The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan WiggsЧитать онлайн книгу.
When he turned to her, she nearly passed out.
“This is your work?” he asked.
“I … Yes. It is.” Don’t stammer, Caroline, she told herself. Own it.
At his side, Rilla held up her clipboard and said something to him, sotto voce.
He nodded.
Caroline was half-dead by the time he spoke to her again. Had she done something wrong? Did he hate it? Was the upcycled sari too ambiguous? Would he insist on leading with a different look?
He paused, studied the outfit. She’d worked for hours to perfect it. He walked in a circle around Angelique, then turned once again to Caroline. “It’s brilliant,” he said. “What’s your name again?”
“Caroline Shelby.” Her reply came on a gust of relief.
“Good work, Ms. Shelby.” He gave her a thumbs-up sign, and then he strode away.
“Fix the armhole,” Rilla said in a clipped imperative.
Caroline slumped against Daria. “He likes it.”
Daria high-fived her. “He likes it.”
“Help me figure out what’s up with the armhole.” Caroline lifted Angelique’s elbow.
Angelique flinched and sucked in her breath with a hiss.
“Oh, sorry! Did I hurt you? Is there a pin stuck somewhere?” Caroline brushed aside the draped fabric. Then she noticed a smudge of concealer makeup along the edge of the garment. She grabbed a pad and scrubbed at it. That was when she noticed a livid bruise coloring Angelique’s side from rib cage to armpit. “Hey, what happened here? Oh my God, Daria, did you see this?”
“No.” Daria frowned. “Looks painful. Ange, how did you hurt yourself?”
“That.” Angelique pulled away and waved a dismissive hand. “I did hurt myself—I tripped and fell on the stairs. I’m so clumsy sometimes.”
Caroline felt a nudge of concern. “You’re not clumsy,” she said, exchanging a glance with Daria, who looked on, wide-eyed. “You’re one of the most graceful models in the business. Did someone hurt you?”
A production assistant with a headset and clipboard brushed past. “Two minutes,” she said to the group.
“I told you, I fell,” murmured Angelique.
Caroline was at a loss. Her hands worked independently of her mind, quickly altering the armhole even as she studied her friend’s bruises. “That’s not what this looks like. Talk to me.”
“Finish the draping,” said Angelique. “Do not make this into something that it’s not.”
Maybe it was nothing, Caroline told herself. Extremely thin models tended to bruise easily, which was another thing to worry about. But maybe she should heed what the subtle quiver of instinct was telling her—Angelique was in trouble.
“If you ever need anything … maybe just to talk—”
“I hate talking.”
“I know. I talk all the time, though.”
“I know,” Angelique echoed.
“Just … I’ll help, whenever you need me. I mean that. Any hour of the day or night. You can come to me anytime.”
Angelique offered a swift eye roll. “Listen, 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