The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield (69 page)

To call the week that came next crazy busy was a bit of an understatement.

For many years, those who were sartorially stylish came in droves to Fashion Week, mainly in the top four fashion capitals of the world: New York, London, Milan and Paris.

It was an annual tradition—which happened twice in a year—for the rich and fabulous to sit in rows, previewing dozens of designer collections, showing off their own stylish ensembles, and getting their pictures taken with a ton of big names from designers to models to celebrities.

This flock of plump-pocketed fashion birds was too good an opportunity to pass up for the Championettes so five years ago, they started the tradition of hosting what had now been nicknamed as the Teaser even though it was formally called Haute Couture for Hope. 

For a weekend, just before the Spring/Summer Fashion Week stormed through its four destinations at the start of September, participating designers would showcase a few creations from their spring and summer collections which would then be auctioned off to the highest bidder, a big chunk of that bid money going to the Championettes’ charity fund. In the last couple of years though, designers started creating specific pieces just for the auction alone while still hinting at the theme of their upcoming collection. They were beautiful, one-of-a-kind pieces that were to be never reproduced once sold, driving the bids up to more sky-rocketing figures. 

The clothes were fabulous and for a good cause—it was too much good publicity material to pass up, especially for society big wigs.

It didn’t hurt that it put people in mind of the work that the Society was doing, and that their generosity would be greatly appreciated when the time came to write out the checks. 

The Teaser unofficially kicked off the Championettes’ fund-raising events for the rest of the year. While the event was mainly organized by the local association of fashion designers, the Championettes were tasked to do a lot of the marketing, inviting some of the biggest and brightest names in the fashion industry to participate. 

When I came into the Society, the designers and guests lists had already been completed, which was a bit of relief, since I personally didn’t know any big fashion leaders to talk into joining. I couldn’t even afford a designer label before I became Mrs. Maxfield a month and a half ago. 

But apparently, being a patron/patroness of a designer wasn’t required when you were an overly sensationalized society persona because Felicity showed me no less than five personally handwritten invitations from some major names who wanted me to walk one of their creations.

When Felicity told me the news with all her sunny eagerness, I half-choked on the cup of tea I was in the middle of sipping, and looked at her, feeling quite stupefied I couldn’t manage a sound for a moment.

“They want me to go out on the catwalk?” I asked her incredulously. “Even though I’m way too short to be a model, or that I’m clumsy in heels, or that I barely know more than half a dozen designers, much less know how to pronounce their names correctly?”

Felicity shook her head dismissively, as if my objections were no big deal. Armina and Clyde, who also joined our little afternoon coffee meeting, expressed similar sentiments.

“You’re unique—a breath of fresh air. And most of all, you don’t care,” Felicity said with a shrug.

I arched a brow at her. “Is my not caring supposed to be a good thing?”

“Of course,” she answered with a quick nod. “No one likes publicity-whores, pardon my term. No one wants someone who’s desperate to extend their five minutes of fame that they’ll do anything. They want those who are vibrant and confident, and who hold themselves hostage to no one’s whim.”

“Ah,” I said with a wry smile. “So it’s the same way no one wants the girl who’s throwing herself at every guy’s feet because she needs validation of her worth, which to her perspective, is only measured by the attention and affection she receives from the guy. Problem is, guys want the cool, unattainable chick who would yawn at one of them hacking his heart out open for her because she doesn’t need grand gestures from anyone to like herself just the way she is.”

“Who’ll want the cow if the milk is free?” Clyde said with a snort before popping a piece of croissant into his mouth. 

I grimaced although I couldn’t help my smile at Clyde’s analogy. “True. Desperation is like the bad bacteria that turns the milk sour—not into yogurt or any yummy variety of fermented dairy.”

Armina, Clyde and I burst out laughing and Felicity just sighed loudly, shaking her head. “At least, you get my point now. You don’t have to say yes to all of the invitations—you don’t even have to accept any but I strongly recommend that you take advantage of an opportunity like this. It’ll help you meet more people who would help the Championettes’ cause.”

“Or just do it because it’s fun,” Clyde added. “Didn’t you ever wear your mother’s high heels and pearls, smear her lipstick on and walk around the house like a little lady?”

I shook my head. “No, not really. She abandoned me when I was six and my father burned all her stuff.”

All three faces looking at me fell at that blunt admission.

“Hey, cheer up,” I told them with a small laugh. “It’s not a big deal. I’m way over it. I was just answering Clyde’s question.”

Armina reached over and squeezed my hand, her face lighting up. “Well, since you didn’t get to play dress-up as a child, you can do it now, even as a grown-up. It’ll be fun. Besides, Noli is one of these hopeful designers who would love to have you wear their creation.”

“Noli’s a no-brainer,” I told them, glancing at the brief note he wrote me, shyly asking if I would please be so kind to wear his piece because it would mean the world to him to have someone he respected and admired show off his artwork. “I’ve actually worn his creations and loved it both times. I’d do it for him, no questions asked.”

“He’s doing it for the new line Vienne is launching, since they’re finally trying something different from the typical gowns they normally do,” Armina explained. “Vienne is the design house by the highly-coveted gown designer Vivienne Cartwright. She’s expanding into some non-formal evening wear and had taken Noli in. She flew him out to Cobalt Bay after he left Marcellina’s for good. According to Noli, she’s a big fan of yours.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s not always a good thing. If she’s read and believed a lot of the crap that’s been written about me, I’m not sure she’s the best judge of character.”

Clyde scoffed out a laugh. “Dear, you obviously haven’t heard of Vivienne Cartwright’s reputation. She’s a pampered princess as daughter of a luxury liner magnate but she’s no sissy ditz. She’s very poised and elegant but she doesn’t take crap from people.”

“She’s a wonderful woman. I’ve met her and I can personally vouch for that,” Felicity told me, just as her eyes flashed with mischief. “I think she likes you because in a lot of ways, you’re a bit alike. With all the stories that Noli most likely told her in great, dramatic detail, she probably has no doubt about it.”

“Alright, alright. You’ve all sold me on it,” I told them moodily even as a warm flush crept up on my cheeks. “I just hope they won’t take one look at me and realize just how big a mistake they’re making. I’m happy with myself but that was with the acceptance that I am not, and will never be, a runway model.”

If you don’t fit the mold, break free of it.

Promptly after I said yes, I was thrown into a riot of meetings, fittings, press cons and photo ops, and even a short interview.

Since Lily Vienne was a completely new line of the famed fashion house, it was going to launch a few handful of creations to be auctioned off. Since the new line was highly publicized and anticipated, people were more than eager to get their hands on the first of their creations. From what Noli had shown me so far when he flew in a couple days later, the pieces were less formal than the prized Vienne gowns—more wearable and versatile yet still crafted with the same elegant femininity and dreamy quality the designer’s work was known for. 

Since there was more than one piece to showcase, Noli put me, Anna, Tessa and Felicity together to walk the small, coveted collection. Even though I was surrounded by natural beauties, the fact that I was doing the catwalk with good friends eased my nervousness and I had no trouble finding myself having fun as we attended fittings, rehearsals and press cons together to talk about the new line as the days led up to the big event that first weekend of September.

The event was set in Historic Faneuil Hall, one of Boston’s most important heritage buildings from the seventeen-hundreds. It had a long tradition of being a public marketplace and a meeting house, actively used during the American Revolution for public meetings and speeches. 

It was built in a prime spot by the government center and because of its historical importance, it was a featured stop along the Freedom Trail. The stately, red brick building proudly showcased its historical identity yet it pulsed with a vibrant, modern, urban beat since shopping and dining became huge in the area after the addition of three long market buildings which made up the now much-sought-after festival marketplace. The combination made it an excellent location to hold a high-profile fashion event and highlight the rich legacy and old-world charm of the city. 

The Teaser officially opened on Friday evening with a glitzy gala. Everybody who was anybody in the fashion industry showed up in their best attire, mostly by their designer of choice. 

It was no ordinary cocktail party. There was a red carpet, a mini-army of formally-dressed servers supplying endless rounds of drinks and hors d'oeuvres, a press panel (a small section where members of the media were clustered at, interviewing and snapping photos of anyone who came that way for a quick chat with them), and a ‘gift lounge’ where guests received a bag full of free stuff from the different designers, fashion brands and beauty companies. I’d heard of these ‘gift bags’ before (like the Oscars and such) and when I saw what I had inside mine (a small, diamond owl brooch worth a small fortune among my loot), I wondered what the point was of giving expensive luxury items to people who could already well afford them. Of course, it was selling the item or the brand to the deep-pocketed customers but it was a little extravagant for a part give-away in my opinion.

No matter how much I get used to this, the glamorous life of being Mrs. Maxfield will always be surreal to me. 

Oh, and everyone recognized me, alright. 

Sure, many had seen and met me in some of the previous meetings and press cons I’d done leading up to this weekend but more importantly, I’d arrived arm-in-arm with Brandon who looked the intriguing combination of power and masculine appeal in his  sharp black suit and bronze tie. 

While my being wife to Brandon meant more to me than what the title represented, I’d taken care to look every inch the Mrs. Maxfield no one would miss, just with a few tweaks here and there that was still distinctly Charlotte. 

I dressed to the nines in Vienne couture—a simple body-hugging, knee-length jersey-cut dress in a shimmering, nearly sheer rose gold fabric with a deep V-cut in the back and in the front, the fine edges of the gown encrusted with real, dark amber beads that made them look like they were splattered with stars.

My summer tan glowed with the color, accentuating my toned legs and collar bone especially since I’d put my hair up in a loose, nymph-style braid wrapped around into a bun, threaded through with small sprigs of white baby’s breath flowers. My accessories were simple—vintage gold and amber teardrop earrings, rust-colored ankle-strap heels and a pale gold satin-covered clutch.

“Nice dress.”

At the dryly amused tone, I looked up from the wrinkled sheet I’d tucked behind a program schedule I’d been handed earlier. I was going to do a quick speech sometime this evening—yes, a speech!—just right after Layla, and since I had a habit of saying things I probably shouldn’t in public, I thought I’d mentally practice so I didn’t forget. 

My train of thought scattered in different directions when I found myself looking at a strikingly glamorous redhead. 

Her rich, dark red hair the color of new pennies flowed in a wavy cascade down one creamy shoulder. Dressed in a flowing, deep turquoise, one-shouldered empire-cut gown and accessorized with earrings and a cascade necklace featuring large amethyst stones, she was feminine elegance personified.

“Thank you,” I managed to say with a crooked smile when I recovered from my starstruck moment. “It’s a lovely dress—a classic Vienne creation. I’ve only recently seen their collection but I can vouch that they have the most breathtaking dresses I’ve ever seen.”

The woman’s silver gray eyes shimmered as she smiled broadly at me. “I’m glad you approve since you’re walking one of our creations tomorrow.”

She chuckled lightly as my eyes widened, and extended a hand. “It’s my sincere pleasure to finally meet you, Charlotte. I’m Vivienne Cartwright.”

For some reason, despite the things people around me had said about Vivienne Cartwright—and they had all said quite a bit about her—I hadn’t envisioned her to be this stunning siren-like being. 

“No, I’m not secretly a vampire, I don’t eat weak-spined people for breakfast, I’m not a spy, and I haven’t slept with George Clooney,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eyes as she released my hand and took a step back to wait for my reaction. “Although I did get offered the role of playing a Bond girl once.” 

I blinked, unsure if I heard her words right, because surely, women like Vivienne Cartwright didn’t need a wicked sense of humor to heap on to her already being beautiful, rich, talented and fabulous.