LEAH - CHAPTER ONE

 

 

“He wants it beachy and breezy. But watch out for banalities. Please no shells, or mermaids.” Maxima paused.

 

Leah could see the repulsed expression on the face of the woman who'd been her boss for the last five years, even though they were pressing smartphones to their ears on two different continents: The thin crimson lips curling. The sharply-pencilled brows vanishing under the precision-cut bangs. Both thick and raven black. No, make that crow.

 

“I just emailed you the brief. Elegant. Refined. More arts than crafts. And flashes of color. The collection will be all layered whites, sheer silk, unbleached muslin, gauzy linen. And lettuce hems. We need an extra, the je ne sais quoi, a surprise element. And, Leah, sorry, but” — Maxima cleared her throat — “you need to try harder. I'm afraid if you fail to impress this time, I'll have to take you off the pool list.”

 

Leah was convinced Maxima Ashcroft experienced neither sorrow nor trepidation over delivering bad news. Five years in the 'pool' (the bunch of young freelance creatives desperately trying to get a promotion to full-time junior assistant level) had taught her that the woman never uttered empty threats. And having a conscience could only interfere with Maxima's purpose of harvesting ideas from the design minions and funnelling them to her overlord who never credited anybody else than his own imagination.

 

“Okay, Leah, Stenny's on my other phone. I'll leave you to your work. Addio!”

 

Leah put her phone next to her closed laptop. She would read Maxima's email later. What had she said? “Beachy' and 'breezy'. Leah sighed, gazing across her desk and out of her studio window into the chilly morning. Though rain and mist were no strangers to early March in Seattle, the city seemed foggier during the last six months, eerily mirroring her state of mind.

 

How to whip up anything summery on such a day? She couldn't even remember when she had last created something bright — in spirit or quality.

 

Try harder. How could she possible do that? It was all slipping away.

 

Inspiration — where did it come from? And where did it go? What if you only had so much? What if the source dried up? How could it be replenished or revived? She had never thought about it in the past, always relied on its existence almost with a sense of entitlement. She was the 'artist' in her small family, used to every little accomplishment being lauded, every mediocre idea celebrated by her mother and younger sister who both expected her to embark on the outstanding career they had envisioned for her from the very first. Sure, she had been different, always dressing with a sense of drama. At seven she insisted to wear only clothes with stripes or polka dots for half a year, driving her mother nuts, and sparking a fashion craze in 2^nd grade.

 

Aided by an indulgent grandmother with a weakness for thrift stores, Leah embarked on a treasure hunt. Nana Strohman also possessed a large circle of friends from all walks of life who gladly opened their wardrobes and contributed fashion items spanning more than five decades. Leah displayed truffle-pig skills for spotting beauties their owners had forgotten, among them a pair of vinyl Mondrian gogo boots from the Sixties, a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, and vintage earrings, clusters of glass and faux pearls that turned out to be made by Gripoix for Chanel in the 1950s.

 

Her mother warmed up to Leah's whim soon — her daughter was a generous lender, only once in a while requesting a special dish for dinner in exchange, and as most pieces did not fit Leah yet, she delighted in spicing up her mom's outfits.

 

A pink Gingham sweetheart top Leah had salvaged from a crammed walk-in-closet scored her mother a date with one of her bosses at Buffalo Wild Wings — who soon became Leah's dad, as well as the founder of a successful online shop for restaurant equipment which enabled him to move the family from West-Hartford to Fairfield County, and send his stepdaughter to the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York. Leah felt eternally thankful to him and to old Mrs. Jacobs (the donor of the Gingham top), and affirmed in her long-held conviction that good things came to those who dressed smartly.

 

Leah sighed again. Lately this belief had been severely challenged. Nothing she put on changed anything or lifted her mood. Even worse, nothing she encountered sparked any desire to create, supplied surprising associations, suggested to be turned into anything that was not, something only she could see. The chambers of her brain felt emptied out, as if somebody had put a FREE sign there and a horde of scavengers had taken off with everything she had stored away in the nooks and crannies for later uses, like a hoarder of visuals.

 

Even her bread-and-butter clients were noticing. Colleen from Happy Socks had twice requested changes to Leah's designs, politely of course, and accepted the revised patterns, but Leah had sensed her unease after years of blissful, trouble-free collaboration. Truth be told, Leah usually just winged it — footwear for toddlers, anything colorful and funny did the trick. But this time, she had actually made an effort.

 

Leah picked up her tea cup and took a sip of lukewarm green tea. Now she had to 'impress' Stenton. She would produce another pile of stale, stifled and stunted designs, be deemed unworthy by Maxima of even being presented — “Let's not waste his precious time,” — and then get unceremoniously dumped.

 

She took another gulp of tea. Why hadn't she seen through it all years ago? Because it had been so glowingly possible.

 

Singled out as promising by Maxima Ashcroft, the sharp and stylish right hand of wunderkind couturier Stenton LaVallette, Leah had thought it only a matter of months until her talent would earn her a position with Coramelli right at the headquarters in Milano, or at least their New York branch.

 

Leah put down the cup. She knew better now. As the years flew by, it had been impossible to ignore the fact that Stenton and Maxima didn't play fair. A tandem of narcissists exploiting the gullible. But at least they paid well even if they didn't use what they purchased — 'hush money' Leah thought whenever she received a cheque.

 

She swivelled around in her chair, with too much spin, her elbow knocking the tea cup off her desk. The china smashed down and scattered on the grainy maple boards. She had always thought of it as beach colored. Their sandy floor. But it was hardwood, no doubt about it.

 

Cole's gift — in pieces. She felt her throat narrowing. He had bought the cup for her in Hong Kong, on the day they'd spent at laid-back Peng Chau, the island of artists and musicians. Leah still remembered the lovely old couple, owners of the small shop and two of the few remaining porcelain painters. How they decorated their fine china, sitting side by side, their heads bent down as the tips of their brushes deftly added flourishes to the patterns applied by small carved stamps. A wave of guilt had heated Leah's face at seeing husband and wife work in quiet unison at their mutual goal.

 

Of course Cole had been concerned about her flushed cheeks. “Too hot for you in here, sorpresa?” he had asked, all the while broadly smiling, imagining another 'early sign', like her appetite for the local stinky tofu and fried pig intestines, or the nauseousness she had experienced on the flight (caused by the odor of the airline's bathroom soap). She had shook her head and showed him the delicate white cup with whimsical blue pattern she had found on the shelf nearby: Elongated tadpoles, a swarm of lithe alien fish dancing all over over the cup — so different among the more traditional flower and koi designs. Cole's smile had widened (he later told her why); it wasn't the ridiculously low price of sixteen Hong Kong dollars.

 

Leah stared at the shards lying at her feet. For the last three years, she had treated the cup as if it were an antique from the Ming period.

 

What a stupid decision to use it every day. She winced: just one among many.

 

Yet, how had this silly little souvenir become her most treasured possession? Cole had given her other presents so much more valuable. They also had bought precious things together: designer furniture, a few small original works of art, a set of expensive Limoges china. She still kept all his belongings, personal and professional. She cherished his clothes (they still retained a hint of Cole's after shave), hugged his stuffed toy panda before closing her eyes at night, and played with his Vitra miniature designer chair collection. Daily she opened the leather-bound sketchbook with small black-and-white drawings of her face (mostly taken when she was asleep because he claimed she fidgeted too much to be a good artist's model. He admitted to having difficulties capturing anything that was not entirely still. However, she loved his sketches and had never been able to detect in her facial features the expression of sweetness and peace he gave them).

 

Now, though, nothing meant as much to her as the small porcelain cup with the whirling blue tadpole creatures. Why hadn't she put it away? Wrapped it in cotton wool and stowed it somewhere safe? Because she wanted to live with it, handle it, embrace it with her palms — press her lips against its smoothness and let the warmth it contained flow into her body, even if its comfort was mingled with pain.

 

She closed her eyes. Now the cup was shattered.

 

Just like her life.

 

Leah knelled down and collected the pieces. Her cup had broken into seven shards. How ironic: one for each year. Her fingertips touched the jagged edges. Absentmindedly she took the biggest piece and began writing the number seven onto the palm of her right hand, tracing the same two creases again and again while they grew redder and redder.

 

Small paws scuttled on the hallway tiles. Scusi peeked around the corner, the rigid plastic around her neck scraping the door frame.

 

Leah stopped. She gathered the shards and laid them on the seat of the chair.

 

“Scusi, baby, come here,” she called and stretched out her arms. The beagle dashed toward her, ears hindered from flying by the cone of shame.

 

The plastic banged hard against Leah's knee cap while Scusi leaped up to lick her cheek.

 

Leah sighed. They couldn't even comfort each other properly, with this monstrosity around Scusi's neck. Frequent yeast infections made it a necessity, though. Scratching her ears into a bloody mess was one of the ways her dog mourned. Sometimes Leah wondered if hearing her silly name caused the injuries: Scusi – Italian for sorry, the moniker Cole had given the puppy after she had peed on his sneaker and then looked at him as if she wanted to die of embarrassment. The kennel had named her Suzy, the smallest of an abandoned litter of six, but Cole's version had prevailed, and after a few weeks with them, the little beagle didn't respond to her original name at all any more.

 

How appropriate it had turned out to be. Now, every time Leah called Scusi, praised or scolded, shouted for her at the beach, or whispered a good night to her curled up pet on Cole's side of the bed, it seemed as if she uttered an apology, a plea for pardon from the one person whose absence they both found impossible to accept.

 

Leah pulled the e-collar's Velcro straps. They came apart with a hiss. The frosted pane released Scusi, who laid her head in Leah's lap and wriggled her body, enjoying the unexpected freedom.

 

Leah lifted the cone of shame, staring at the awful device — reminiscent of a medieval instrument of torture, no, mortification, like the hair shirt for the penitent sinner.

 

Leah tossed the collar to the side and bent her head down to Scusi's.

 

“Don't we both know I should be the one wearing it,” she whispered.

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