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)
“Wow!” I say breathlessly. “I’ve been in New York with Nora Jacobs since the day after graduation.” Somehow, it pales in comparison to everything Molly has done.
She shoves my shoulder, hard. “I know! I saw your influence all over her last collection! Congrats, bitch! You’re making that coin with her while I’m sleeping in hostels with one-night stands.”
“That sounds interesting,” Katarina interjects. “Tell me more about that.”
Molly grins lasciviously. “I wish there were more to tell. You’ve heard of a two-pump chump? There was an Italian who came literally only halfway in. I’d take it as a compliment to my top-notch pussy, and in the right time and place it might be hot, but I think it was more about his early shortcummings, if you catch my meaning.” She pulls a face, making sure that she’s got both Katarina and me firmly on her crazy-story hook. “Then there was the one in Mumbai, total Alpha-possessive wannabe. You know, the toxic masculinity type? Except he couldn’t get it up without a finger in his ass. And I had nails at the time, so . . .”
“He didn’t,” I say with wide eyes.
“He did.”
“Russian men are very different, I think,” Katarina says thoughtfully. “They chase, they possess. There is a saying.” She pauses, translating in her head before saying, “No means yes, yes means anal. Da?”
Molly laughs, and I shake my head. “That’s awful.”
Still laughing, Molly tells me, “Don’t knock it ’til you try it. Sometimes, a little role playing can be fun.” Her eyes sparkle, and I don’t need to be a mind reader to know what fantasies are running through her mind.
Suddenly, the door opens and two other women come in with the Beauxbatons woman from the front desk. Molly, Katarina, and I all straighten as though busted doing something wrong. “Your host will be with you momentarily,” the blonde repeats, and I wonder if it’s some sort of script she’s following.
When the door closes again, I greet the newcomers. “Hello, I’m Autumn Fisher.”
“Molly Rims.”
“Katarina Janacova.”
The first woman, who appears Asian, though I’m not sure of what ethnic group, dips her chin, which makes her dark, bobbed hair swing forward. “Yori Hatoshi.”
I can’t help but take in her dress, which is straight-cut from her shoulders to her ankles in an exuberant pattern with pink and bright yellow flowers. The sleeves are folded up and tacked with oversized buttons, and the pockets at her hips are large and rounded. To the untrained eye, it’d seem a simple pattern, but I can see the slight tapering of the shape, the curve of the fabric at the side slits near the hem, and the workmanship.
The other woman, who I couldn’t begin to guess where she’s from with her dark hair woven through with caramel highlights and strikingly dark eyes that are expertly made up with smoky shadow, says in a distinctly French accent, “Beatrice Dupont.”
Her dress is black, knee-length, and elegant. It’d be appropriate in any environment, but if I’m honest, it’s forgettable in its basicness. A quintessential little black dress. Like her dress, there’s something reserved about her, not unfriendly, but aloof, perhaps. Maybe she’s already in competition mode?
Molly throws me a raised brow look, silently communicating ‘mean girl alert!’
I know the type. I think we all do. In fashion, the number of Regina Georges is exponentially high, whether designers, models, photographers, or corporate buyers. Everyone thinks their shit doesn’t stink and is in denial that they might be a single tiny feeder fish in an entire sea of fish. Add in Bravo TV shows and Tyra Banks telling everyone they need to be ‘fierce’, and you end up with an entire industry of people with a pretty big bitch streak in them.
And I don’t mean just the women. It’s everyone, which is one of the many reasons I love Nora and her kind mentoring so damn much.
We don’t get any further in our introductions because a voice says, “Bonjour, ravi de vous rencontrer belles dames.”
I turn to see a mid-thirties man in a pink button-down, a plaid bowtie, and black slacks smiling at us warmly.
Where did he come from? Maybe there’s a secret door?
This place really is like Hogwarts!
“Do you know what he just said?” I whisper to Molly.
“Girl, how am I supposed to know?” she asks with a frown.
“You’re the one who’s been living in Europe!”
Molly rolls her eyes. “Yeah, so I know some Italian. The only French word I know is chatte.”
“Chatte?”
“Pussy.”
I groan, but at the same time I’m sort of glad. I’m not the only monolingual here. Because judging by the others, some of them have no problem understanding what the guy said. Thankfully, he seems to realize that Molly and I are struggling and switches to English.
“Good evening, ladies. Lovely to meet you. I’m Tobias, a House Corbin assistant. Or perhaps, for our Americans . . . a bitch?” He snaps his fingers with a swirl of his head, a perfect approximation of classic Damon Wayans comedy.