Fatshionista (20 page)

No matter what I
decided, a part of me would be left behind. I didn’t know if I could take a
chance on continuing to work for Marta and get stuck with some super-horrible
boss and be miserable. I had seriously considered that if I didn’t take the job
I would need to resign anyway and take a chance on this writing career by
finally working on a novel. Or even talking to a local paper about a column. If
I left Marta’s, I wouldn’t need to keep it a secret that I was the author of
the blog. I could finally cash in on the recognition.

My master plan
had been to sleep on all of this, to drift off while I was slowly reviewing the
mental pros and cons list I had worked on all evening.

Alas, clarity and
the Oprahesque “aha” moment did not occur before rising. I was as confused and
unsure of the right move as I had been when I went to bed. So much for
everything looking brighter in the morning.

I got ready and
trudged into work hoping that something along the course of the day would show
me beyond a shadow of a doubt which decision was the right one. Avis said I had
to remember that at any point in our lives we make the best decision we can at
the moment with the information we have right then. Would I ever look back on
this moment and wonder why in the world did I decide to do that? Absolutely.
Because the facts change over time.

I also knew that
I was a maximizer, which meant I was always trying to make the better best. I
didn’t waste time making okay better. What was the point? If there was
something I didn’t do well, I didn’t do it. And if there was something I could
do well, I wanted to do it better than anyone else. The whole concept of a
well-rounded person only set someone up to fail. Everyone couldn’t be good at
everything. One of the challenges with being a maximizer was that I always
wanted to gather more data. And I tended not to be as happy with whatever it
was I ended up deciding on because there would always be a part of me thinking
I could have done it better if I had done it differently.

And I wondered
why I was so crazy.

It was strange to
walk into the office and try to imagine what it would be like to walk in as the
boss. I was known as the person who always said “hello” to everyone; I thought
people would like it if I continued to do that when I was the boss. I was also the
office’s buffer between them and Marta. If Marta was upset with anyone on the
team, I would break it to them gently before she pounced. Conversely when they
had any concerns or questions for Marta, I was usually the one who volunteered
(or in most cases elected) to take those issues to her. So what would happen if
I were the boss? Would they feel like they could come to me? Or would they find
someone to be the buffer between them and me?

I had no idea
what would change around here if it was announced tomorrow that I was going to
become the boss. I did know that I would never have any spare time left to
write, and the blog would have to be retired.

I sat down at my
cluttered desk and for a brief moment imagined moving into Marta’s giant palace
of an office. And then I imagined my assistant sitting at the desk right
outside my door. Oh, and then I imagined the sheer bliss of being able to make
all creative decisions. Of course I would take into account the opinions of my
team; I did that today. But to know that there was no one to veto me or to
trump me…man, that was a giant addition to the pro side of the argument.

The only bright
spot to this dilemma was that it kept my mind churning away and left little
time for me to pay attention to the discussion my body was trying to have with
me—specifically the discussion related to one Daniel Singh and his
ability to incite a nuclear meltdown with just a grin and a harmless brush up
against my body. When we were going over the plans yesterday evening after the
dash back from the coffee shop/Hindi slip incident, he kept crowding my space
as I was showing him the visuals for the show. Every time I would back away a
little or step to the side to give him more room to look at everything, he
would somehow position himself either glued to my side or standing slightly
behind me. At one point I could literally feel his warm breath on the back of
my neck and I thought my panties would burst into flames and fall as ashes
around my ankles.

At least I didn’t
have to worry about running into him for the next few days. The show was this
weekend, and I had told him I would call him or text him with an update to my
decision, but that I wouldn’t see him until the dress rehearsal on Friday. Any
other time I would make up whatever excuses I needed to in order to put us
together as much as possible. But with this decision looming over my head, I
knew it was best that I keep some distance between us and stay focused on my
future.

My calendar was
clear for the day and I could really spend some time here in the office imagining
how things might be different if I decided to take the job—or see if I
thought I could live without it.

I opened up Excel
to review and update the pros and cons list. I was sure there would be more
things to add to both sides of the list by the end of day.

But…while Excel
was loading, I decided to go out on the internet and do a little more research
about my client. I hadn’t seen much more than his portfolio and his last few
collections when we first met, which was usually as far as I went with new
clients. Daniel had piqued my curiosity, and not the professional kind. I had never
tried before to research a designer’s private life. I could take just a few
minutes out of my day and do a little digging; what could it hurt?

One of the
advantages of knowing Avis and her posse of retired librarians was that I knew
all kinds of ways to search for information. People had this perception that
older librarians were behind the times and didn’t know the first thing about
digital searches or online research tools. While that might be the case for
some of them, the group of intrepid researchers that Avis ran around with was
more technically savvy than most teenagers.

The other thing I
had learned from them was if there was no information out there, it either meant
no one wanted it found, or it was never there to begin with. Basically, you
were searching for something that didn’t exist, so don’t be surprised when you
don’t find it.

What I was
surprised to
not
find was anything about his social life. While Daniel
was still a relatively new designer, he had dressed Kareena Kap
o
or
and Deepika Padukone, as well as the one and only Aishwarya Rai. While those
names didn’t mean much to people in the US, these actresses could cause a riot
in any Indian city by just stepping out of a car. There was some coverage of
Daniel at a few big Bollywood parties, coverage of the after parties he
attended during Lakme and Wills Lifestyle Fashion week, but not a single
picture of him with anyone other than the ladies he had dressed.

Not a single word
about who he was dating, who he was being seen with, or that he was gay. While
homosexuality was still a little under wraps in India, it was fairly common
amongst the creative, artistic types.

How did a man as
handsome as Daniel and with as much publicity as he had while working in India
not have one single mention of a social life? Or a regular boyfriend? Or even a
rumor that he was gay? The only person other than clients that I could even
find him photographed with was his mother (who, by the way, was absolutely
gorgeous). All curves and long black hair in a stunning sari I’m sure Daniel
designed just for her.

Either he had no
social life whatsoever or he was the most stealth gay man in all of India.

I took a break in
my research and glanced over my spreadsheet. One thing to add to the con sheet was
that I would lose the day-to-day interaction with designers I had grown to
love. Writing was pretty solitary, and as much as I liked the quiet solitude of
doing it on the side, I didn’t know if I could handle the day-to-day grind of
working by myself. Even if I was lucky enough to land a column, most of those
were freelance, and I wouldn’t have an office to go into. I got my energy from
being around people; it was one of the reasons I loved New York so much, and
India for that matter. There was no word in Hindi for privacy because the
concept simply didn’t exist. While, at times, that certainly got on your nerves,
I loved the feeling that everyone was looking out for you.

When I lived in
Delhi, I became close with my host family. Indians have a very formal social
structure, so while we were close, we didn’t hug or touch in the casual Western
way. I didn’t think I realized I had been there a month with no real physical
contact with anyone (unless I counted the squeeze of strangers next to me on
the bus, which I didn’t) until I came out of my room one evening dressed in a
sari. It was my first time tying a sari, and I was determined to do it on my
own. I had watched my Aunty-ji and felt sure I could duplicate the intricate
pleating and folding.

She took one look
at my pleats and immediately shoved her hands down my skirt and pulled them
out. She muttered the whole time in Hindi; the most I caught were things like
“stubborn girl,” “Americans,” “why can’t they ever ask for help,” things along
those lines. I was shocked when she fixed the pleats then shoved them back down
into my underwear. It was summer and no one wore a petticoat in the summer,
choosing instead to tuck the sari right into their underwear. After that
incident, there was never a question of my need for privacy and personal space.
My Aunty-ji liked to say it was on that day I truly became an Indian.

All right, back
to the pros and cons. Only it wasn’t really holding my attention. All this
thinking about my home away from home made me think maybe instead of trolling around
the internet I should just call some contacts in Mumbai and see what they knew
about my very private client. It was 8:30 at night there; surely someone would
answer their mobile.

I decided I could
make one call, waste a few more minutes on this, and then I would need to get
back to the business of making my monumental career decision. I called my
friend Upasna. She was an assistant to the designer Payal Singhal. If anyone
had heard a speck of gossip about Daniel, it would be Upasna.

I dialed her number
and played around with the fonts on my spreadsheet while I was waiting for her
to answer.

“Hello?”

“
Namaste, meri
dost! Tum kaise ho?
”

“
Theik hain,
theik hain.
Am I to understand that this is my long-lost friend from
America who I have not seen in ages and doesn’t even have the time to Skype
with me?”

“Guilty! And now
that I’ve asked you how you are, we need to move on to more important things,
like why I’ve graced you with an out-of-the-blue phone call” I absolutely
adored this woman; she was the most astute observer, gave the best advice, and
was always up for a shopping trip. Last time she was in the States, I
introduced her to the joy of Charming Charlie’s, and she single-handedly helped
to boost the US economy that day.

“By all means,
please. I hope it’
i
s to tell me you are coming back to
visit, and not just to Delhi but to your poor, lonely friends down here in the
South. We miss you just as much as they do!”

Her voice made me
homesick for India. “I am planning to come back sometime next year; I’ll let
you know when I book the ticket. I will definitely get down to Mumbai, or
better yet, you can meet me in Goa and we can have a nice, relaxing beach
vacation while staring at some nice, hot men. How does that sound?”

She giggled at my
suggestion. “Delicious, my friend, delicious. Now what can I help you with? I
have about fifteen minutes, and then I’m out the door to a fitting with a
client, so spill it.”

“All right; I’m
doing a little digging for information on a local boy done good. I took him on
as a client here in New York, and I wanted to find out a little more about him.
I’ve taken the Internet as far as it will go, so I decided to tap another
source who had
almost
as much information.”

“What to do?
People love to tell me things, and I love to remember them.” I could hear the
smile in her voice and knew she was remembering some of our many conversations.

“Tell me
everything you know about Daniel Singh, and not anything work related—personal.”

“Daniel Singh?
That is your new client? I had heard he was dipping his toes into the Western
waters, but I had no idea he had landed on your doorstep.”

Mmm, had he ever.
“Yep, we’re handling his resort wear show.”

“Well, let me
see. He’s Punjabi, comes from a very wealthy family, but he tries to play it
off like he was middle class. Most people in Mumbai don’t care enough to find
out that he was rich back in Delhi, but anyone he works with in Delhi knows his
father and his reputation, and it did help him get his foot in the door, so to
speak. The education in England didn’t hurt either. He made friends with a
couple other designers who also came back to India and had some success. He has
a very tight group of peers whom he works with; he keeps most of his shows
quiet and has a select clientele of mostly rich Delhites but has recently
garnered a few big Bollywood red carpets.”