Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“Then why are you calling it a problem?” I mutter, picking up my phone. It barely rings before Jinny answers. “What’s up?” My heart beats through a series of palpitations, which is my go-to response when there’s a problem with my business baby.
“Have you seen the figures for today?”
“No.” I don’t check them every day. It’s a little too disheartening.
“You should,” she insists, sounding buzzed. Happy? This is not a state I’m familiar with for Jinny. “Really. Fire up your laptop now.”
“Do you want me to call you back?”
“No! I want to hear your reaction.”
“You’re frightening me,” I mutter, logging on to the website’s order interface. “It’s ah-what?”
“Aye, that’s what I thought. I even looked on the backend, but it’s correct. We’ve sold out of the Katia dress in the black, the green, and the blue. We’ve got no sizes left. Not one!”
Pleasure begins to pop inside me like miniature bottles of fizz. The sleek and sexy Katia dress is one of my designs. Oh, I am feeling the love!
“What are we going to do about resupply?”
“Um, I’ll get in contact with the factory. Can you make a post on the website? Maybe something about how we limit our orders because we believe in sustainability and not oversupply. You know, fast fashion ending up in the landfill,” I run on, circling my hand in the air as I try to process my thoughts. We don’t stock a huge inventory because I didn’t have the money to buy more stock. I suppose I do now. I also suppose this company could become a cute hobby. I also know it won’t.
“Yeah, I’ll do that. I wonder what’s behind the massive spike.”
“Isn’t it obvious? It’s a gorgeous dress, designed by a very talented woman,” I say with a teary laugh. I just can’t make sense of this, other than it’s obviously amazing. “Whatever the cause, I’m going to have a celebratory slice of cake with my coffee right after I do a little happy dance.”
“Living it large,” Jinny says with a chuckle. “You’ll be dancing to the soundtrack of home renovations, by the sounds of it.” The drill in the kitchen has fired up again.
“The music is all in my head,” I answer as we end our call.
I do actually dance a happy jig. I’ve always wanted to be a fashion designer, and I have been, I suppose. I’ve designed things and felt great about making my own clothes on my trusty old Singer sewing machine. I’ve toured factories where the clothing I’ve designed has been made. I’ve held dresses and blouses and jackets in my hand and marveled at how I’ve had a hand in the process. But this feels different. This feels like acknowledgment.
My phone buzzes. Another text from Jinny.
Got it! HoD IG page was tagged by the model Viktoria Kvitko. She was pap’d wearing the dress at The Ivy last night. Then The Daily Mail ran the photo this morning, listing HoD as the place where Viktoria’s look could be picked up.
Fab, I type out. Maybe we should send her some flowers.
Or her stylist, Jinny replies.
Except we haven’t had any inquiries from stylists lately. Or ever.
Great detective work, I add. A pat on the back coming your way.
And an internet stalk in my future. As Hugh would say, my Spidey senses are tingling.
Viktoria Kvitko is, in a word, gorgeous. Dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a figure like Jessica Rabbit. The perfect shape for a HoD dress. At age twenty-eight, she’s not a catwalk model but, rather, Instagram famous. An influencer with hundreds of thousands of followers and a beautifully curated feed. She recently dated a boy band member and now gets stalked by the paparazzi. Scrolling through her account makes me feel old and frumpy. Honestly, I don’t get what being famous for being famous’ sake is. She’s gorgeous, and I understand women want to be her and men want to—
No. I shake my head. No!
There are no images of a beautiful Viktoria draped around my husband on her feed. I press my hand to my head. Can you hear yourself? Your husband!
This isn’t happening. Jealousy isn’t a good look on anyone. Not that it stops me from moving from Instagram to the internet.
Viktoria Kvitko and Nikolai Vanyin, I type in the search bar, then hit the search function, move onto images. And there are lots of images, but none of them together.
Good. Next, I type:
Viktoria Kvitko and mystery man.
And I scroll. What am I searching for? Proof of them together? This is silly. Why would she wear my dress, in that case?
They could be friends. Friends who used to fuck.
Friends who still do, whispers a vicious little voice in my head.
“Oh, sod it,” I mutter, reaching for my phone again. I dial Niko’s number.
“Well, this is an unexpected surprise.” The warmth in his tone floods my body with oxytocin, taking the edge off this neurosis. There are voices in the background, their conversations indistinct. “One moment,” he murmurs, then mutters something in Russian, I suppose. A door closes and the background noise shuts off like a tap. “How are you, Peanut?”