I notice the tag on the top of his desk.
Antoine Angles. PA to Vanessa Hilbert.
“You need to fill these out first. You can take a seat there.” He points to the couch on the side.
I quickly enter my personal information, including Keith’s address and my bank details.
When I return everything back to him, he verifies and puts the documents back in the drawer. “Let’s take you to Vanessa.”
Why does it sound like he’s bringing a turkey home on Thanksgiving?
“This is Vanessa’s private space. You only come here if you have an appointment. If you have to discuss something urgent, you first come to me.”
I nod and nervously look around. My insides vibrate with excitement as I take in everything. The huge, open space is filled with mannequins, some dressed, some still a work in progress.
“Wow! This is where she works,” I whisper in amazement.
He leads me to a door. But before we can enter, muffled angry noises greet us. I take a few steps back, hearing the loud screaming from inside, before my gaze shifts from the door to Ann, who grimaces.
“Someone’s having a bad day,” he mutters under his breath.
He turns the golden knob and in the middle of the room stands a girl, almost my age, close to tears. My gaze then jumps to Vanessa, her back to us.
“This says prom to you?” Vanessa hisses, pointing to the mannequin dressed in a black, feathery dress.
At the sound of the closing door, her gaze shoots at us over her shoulder.
“Who are you?” she asks, and instinctively I want to hide behind Ann.
She doesn’t remember me!
My heart sinks a little with that knowledge. I thought she liked my work. Guess it wasn’t that special after all.
“This is Clementine. She’s starting today,” Ann replies.
Vanessa’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.
“I’m from Cherrywood,” I mumble, hoping she would remember the wedding gown from my design portfolio. Vanessa thinks for a moment until realization shines in her gaze.
Thank God!
“Ah! Cherrywood girl.” She takes a step toward the mannequin. “What does this say to you?”
My attention moves from the dress to the trembling designer. It’s not a great work, definitely not good enough for a fashion house like Vanshionista. But I also don’t want to bring someone down. This designer might be my future friend.
“Answer me!”
I quiver at Vanessa’s high-pitched voice and blurt, “Ballroom.”
“Give me five ideas to change this to prom.” I feel as if I’m hit by a wave of nausea as Vanessa’s death glare fixes on me.
“Color,” I mumble before clearing my throat. “I’d not use black, lighter shade for a younger girl.”
She waves her hand, indicating for me to go on. Her face remains impassive, and I have no clue how I am performing in this impromptu test.
“I’d also make it knee length. Not too short that it’s too revealing but also not too long that it’s difficult to dance and walk,” I babble some of the clichéd prom ideas. “I’d also replace the feathers with organza to give a softer look instead of bold.”
“Bring me this dress next week.”