would kick off the Year of Margie. Apparently not.”
Chantal took her opened carton of Moo Shu pork and plopped down on the sofa beside her best friend. She shoved a healthy bite into her mouth before saying, “You could still find something to do. You always have a backup plan for big nights.”
Margie narrowed her eyes at her, pointing to the container of food. “Please tell me this is not what you intend to do on New Year’s Eve.”
“Of course,” Chantal answered, shoveling another bite into her mouth. “This is the perfect way to spend the night. I’ve got my favorite take out, some Cream Soda, and a DVR full of Runway Runaways, the new fashion reality TV show. It is going to be a great night. I plan to be in bed by ten at the very latest.”
Margie’s jaw was wide open. “Fuck, I thought you were kidding when you said those were your plans. You were serious.”
“I was. There’s nothing wrong with my plans.”
“Everything is wrong with your plans! You’re barely into your thirties, hot and curvy enough to make men weep, and you want to spend your evening in ratty pajamas with a buttload of takeout and soda?”
“Yes,” Chantal said with all of the resolve she felt.
“My little innocent child,” Margie sighed. “We really need to get your head examined. This isn’t good for anyone.”
Chantal’s reply was drawn out by the sound of her phone ringing. The caller ID made her heart kick into high gear. She swallowed hard and wiped her suddenly sweaty hands down the front of her sweatshirt. With trembling fingers, she brought the phone up to her ear.
“This is Chantal Katz,” she answered.
“You ruined it!” came the reply from a high-pitched sobbing woman. “It is all wrong. You better get your ass down here and fix it, or you will never be a designer in this town, do you hear me?”
“Ms. Marsdale, sorry. Is there a problem with the dress?”
“Of course, there is a problem with the dress. Why the fuck else would I be calling you an hour before the masquerade starts? Get here. Fix it. Or I will destroy you.”
Chantal gulped as she rushed to her bedroom to change out of her fuzzy (and holey) cartoon pajamas. “And where exactly am I supposed to meet you? Could you give me an idea of what the issue is, so I know what to bring with me to fix — ”
“Everything. It doesn’t fit.”
Chantal’s body froze, her ass hanging out of her jeans. “It doesn’t fit?” How was that even possible? They had done a fitting two days ago, and it had fit perfectly. Gwen had cried tears of joy, claiming that the dress was the perfect garment to get engaged in. Now it didn’t fit? “Okay.” Chantal drew out the word, unsure of how to proceed.
Gwen Marsdale had the power to destroy anyone’s career if she felt slighted. Other designers had been burned by her. Big names cast into obscurity still curse Gwen’s name as they worked the graveyard shifts in retail shops. “I can bring the blue dress if you think it would be a suitable alternative.”
“Fuck. Off. Get. Here.”
Chantal licked her dry lips. “Where?”
“I’m sending a car to get you. Text me your address.”
Before Chantal could even say another word, the line went dead, and her phone pinged with a text from Gwen. It was a series of question marks. She quickly tapped out her address and raced to her living room. The far side of the small space was her tiny makeshift studio. A giant metal rack was full of half-finished projects. And even more completed masterpieces were safely tucked away in a cedar commode.
“What happened?” Margie asked from her perch on the sofa.
“There’s an issue with the dress. I have to go fix it.” Chantal gently placed a blue evening gown into a garment bag. On a whim, she took another. It was a deep purple dress a couple of sizes bigger than what Gwen would need. Chantal could pin it down to fit the woman in no time.
In an overabundance of caution, she laid out a few extra masquerade masks that would go with the backup dresses she was taking.
“Are you telling me you’re going to go to the Winslow Hotel dressed like —” Margie pointed at her jeans and cardigan. “Like that?”
Chantal rolled her eyes. “Gwen sent a car, which will be here any second now. No one gives a crap what I’m wearing.”
“Get your ass