they’d planned. She got up, showered, and dressed for the day, and sat down to check her email.
Carly gasped—there was a message from Ramona McNeil. Carly hadn’t heard a peep since sending her the Bad News email.
Ms. Kennedy, please call my office to set a meeting in advance of the New Designer Showcase. If you have anything to show me, please bring it at that time. I am sending a photographer to Austin next week. His information is attached. Please arrange some time in the studio for him. Thank you, RM
Carly stared at her screen. “Really?” she whispered. She was sure Ramona had written her off when Victor had nothing to show by her deadline. She fired off a response.
Thank you so much! I am looking forward to showing you the next great point of view in fashion. I know it has been a rocky road, but you won’t be disappointed. Victor Allen will be a household name.
“This is amazing,” she said to Baxter, who was lying pressed against her leg. “Do you know what this means?”
Baxter thumped his tail.
“This means I might pull this rabbit out of the hat after all!” She picked up her phone and dialed Victor. It rolled to voice mail. “Ugh,” she said. They had a phone interview with Entertainment Weekly early this afternoon, one she’d worked really hard to get. She’d sent a video of all the positive press Victor had received for his red-carpet design, a swatch of the red fabric (she would explain that later), and some gifts for the publicity department that she hoped would grab their attention. It had worked—she’d gotten the call a couple of weeks ago.
Victor had confirmed the interview call yesterday. Between EW and Couture, Carly was convinced she could turn this thing around. That’s what she loved about this career—it was so satisfying to fix difficult situations and show the world true talent. She did a little dance move on her bedroom floor but tripped over a dog toy and stumbled into her vanity.
“It’s okay,” she said to Baxter, who barely even lifted his head. “I’m good.”
She was so excited that she donned a Victor Allen original—navy pants with enormously wide legs and a white jacket with pointed shoulders that reached her ears. She gathered her things, leashed Baxter up to ride along with her this morning, and opened her front door—and stifled a shout of alarm.
Conrad was standing on her porch.
Carly laughed nervously. “You scared me!” This was creepy—how long had he been standing here? She wondered if she ought to grab something to defend herself with. Like what, her very cute Kate Spade clutch?
“Good morning, Carly,” Conrad said coolly. He paused to lean down and give Baxter a proper greeting, then rose. “You haven’t come by to sign the lease yet.”
“I know,” she said apologetically. “Honestly, Conrad, it’s quite a hike in the rent, and I’m still working things out.”
He looked confused. “What are you working out?”
“Like . . . where I’m going to get the money.”
“Oh.” He was clearly surprised by this. As if he couldn’t grasp even the idea of not having money. His eyes moved over her face, as if he was double-checking to make sure she was who he thought she was. “Well . . . when will you know if you can work it out?”
That was the ten-thousand-dollar question. But she couldn’t keep dodging him like this. “Can you give me a couple of weeks? I’ve got Victor Allen’s fashion show in New York coming up, and when I get back, I should have some answers.” She didn’t know how she would possibly have any more answers then than she did right now, but at least it would buy her some time to figure this out.
Conrad frowned. He looked at Baxter and hitched up his giant cargo shorts. “I guess,” he said. “But if you can’t afford this place, we’ve gotta get you out and someone else in. It’s just business, you know.”
“Sure. Business.” And so much for loyalty and paying on time and taking immaculate care of this cottage. She could feel her frustration building like a bad case of heartburn. She really loved this cottage and the thought of living someplace else made her immeasurably sad. “Umm . . .” She looked at her watch. Except once again, she wasn’t wearing one. She stepped out onto the porch, pulled the door shut, and stuck her key in it as Conrad stood there, looking confused.