Fashionably Yours. Swati Sharma

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       1

       Two years later May 28

       It was a crisp morning and I was dressed in black from head to toe, looking every inch perfect. Black Prada jersey dress, black stockings, black Louis Vuitton pumps, black Chanel vintage handbag and kohl-rimmed eyes. I left my exactly-like-out-of-a-glossy-magazine-page living apartment at Murray Hills and got into my shiny white Audi Q7 which was parked just down the road, buckled my seat belt and was just about to place my shiny red sole on the accelerator, when my Blackberry buzzed to life.

       It was a reminder message from the boss lady, she wanted me to pick up Tyra Banks from the airport before meeting her at Diane Von Furstenberg’s private show. After lovingly gazing at my Blackberry screen I put away the phone. ‘I don’t understand why people call you an iron woman when you are so sweet?’ I asked myself and turned on the ignition. But before I could speed up I was interrupted by a shrill rinigng …

      Mumbling, grumbling and swearing I grabbed my alarm clock from the nightstand and switched it off. Half opening my eyes, I looked at the alarm clock and it took me a good three minutes to figure out that it was just past seven-thirty a.m. Placing the clock back on the nightstand I assured myself that I could easily manage to stay in the bed for an extra five minutes. Pulling the duvet over my head, I closed my eyes and before I realized I was sound asleep again. Little did I know that five minutes would become fifty!

      “Oh My God,” hastily I kicked aside the blanket, hopped out of the bed and stripped on the way to the bathroom. “That bitch will be after my life. Again!” I shouted at the walls of the empty apartment.

      As I got into the shower I switched to multitasking mode and started washing my hair with one hand and brushing my teeth with the other while figuring out a perfectly a acceptable excuse to throw Natasha’s way. But goddammit! My mind had gone numb. I could think of nothing, null, big fat nada. Turning the shower off and chucking the toothbrush somewhere in the bathroom, I walked back to the room and headed straight to the closet. Pulling open the closet doors, I grabbed the first piece of clothing I could lay my hands on.

      Zipping up my bright blue summer dress, I grabbed my battered handbag from the coffee table in the living room, threw my vanity bag in it, put on my old-but-not-yet-worn-out black Aldo peep toes and let myself out of the flat.

      Outside the building, under the bright and clear May sky, I was standing nearly in the middle of the road with my completely drenched and uncombed hair with water dripping onto my dress, soaking it at very inappropriate places. ‘After frantically waving my hands in front of every passing cab, I finally succeeded to get one to stop. As the cab screeched to a halt by the side of the buzzing road, I rushed towards it as if this was the last taxi on the planet and my life depended on it. Well, if not my life then at least my job depended on it.

      “Could you please take me to Bandra?” I almost pleaded with the cab driver.

      “It’s rush hour. I will charge extra,” he said with a stony face.

      I was determined to not let go of this cab. It was nearly eight fifty-three a.m. and Natasha would fire me if I missed the editorial meeting which was supposed to start at nine a.m. sharp!

      “Whatever it is, let’s go,” I screamed. I agreed to pay the small fortune he quoted and with a heavy heart slid into the passenger seat.

      As the cab made its way through bumpy Mumbai roads, I managed to comb my hair, put on mascara, dab lip gloss and fret about the office where by now everyone must have been in the conference room with their bright eyes and shining ideas for the next issue.

       Damn!

      Thirty minutes later as the cabbie pulled over in front of the Style office, I quickly hopped out, gave him a part of my hard-earned money and barged through the large glass doors. With wobbly legs and a sinking heart I walked towards the lift and with trembling hands jabbed the buttons. As the doors pinged opened on the third floor right in front of the large neon pink sign board of Style, I braced myself for one more lecture on work ethics from my editor. As I made my way towards the conference room, my heart beat faster and faster with every step. I was thirty minutes late.

       Bollocks!

      Outside the conference room I stopped for a minute, instructed my thudding heart to calm down, СКАЧАТЬ