Working It by Leah Marie Brown Read Free Book Online Page A

father.
     
    Á:                      Stéphanie Moreau
    De:               Guillaume Moreau
    Objet:               Visite
     
    Mon Cher Fanny,
    J’ai dû annuler mon voyage à San Francisco. Kaliyah se passe en Suisse pour une procédure médicale peu…
     
    I hit delete before I have finished reading my father’s email because his opening lines told me all I need to know. He’s canceling his trip to San Francisco—again—because his obscenely younger girlfriend is going to a medical spa in Switzerland to have silicone injected into her boobs or butt or brain. Nipping and tucking is Kaliyah’s favorite hobby.
    Don’t get me wrong. I am not opposed to a little medical maintenance. I have even had some myself. When I lost my Éléphanny weight, I lost what little I had going on in my Wonderbra. I was embarrassingly flat-chested. Remember when Gwyneth Paltrow wore that pink taffeta Ralph Lauren ballerina gown to the Oscars—the year she won Best Actress for Shakespeare in Love ? Yeah, she made me look buxom. I understand she was going for that whole waif princess look, but I wasn’t.
    So my father would rather play recovery nurse to his pin-tucked paramour than visit me. C’est la vie .
    Continuing to scroll through my inbox, I skip over the notification from GoGirl! Magazine alerting me of Vivian’s latest article about her tour of the Lindt Chocolate Factory in Germany, spam from various fashion magazines, more interview requests from bloggers, until I come to the first in a series of form rejection letters.
    Donna Karan. Valentino. Hermès. Chanel.
    Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. Rejection.
    I can’t help but wince as I read the canned phrases: Not hiring. We will keep your resume on file. We will not be able to offer you a position. We wish you every success in your job search.
    I open the email from the head of Human Resources at Bautista, read the first line thanking me for applying, and my heart skips a beat. It is not a form letter.
    Bautista! As in, Cristóbal Bautista, the fiercely talented Spanish designer who sketched his way from the Basque Country to Paris. The creator of the cocoon coat and sack dresses. Bautista’s 2015 Fall Collection—the cigarette pants, mink trimmed gowns, and bubble skirts—was inspired. In-spired. I love Bautista! I love the Basque Country.
    Dear Stéphanie,
    I was pleasantly surprised to find your resume in my inbox. I immediately recalled meeting you at the Versace show during Mercedes Benz Fashion Week and how much you impressed me with your observations about the influences on Versace’s 2014 collection.
     
    Yes! I love Bautista. I do a few fist pumps and continue reading the email.
    I was prepared to offer you a position at Bautista. However, I am sorry to say that your references didn’t support you. I wish you the best of luck in your job search…
     
    My references didn’t support me? Bullshit.
    Nicola the Salope didn’t support me. My previous boss at Louis Vuitton loved me and would have given a glowing review.
    I hate Bautista. I hate sack dresses and cocoon coats. Who puts jodhpurs on the runway, anyway? And nobody ever looked good hobbling along in a hobble skirt. I hate the Basque Country.
    At this point, I have two options open to me: drink my way through Snob’s collection of Burgundy wines or hit the elliptical and try to think of a way to continue my career in the fashion industry that doesn’t include selling oversized utilitarian coveralls at a sad discount store.
    I am halfway through my workout, dripping perspiration, and no closer to finding a way to save my dying career, when Florence and the Machine start singing “Shake it Out.”
    I changed my ringtone when I got my new phone. Lana’s mournful song matches my present ennui, but Florence reminds me that it is always darkest before the dawn, that my depression is transitory.
    I stop running, swipe the perspiration from my forehead, and reach for my