Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“You got it, Boss,” Jeanette answers.
Even the short sentence is growth from where we were mere days ago with our communication, and I consider that she has helped change me for the better too. One of her favorite words is ‘why’, and it’s caused me to do some soul searching on my own designs and why I feel called to certain elements, fabrics, and styles that are comfortable to me.
My first model takes the runway, fierce as fuck as she stomps down to the end and strikes a pose. Throwing the back of the skirt with a flick of her hand, it lifts and then falls dramatically as she gives a shady smirk and whirls to walk back.
Okay, not a smile, but I’ll take a badass bitch too.
I can see the faces of the judges, and they’re nodding. Or at least not scowling.
“Slayed,” I whisper to her in excitement when the model steps through the curtain to the backstage again. “Great job.”
“Outfit two.” I’m talking to myself mostly as the model stands still, letting me have one last look before she walks out, not that I can do much about it now.
“Wait,” Jeanette hisses, and my heart jumps into my throat.
“What’s wrong?”
“This.” She steps in front of the model wearing the pleated shorts and black cami and mimes pinching her nipples. Thankfully, not actually touching her because if she wrinkles the silk, I will lose my shit.
The model looks to me for permission. Jeanette assures me, “Sexy-sexy. Better.”
When I grin, the model slips her hands beneath the silk and pinches her nipples, harder than I think necessary, but I’m not gonna judge what she’s into. Regardless, they perk right up, and as the cami settles back into place, I can see that Jeanette was right. The model’s nipples add a bit of naughty sexiness to the outfit without being too much. I add the long, flowy toga-like drape, which the model holds at her elbows. When she walks, it’ll swish and sway behind her similarly to the caftan dress, but as a segue to more tailored pieces in the collection.
I clap my hands as I sing, “It’s about damn time!”
CHAPTER 14
SIMON
I shift in my chair, trying to remain professional. I hate being forced into this situation, judging each of the contestants’ designs. Sure, I’ve got a pen and paper to dutifully write down notes, but it feels like a sham, especially when it comes to Autumn.
How can I judge her designs objectively?
The stage is one I’ve walked a hundred or more times, considering House Corbin has used it for a decade. The lights are bright, meant for showing off the clothing for viewers here and in the photos later.
But the flow of this show will be different from anything we’ve ever done, a sign of the freshness with which we’re approaching this competition. Each designer will have their five designs walk, there will be a two-minute break, and then the next designer’s time begins. The small separation will give people a moment to digest, make notes, and prepare for another style presentation.
As we wait for the show to begin, I listen to the chatter around me. Most of these people are high society by birthright. They’re people who have never had to struggle for a meal in their lives. Even the ones who did work their way up, as designers themselves or industry insiders, have forgotten what that time in their life was like. I’m blessed to have never known struggle but also acutely aware that my life could’ve been so very different, and the seriousness with which these people discuss the latest red carpet fashion is off-putting.
Why aren’t we discussing politics or poverty or anything that’s actually important?
I love fashion. It’s been the foundation on which I was raised. But there’s got to be more to it. It can be a platform for change, for growth . . . for good in the world. Or at least I would like it to be. Fashion can be fun, but it needs to also mean something.
One day, when I take over House Corbin, I will make that my priority—giving to the world in a way that creates opportunity while simultaneously creating clothing for people to be excited about.
Or it will be my priority if I ever get the chance.
Because even now, as I sit in the House Corbin special seating, I hear whispers about our demise.
“An ancient dinosaur battling the coming meteor,” someone says gleefully. “And we all know how that turned out. Extinction.”
“Right, I mean, give it up already. Nobody under the age of forty would dream of wearing House Corbin.”
Are we that out of touch? Jacqueline certainly doesn’t think so. And while I do agree that some of our more recent collections have read as a bit matronly, fashion for the adult woman is not so different now than it was in years past. Though there is a trend toward skin, skin, and more skin, elegance will always be ageless and in fashion.