iron flower baskets attached to either side were made to look like skeleton bones with roses peeking out of the gaps. On the baskets’ rims were a series of bright red miniature skulls running along in a row.
I could see where the idea attempted to be imaginative and in line with that style that had emerged with skulls and bones mingling with flowers, but this here designer had done some mad weirdness that just ended up looking tacky. Tacky, and actually a little scary. It made me conjure up images of those movies where the characters ended up shipwrecked on an island and ran into a cannibal tribal community who displayed human skulls for trophies.
I thought the flower baskets were awful, but what caught my attention even more was the large oil painting to my left of one of those alien-like hairless cats. It had bright, bright yellow eyes that stared back at me and sat on a silky cream cushion in an armchair.
I grimaced at the sight and looked away as goosebumps prickled my skin.
The entire office needed redoing, but that was just my opinion.
Perhaps the whole ensemble would look original and creative in another person’s view. I wouldn’t know who, but I guessed there would be some people who saw it that way.
Each to their own, I supposed.
I was a designer myself. Not an interior designer, but a fashion designer. Well…soon to be. Very soon. I had all the academic qualifications, having studied at The Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, and I had a wealth of experience from my placements at Chanel, Gucci, and Vogue. All I needed now was the job. Literally,thejob.
I’d always dreamed of working for Christian Dior. I could have chosen to work with a smaller fashion house or brand, and would more than likely be well into designing by now, but Dior was where I wanted to be. I’d had my heart set on it.
My first dose of inspiration came to my six-year-old self as I watched the Oscars ceremony on TV with my mother. I’d always remembered how spectacular Michelle Pfeiffer looked as she walked across the red carpet, lighting it up with her bright yellow, strapless, Dior Couture dress with sequins splashed across the bodice. That was the moment, my moment, when I not only knew that I wanted to become a fashion designer but one that worked for Dior. I wanted to make dresses just like that one, and have celebrities parade them on the red carpet. That moment was a wakeup call for me. It was like my calling in life had been issued to me and I’d answered fiercely, fighting against any obstacles that came my way with unparalleled perseverance. I took it upon myself to gain all the knowledge I needed. There wasn’t anything about the fashion world or Dior that I didn’t know.
I’d had quite the journey since that memorable childhood day, and life hadn’t joked to issue me the rough stuff, but I kept the dream alive. I kept the dream alive even though each year it seemed to get further away from me.
I had been very fortunate with my education, which almost didn’t happen, and work so far. Despite my difficult upbringing I’d managed to stay on the path that should have led me to where I wanted to be, but life kept throwing obstacles at me. Like this recent thing with my mother.
It was a serious blow that had thrown me off track. Now I’d have to fight even harder to keep the dream alive in my mind as I took on this PA role.
I’d been a PA in New York, but that was for Style Magazine. I’d worked with them for five years, three of which were spent working as a PA for Teddy Donovan, the editor in chief. When I took that job I’d been in two minds because it was different to what I was used to and didn’t exactly fit the designer route. However, a source from Dior had informed me that they valued people who had experience in supporting those with a decision-making capacity.
So, having something like a PA role to the editor in chief of a top magazine on my résumé would be extremely appealing. The cherry on top was that Style Magazine was one of the favorites among designers. Right in league with the likes of Vogue and Runway magazine.
I had immersed myself in the role and it provided me with valuable skills. It was a job with a goal in sight, and Teddy had made sure that I was given all the opportunities to increase my knowledge of the industry and experience.
The PA role I was about to take on now would not be like that.
Not even close.
This would be a regular, completely average PA role.
I straightened up in my chair as a slender, petite woman came in wearing a baby blue blouse I immediately recognized from Chanel’s latest spring collection. The black three-quarter-length trousers from the same collection complemented it fantastically like it would on one of the models on the runway displaying it.
The woman was about mid-to-late fifties and had that elegance most people carried themselves with in L.A.
Her sophisticated attire and neat up do of fiery red hair only served to enhance her look.
