The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan Wiggs

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СКАЧАТЬ I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen. Taking a fall down the stairs is the least of my worries.”

      “Places, everyone,” someone said. “Line up over here.” An assistant organized the models at the side entrance.

      “Remember what I told you,” Caroline said. “If you ever need anything, if I can help—”

      “Nom de Dieu, just stop.” Angelique’s face froze into a regal mask as she prepared to walk. A pro to the last inch of her shadow, she squared her posture, getting into character for the show. “We have work to do.”

      “We’re not done with this conversation,” Caroline said.

      “Yes, we are.” Angelique stepped down and followed a PA to the runway, gliding effortlessly to her place at the head of the line.

      Music floated in from the runway area, and the backstage monitors showed a packed house. Caroline’s gaze was glued to a monitor.

      “I’m worried about her,” she said to Daria as she tracked Angelique’s progress through the shifting sea of people to the head of the line.

      “Me too. Was she in a fight? Did someone hit her?”

      “I immediately thought of Roman Blake,” Caroline said. “They broke up, but what if he didn’t take it so well?”

      “In that case, it’s good they’re history, then,” Daria said.

      Caroline flashed on a memory from a few weeks back. A group of friends had met at Terminus, a club favored by actors and models. She’d spotted Angelique and Roman on the rooftop terrace, their postures tense as they spoke heatedly. Roman had grabbed her arm and she’d flung him off and walked away. Caroline hadn’t said anything that night. Now she wished she had.

      “Guess so,” she said.

      “And we could be totally wrong,” Daria pointed out, organizing a suitcase-size makeup box. “One time, I fell off a horse during a shoot and I looked like the walking dead for days. What are the chances that it might be exactly what she said, that she fell down the stairs?”

      “When was the last time you fell down the stairs?” Caroline stepped back as more models made their way to the lineup. Another of her designs drifted past, but she was too distracted to inspect it. “I hope we’ve seen the last of Roman.”

      Daria nodded. “Could it be someone else? A new guy? Someone from her past? What do you know about the father of her kids?”

      “She once said he’s not in the picture and never mentioned him again.”

      Daria gestured at the backstage monitor. “Look at her now. My God, Caroline.”

      The screen displaying the action on the runway showed Angelique at the height of her powers, leading off one of the most important collections of the season. The dramatic lighting and the haunting music by Sade surrounded her angular, gliding form as she conquered the runway. Onlookers held still, leaning forward, their gazes devouring her.

      “She looks like a fucking queen,” Daria whispered. “And that outfit …”

      Caroline couldn’t suppress a smile as the look she’d designed created a stir in the audience. The top fashion critics and bloggers furiously scribbled or tapped out their notes as the camera flashes detonated.

      Angelique did look like a queen, the controversial serape floating behind her like a royal robe. The last thing she looked like was a victim.

      

      On the day she was set to exhibit her original line for adjudication, Caroline stepped outside her apartment in the Meatpacking District. The crisp air had the kind of brilliant clarity that caused even the most jaded New Yorkers to lift their eyes to the diamond-sharp blue sky.

      The light of late afternoon painted the entire landscape with layers of rare and shimmering gold. The temperature was exactly right for jeans and boots and a cozy sweater. Under such conditions, it was impossible not to appreciate the world’s most exciting city. She took the weather as a sign from above. People tended to romanticize New York City in autumn for good reason. When the weather gave the city a gift, it was spectacular.

      Rolling her shrouded garment rack down the sidewalk, she buzzed and hummed with anticipation. Beside her—dwarfing her—were two towers of runway expertise: Daria and Angelique. Her friends were going to help showcase her designs for the panel of judges tasked with selecting the next candidate for the Emerging Talent program. As they passed the flagship store of Diane von Furstenberg, with spotless windows framing her iconic designs, Caroline felt a wave of nerves.

      “I’m dying,” she said. “What if they hate my stuff?”

      “They will love it,” said Angelique. Without the artifice of hair and makeup, she was still striking, long-necked and graceful, her bold features intense. “These people have taste.”

      Caroline sent her a grateful smile. “I couldn’t do this without you,” she said.

      “You could, but I am happy to help.”

      “How are you doing?” Caroline asked. Tentative, not wanting to pry, but unable to forget the day she’d seen her friend’s body ripe with bruises.

      “I’m brilliant,” Angelique said with a breezy smile. “I am ready to watch you blow the panel away today with this collection.”

      “They’ve never seen anything like it,” said Daria. She was eight months pregnant now, and until today had been sidelined by the pregnancy. But with her full-moon belly and soft features, she was exactly what Caroline needed.

      She was too broke to pay her models, but they had made a swap. She’d made school clothes for Angelique’s kids, Flick and little Addie. For Daria, she’d created a six-piece maternity wardrobe, and Daria swore that every time she wore something from the collection, people asked where she’d bought it.

      “Did you get leg cramps?” Daria asked Angelique as they walked along. “When you were pregnant, I mean.”

      “I did, yes, with Flick especially. When I was carrying my little boy, the cramps would keep me up at night. Try eating a banana at bedtime. The potassium might help.”

      Caroline tried to picture her friend pregnant. Angelique would have been just sixteen or seventeen, already on her own in Haiti. Flick came along, and less than a year later, Addie—no partner to help. It almost made Caroline feel guilty about her freakishly normal family back in Washington State.

      “Did you find yourself getting up every couple of hours to pee?” Daria asked. “That’s all I’ve been doing lately.”

      “Welcome to the third trimester,” said Angelique. “Consider it training for getting up for night feedings.”

      “You both make childbearing sound so pleasant,” Caroline said.

      “What hospital did you use?” Daria asked.

      “It СКАЧАТЬ