The Claiming of Sadie Graves (2 page)

I’m Sadie Graves, fashion designer.

Well, actually right now I’m
fabric expert, errand girl, advice-giver and tailoring guru at the house of Anna Rosenstein. It’s the job of my dreams, if you want to know the truth. I’ve worked my way up from “flunky”, and it’s taken me three years.

I guess Anna thinks I do a good enough job, and I love the clothes, the challenges and even the demanding clientele.
Her atelier is on Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan, sandwiched between boutiques with names over the door like Jean Paul Gautier and Stella McCartney. It’s a long, narrow building with whitewashed brick walls and old wooden floors, high ceilings and pendant lighting. Oh, and there are racks and racks of couture and ready-to-wear ensembles, just waiting for the right woman to slither into them.

The
walls are dotted with warm wood cabinets full of sweaters, scarves, belts and other accessories, and there’s one whole section of lingerie that would make any woman look at her undies and grimace. In my second year of employment, Anna agreed to review – and eventually to produce – about fifteen of my lingerie designs. They have their own section, but we haven’t made the leap of advertising them yet. Our ready-to-wear line is the biggest income producer, so it gets the lion’s share of our attention. With good reason, I know. But I’m absurdly proud of my bras and panties, and just looking at them hanging up on those little hangers makes me smile.

Every wall is
covered with fashion week posters and enlargements of Anna’s original designs, things that might as well be splashed with the disclaimer: ‘Anna Rosenstein has arrived’. Insert exclamation point here.

Anna, the lady herself, is
in her late fifties, tall, leggy and well-preserved. Lottie, the other designer/helper, says all those good looks are due to a certain plastic surgeon on Broadway, but I don’t begrudge our boss whatever it takes to keep looking the way she does. Fashion is a harsh business. And keeping current is part of the trade-off for success. Anna wears her hair in a polished chignon, and favors leggings, boots and flowing tunics. But her designs are far from flowing, and they specialize in showing off a woman’s “finer points”, shall we say. I’m lucky to work for her, and I know it. Handing out my business card is one of the most fun things I do. People are instantly impressed, and imagine that I lead a glamorous life…which could not be further from the truth. Fashion designers make a decent wage, but the cost of living in New York is huge, and I live very modestly.  

I share an apartment with another fashion victim
. You might call us ‘industry professionals’, but we know what we call ourselves! Her name is Jenny Whitson, and she’s OCD on cleanliness. Which is a good thing; our apartment always looks picked-up. Jenny’s out of town on business until Thursday night, and I find myself looking forward to her return. Days are long without her companionship, and I love her easy, happy personality. I mentally jog myself:
I need to pick up breakfast items and milk for her return
. She’ll get back into the airport late.

I hustle into the bathroom and shower. When I’m clean and wrapped in a towel, I take a good hard look at myself in the mirror. My stats are simple.
Sadie Graves, aged twenty-four and three-quarters. Five foot eight in my stocking feet, I weigh about ten pounds too much (twenty, if you count the models zipping in and out of Anna’s shop) and I look so Irish I could be on a tourist postcard. I have curly, unruly hair that’s a cross between red and blondish brown. Right now, it’s wet and wrapped up in a thin towel. I have the requisite Irish green eyes and pale skin. And I have a little mole on my cheekbone, what the French ladies like to call a
grain de beaute
. I’m the only person in my family with one. That’s kind of strange.
Yup. That’s still me – same as yesterday.

My body is short, but my legs are long. I did okay in
the chest department, and my hips are slim. That’s heredity, because I’m not doing anything to make it happen, or to prolong slimness. But I‘m grateful, anyway. It’s easy to find clothes that fit.

Overall,
I guess I’m reasonably happy with what I see. My biggest issue is the fact that I’m terminally pale, and this pains me. I’m white in the winter, spring, summer and fall. Anna keeps telling me that my avoidance of the sun will pay off later, and I believe she’s a woman of her word. So I’m fair, and resigned to it.

I spent my high school years at Duke Ellington School of the Arts in D.C., and ended up at the New York School of Design. I graduated with an assistant fashion designer certificate, but
my greatest learning achievement was being taught how to make patterns; I can whip up an outfit in two hours to any event in the world. Hey. I never
do
, because no one would invite me to anything that over the top, but I consider this to be a powerful skill. (One I wouldn’t know without some excellent teachers, and certainly not without financial help from my dad.)

Just the thought of my dad brings a smile to my face.

Patrick Graves is
close to fifty, with red hair and blue eyes. He works out every day of his life and that’s a good thing, because his diner,
Patrick’s on M
, is open 24/7/365. Undoubtedly, he needs all the energy he can get. He is, first and foremost, a stellar cook. His home-style recipes keep the diner jumping at all hours.

On most days, he’s there twelve hours – noshing with his regulars (who are now friends), and making new
customers feel welcome. He oversees every single plate that comes out of the kitchen and cooks on Sundays, to give his staff a day of rest. He’s very driven, but it all revolves around relationship: introducing people to his food is his life. I’m glad I’ve been a peripheral part of it, so I can formulate my own successful business strategy. I get it: relationship is glue.

After he and my mom broke up, he never remarried. But I’d be blind deaf and dumb if I didn't realize how many women think he’s hot.
Ooh, did I just say that?
He’d be a catch, if he felt like being caught, I suppose.

Th
inking about my dad makes me homesick. I visualize our two bedroom flat in Georgetown, and his unwavering commitment to give me a ‘normal’ life. In hindsight, I think he did a fabulous job. We try to get together every few weekends. I help out on Sundays at the grill, or wash dishes. It’s the best way I know to give back to the man who made my current life possible. I love him, without reservation.

And, though I’ll never tell him,
it’s my way of thanking him for taking a chance on bringing me back to D.C.

When I got back home, I was a mess.
I was in therapy for two years – not easy when you’ve promised yourself to never speak about what happened. I had to swear my school psychologist to secrecy to feel any sense of confidence. I dealt with two things: my fear of Dusty and how he took advantage of me, and how his domination of me made me sexually defenseless. Being subjugated gave me conflicting emotions. Yes, I felt guilty. My mother didn't know. She wasn’t coming to rescue me, something Dusty loved to remind me when he was in the middle of touching me. But after a few nights, when he’d figured out how to make me orgasm – and multiple-orgasm – my hatred of him became mixed with a combination of dread and sexual excitement. My therapist said the classic symptoms of abuse – nausea, nervous stomach, sexual dysfunction, lack of self-care – were normal. It would take time to get past them. Being intimate against my will was all I knew; and my teacher was both harsh and inventive.

The psychologist
also helped me get past my inability to sleep and my memories of forced orgasm and being held down. Dusty was deviously brilliant, really. He made sure I could never say I didn’t enjoy what he did to me. I still struggle with the memory of his touch, and how he controlled me. But I’m working on it.

My mother found out two years after I left that Dusty was molesting
the ten-year-old daughter of one of his ranch hands. She called the police. The victim testified against him; she was so brave. Dusty was tried and sentenced to 10 years in prison. The day he was transported to Oklahoma’s Department of Corrections, I felt free. My mother sold her half of the ranch back to Dusty’s parents and moved to Napa.

She met and married husband number three the next year. I declined to attend.
Don’t get me wrong; I love my mother. But I just couldn’t bring myself to go across country after what I’d experienced. Being home meant being with my dad, even if it was painful all around.

I look back into the mirror, at my reflection. I put my hair into an
updo with loose tendrils, and clip a pair of dangling pearl earring into my ears. I smooth powder onto my face, add lip gloss, blush and a little mascara. 

Looking smart
at work is a must, so today I shrug on my “uniform” – a black matte jersey wrap dress with long sleeves and a hemline just above the knee. The dress ties with a grosgrain ribbon, making me look long (thank God) but not wide. Anna would notice and change me into something else in a heartbeat if I don’t look brand-worthy enough. I pair it with opaque black tights and short black booties. They have a tallish heel but I find them more comfortable to stand in for long hours than flat shoes. I look up. Ack! When did it get to be so late? I whisk into the kitchen, concoct my tea, pour it into a Tervis tumbler, and prepare to leave. I grab my handbag, work portfolio and smartphone, and beat it out the door.

“What a Difference a Day Made”

Jamie Cullum,
Twentysomething

Travel from Queens into Manhattan isn’t really all that bad, and I’m actually the first one in the building this morning. I unlock the door, let myself in and quickly lock it back behind me.
I walk around, flick on all the lights, and turn up the ambient temperature. I hear Lottie calling out gaily at a few minutes before nine, as she drops a big pile of fabric samples onto her desk. “Sadie!”

“Yes, Lottie?”

Can you handle that late appointment we have with Violet Emery today? I know I said I’d fit her myself, but something came up with my mom and I’d like to scoot out early…if I could?” Lottie’s mom is ill, and has been going through cancer treatment for the past few months.

“Of course I will Lottie. Happy to help”
I say confidently. Who wouldn’t want to the experience of fitting the hottest model on the scene right now? I’ve always said; most of the models we work with are lovely, humble girls who work very hard to be noticed and get magazine covers or ad work. Violet’s appointment is a fitting for a Cosmopolitan Magazine cover shoot, and Anna told me privately she’s looking forward to her design being featured. I don’t blame her. The chosen dress is a humdinger.

A lot of things have to
be done before the four o’clock session, and the day gets off to a busy start. Anna arrives around ten thirty, and there are designs to discuss, a new line of fragrance to test (something I dread, frankly) and customers to assist. There isn’t time for lunch, so I grab an apple from the tiny kitchen and keep going. At three forty-five, Anna calls me from her office, upset over a fabric shipment that doesn’t look as if it will come through. Held up in customs, we’re missing bolts and bolts of a suiting fabric that we simply must have. We’ve already dropped pictorials in the major trade magazines, showcasing the pieces we’ll have for sale. Our line
depends
on the right fabric. I make a phone call to Salvatore Fekkai, one of my dearest friends from design school, and leave a message on his cell.

“Sally, I need your help. I need a boatload of suiting material, and mine is in customs
, sitting still. Anna is in a
state.
Can you please call me back before you leave the office today? I’m desperate.” I ring off and Lottie steps into my office, looking slightly queasy.

“They’re here.” Something in her face says she
wants to tell me something and can’t. Obviously, whatever needs to be said can’t be overheard. “Can you come to the reception area and pick them up?” she asks, meeting my eyes. “Of course, Lottie. You may leave as soon as you’re ready. I’ll take it from here.” Lottie clears her throat, her wide blue eyes swinging back out toward reception. She jerks her head toward the door and mouths OH MY GOD.

When I enter reception, I see what’s gotten her in such a tizzy. It’s not Violet Emery that she’s having a fit over; it’s her companion.
Don’t get me wrong; Violet is gorgeous. She has long, tawny blonde hair and she’s easily six feet tall. If you can get past her dusky skin, full lips and deep blue eyes, you’ll notice right away; she has a body that simply will not quit. Dressing her is going to be a treat. I guess most of us in New York have gotten used to seeing and dressing models, so feminine beauty is expected and a part of our daily lives. We’ve steeled ourselves, somehow, against the loveliness of our human clothes-hangers; so we can stay attentive to the fit and design of the clothes themselves.  I can overlook Violet, but not
him
.

Lottie is reacting to Violet’s…boyfriend?
Lover? Husband? I have no idea. He’s taller than Violet and probably the best looking man either of us have ever seen. Geez. He ought to be on a coin. His face is perfect, his nose aquiline; his lips full and chiseled. He has copper-colored hair that’s a little long, and unsmiling brown eyes.
Who am I kidding? A guy like this doesn’t have to smile.
He can just stand there and wait for every woman in a fifty-mile radius to swoon; the net has already been cast. He’s looking around the space, his eyes checking out the lighting and walls, so I get to observe him for the span of about three seconds. His upper body is defined in muscle underneath a shirt that’s obviously expensive; the collar is open a few inches to show the hollow of his throat. His shoulders are wide; contrasted against a trim waist and hips. He has a leather coat slung over his arm, like he doesn’t intend to stay long. I scan his hands for a wedding ring, but don’t see one. Everything about him looks well controlled, well exercised and wealthy. He looks bored. And he’s sexy as homemade sin.