Diane Vallere [Style & Error Designer Dirty Laundry (epub) i

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.The third drawer contained more folders like the second.There was no name on the corner of the page, but the author had not minced words when critiquing a collection.Expecting no surprises, I opened the fourth drawer, but it had been gutted of all overflow and left empty.Looking for a distraction from the one gruesome thought that seemed to keep coming at me, I scanned an issue of the Style Section, the fashion industry’s weekly rag, that had been left on my desk.I opened it to a page marked with a lilac Post-it.First Ever Design Competition.Winner receives $100,000 grant to fund start-up collection, guaranteed order from Tradava, six pages featuring collection in Tradava catalog, and unparalleled recommendations in the fashion industry.Patrick’s name appeared at the bottom as one of the judges, along with Maries Paulson, noted icon in the industry.The Post-it said: This competition is our number one priority.Let’s make it fabulous! I wondered who the note was for.A few pages later a Where Are They Now? article quoted Patrick, whose name was circled in red marker, speaking about designers who defined previous decades and renewed interest in their labels.I flipped back to the ad for the contest.The young designer who had stopped in earlier had mentioned it.So had the redhead from yesterday.It seemed as good a project as any to sink my teeth into.I flipped through the Rolodex and found a number for Maries Paulson.Four rings later my call went into voicemail.“This is Samantha Kidd, trend specialist at Tradava.I was hired by Patrick, and I want to offer to help with what remains to be done for the competition.You can reach me at—” I stopped.I didn’t know the Tradava number off the top of my head.As I was rattling off my home and cell phone numbers, Eddie rounded the corner of my office.He set two cups of coffee on my desk and slammed his finger down on the phone, disconnecting the call.Chapter 6“Why’d you do that?” I asked.“You are a wanted woman.”“I am not!”“Yes, you are.People are looking for you.The cops, some mortgage company, and the head of Human Resources.”“They think I’m easy?”“What?”“You said I was a wanton woman.”“Wanted, not wanton.” He set two cups of coffee on the desk.“Who were you calling? What are you doing here?” he demanded in a low voice.“I’m trying to do my job.” I tapped the paper with my index finger.“Patrick was one of the judges of this competition.I thought I should volunteer, you know, on behalf of Tradava.The show must go on, and all of that.Why did you disconnect the call?”“You don’t work here.” He glanced at the open Rolodex, then to the phone, then back to me.“You’re calling people from Patrick’s file and giving them your home number? What the—that’s like stealing company resources.”“I do work here, and I would have left Tradava’s number only I don’t know it.I have it written down, somewhere, but it wasn’t in front of me, and I thought I should give my own number instead of nothing.Now I have to call back and explain why I hung up half-way through my message.” I opened and shut a couple of drawers, for no reason other than I felt like a fool and wanted to look busy.“Are you going to stand there all day?”“The standard response to someone bringing you coffee is ‘Good morning’ or ‘Thank you’, but yours works too.Less expected.” He sank into the chair in front of me and pushed one of the cups in my direction.“Why did you bring me coffee if you thought I wouldn’t show up today?”“I was hoping you’d show even if I didn’t think you would.”I pulled one of the Styrofoam cups toward me.“I haven’t decided yet if it’s a good morning.”“Have any cops showed up to talk to you?”“Not yet.”“Sounds like a good morning to me.”His black and white checkered Vans complemented his Devo T-shirt.Now that I had more time to take in his total look, I realized this creative surf dude didn’t end up in retail fashion by accident.He had an eye for details.I’d bet his long board matched his wetsuit.“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.He sat back in his chair and watched me watch him.He crossed one checkered shoe over the knee of his other leg and pulled his ankle up until it rested mid-thigh.I studied his face, his body language, his demeanor, all the while repeating his name inside my head.Eddie Adams …Eddie Adams …Eddie Adams …“We graduated high school together.” He raised his coffee cup toward me as though in toast.“I was only there for the end of senior year.I didn’t get to know many people.Check your yearbook.”“The math test?” I asked, as a memory clicked into place.He nodded.Eddie had been the new kid at school, starting halfway through senior year.There was a test in Calculus, and he scored the highest score.So had the captain of the football team, sitting to his left.Rumors that Eddie cheated started almost instantly.And, being the new kid, there was no one to come to his defense.That was the year I sat in the back of the class.I’d been stumped on the seventh test question.So, instead of concentrating on my own exam, I’d been staring out at the classroom, watching everyone else scribble numbers and math symbols on the pages in front of them.And I saw him copy the answers from another student’s test.Not Eddie.The football player.He’d just gotten a full scholarship to college.Getting caught cheating would have cost him his future.He did it anyway, and got away with it, and Eddie got suspended.I went to the principal’s office three days later, told him what I saw, and demanded something be done.The school readministered tests to both boys.Again, Eddie scored well.He came back and finished out the year, and went on to art school.I’d asked the principal to keep me out of it, and I remember not knowing if Eddie had ever suspected I was the one who came forward with the truth, at least until months later when I read what he’d written in my yearbook.He was the last person to sign it, because I didn’t want anyone else to know what I’d done.The football player failed.And though I never told a soul what I’d done, I’d gained a lot of satisfaction in doing the right thing.You work hard, you get what you deserve.That lesson followed me my whole life.“You stood up for me,” Eddie said.An assorted bunch of miniature Sharpies dangled from a turquoise D-clamp he’d hooked to a belt loop on the side of his jeans.He jiggled the foot on his knee and the Sharpies clacked against each other like a colorful set of plastic janitor’s keys.The yellow one popped off and landed on the floor.“Have you been in Ribbon since high school?” I asked.“I landed this job out of college.I’ve been here ever since.”A part of me wanted to push aside thoughts of Patrick’s murder, the cops, the mortgage company, and Human Resources to get lost in our reunion, but before I could word the questions in my mind, Eddie tapped my cell phone with the bottom of his coffee cup.“Weren’t you listening yesterday? No reception.” He glanced toward the ceiling.“These offices were never meant to be anything more than temporary.You won’t get a signal.And store policy says you can’t have one on the selling floor.Looks bad to customers.”I chucked my phone back into my handbag and peeled the top off my coffee, a puff of steam hitting my face.With full knowledge it was too hot to drink, I took a sip.Burnt my tongue.Patience is not my strong suit.Finally, I spoke.“Are you sure you want to be seen talking to me?”“It’s better than talking to Patrick’s assistant, if you know what I mean.”“Who is Patrick’s assistant?”He gestured toward the balls of pink messages that accessorized the floor surrounding the trash can [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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