Emerald was usually delighted to conjure a reason to visit Dior’s sanctum sanatorium, its atelier, the workroom. This is where high fashion happened.

This time, however, Emerald was disheartened to see armed guards posted at the only entrance through which the public could potentially enter the workroom. Visitors were never invited in. The door was installed as a fire-code mandate. Everyone knew that allowing a civilian to enter was a capital offense and will earn you an escort to HR. Emerald was prepared to present her employee identification for a careful going-over.

The large space was always crazy, yet comfortable, messy with clothes, patterns, drawings, and toiles strewn about. A sense of energy, productive energy, filled the room. Gema was the one who set the tone: warm, happy, and always busy. By sheer force of her will, Gema had miraculously created an atmosphere that would minimize cat fighting, bickering, and histrionics.

Unfortunately, all of the good will ricocheting off the walls had yet to reach one particular wildly pretentious Designer-in- Chief.

Emerald was always fascinated by what she called “The Wall of Thread.” Spool upon spool filled the acrylic shelves on the wall making Emerald feel like a child, who had just received a brand-new box of crayons. Who even knew that this many colors existed in the known universe? Though she loved her work as a consumer psychologist, design was her first love.

Even while admiring the Thread Wall, Emerald could not keep her mind from drifting back to the questions about Gema’s silks.

Gema, meanwhile, quickly immersed herself in digging through racks of beautiful, hand-stitched clothing; stunning designs that we’re well outside a working person’s budget. Despite the opulent grandeur of the haute couture houses, few exclusive garments were actually sold. Only a few thousand women in the US purchased clothing at this end of the price point spectrum. There is not much profit in couture clothing; only the opportunity to feel the love for traditions, both good and bad, and the sheer joy of experiencing a beautiful, flawlessly constructed garment. The senses fully engage; the clothes are a tactile as well as a visual feast.

“What about this, Missy Esmeralda?” Gema was holding up a stunning kelly green silk blouse.

Emerald gasped; she could scarcely breathe.

“Sample size may be too big for you. But you try, we see,” Gema assured[Remember, Gema is a nonnative Englishspeaker. She makes many errors and retains her Colombian dialect. This all makes her even more endearing. To most.] Emerald.

The seamstress carefully handed the garment to Emerald. “I will be super extra careful with it,” Emerald assured. No more coffee collisions, I promise.”

“Just enjoy it, honey. You look so beautiful. Your amazing eyes will stand out even more,” Gems waved her hand dismissively, “From last season.”

Yet utterly timeless, thought Emerald.

Gema did some thinking while waiting for Emerald to change. Gema sensed that Emerald did not really recognize and accept her own beauty.

*Dios mio, I work with beautiful young women.*

Gema had heard every single problem that a human can have; everything from silly nonsense over a missing lip gloss to being told that death was imminent by way of a terminal disease. Gema still felt deep pain when she prayed for that lovely girl. Models also got into accidents regularly as well beatings. Domestic violence came up more often that what should be tolerated, one of the few realities that infuriated the normally unflappable Gema. The girls invariably lied about it.

*The wrong ones feel ashamed. *

The makeup artists (MUAs) found few chores as distasteful than covering bruises, scrapes, and slices inflicted by intimate partners, still, they did what they could and pretended to buy what the girls were selling; so many runaway doors seemed to plague Manhattan.

The especially vicious partners intentionally injure the model’s face, relishing the destruction of a future for one whose livelihood is beauty.

There were, as should be expected from women so young, cuts and bruises arising from their own excesses. This was particularly worrisome with the painfully young girls who had never experienced a big city, certainly nothing like Manhattan. Many girls had never before known the feeling of carrying a designer bag with a few dollars in it.

Hence the morning cuts, bruises, scratches, scrapes, and some gashes. A bleeding model was not unheard of if she had just stumbled in after some bacchanal or other.

Gema learned long ago that advising teenagers to go home early and get a good night’s sleep was pointless. At their ages, they could run on no sleep for a day or so.

Their faces were the MUAs’ headache, if the shoot included them. Gema need worry only about getting them into their clothes, which highlighted the vexing problem of bloat after a night of overindulgence. Shapeware was Gema’s best friend.

“Gema! That blouse is incredible,” Emerald nearly shrieked. “I’m afraid to ask what it costs.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Gema dismissed Emerald’s fears with a wave of her weathered hand.

Emerald nervously removed her coffee-damaged white blouse. How convenient that high quality silk is so absorbent; I have a nothing more than a couture dishrag now.

Gema handed her the green creation and with a loving mother’s touch, buttoned it for her. There was a quick flicker of a memory; Emerald’s own mother’s loving touch, zipping a little Emerald into her snowsuit.

“You go look now.”

Emerald stepped in front of a full-length mirror and gasped. She could barely believe that she was looking at her own reflection. She felt transformed, wrapped in beauty. Never had Emerald felt so glamorous, so beautiful, so cherished. She gave Gema a quick hug, and a heartfelt “thank you” before heading towards the elevator bank that would return her to her office.

Emerald didn’t want to wear out her welcome in the atelier. However, just as she was about to press for the elevator, a boisterous racket broke out sounding as if it was heading their way.

Something noisy and frenetic suddenly occupied the space outside the door to the atelier.

*Something crazy this way comes,* Emerald mused.

The source of the racket soon revealed itself: enter Jaques Cloutire, self-designated diva royalty and Chief Designer. His Eminence and his entourage were more agitated than usual—normal for the run up to Fashion Week. Along with an amazing eye for design, Jaques had a special knack for building Mount Everest out of the tiniest anthill. He was a catastrophizer perpetually lost in minutiae.

“Leo” was Jacques co-opted nickname. It was his special way of honoring his zodiac sign. His office and wardrobe must include a minimum amount of yellow to honor his sign. Or was it a sop to Coco Chanel?

“All right, children!” Leo blasted, “You are not at summer camp. This is not arts and crafts hour!” clapping once for emphasis. “Get to SERIOUS work!”

Emerald was suddenly delighted that she had found her way to the Leo’s Den.

*It’s open mic night down here.*

Anyone with a modicum of experience at Dior was painfully aware that Leo commanded nothing other than a ridiculous salary. The workroom belonged 100% to Gema for which the staff was sublimely grateful.

Leo’s jumpy sycophants belonged solely to Leo; he hired, trained, and terrorized them on his own dime. The only connection Leo’s hostages had with Dior was via the stacks of documents required by legal promising that they would not to sue Dior if Leo behaved exactly like Leo.

The designer’s imposing size and volume terrified those on the Dior payroll without adequate opportunities to acclimate to the giant ball of sunshine. Emerald found him utterly hilarious; his antics fit every imaginable stereotype.

*If I tried to describe Leo to an outsider, they would never believe me.*

Jacques Cloutier indeed. He was “Stan Strunk” from Hastings, Nebraska. For years, Stan had faking a bio and a French accent. Hardly anyone bought either credential and no one cared; not as long as the human fire extinguisher could create the world’s most beautiful clothing.

Emerald could not help but notice that Jacques was possessed of a remarkable ability to make himself scarce whenever native French speakers were in the building. Thus far, Paris HQ was writing him off as another lunatic suffering from “artistic temperament”. The French pride themselves on this sort of thing as long as the *artiste* generates adequate revenues, Or in the case of haute couture, significant buzz.

Phony accents and outlandish behavior are de riguer in the fashion world.

Today, the leader of the traveling sideshow was bellowing more loudly than his bull moose spirit animal. The crisis de jour? The Diva’s astrologer cancelled. She had the flu. How selfish! How terribly thoughtless could one person be? Is there not a soothsayers’ code of ethics to protect the public? Where is the on-call astrologer? WHO DO WE CALL?

Stan had no sense of irony. The jittery scrum was frantically scrolling through their phones, responding to His Grace’s demand for a new astrologer post haste.

Emerald stifled her laughter as best she could. Gema simply went on about her business; her time-tested coping strategy when someone put a quarter in Leo.

The king’s court chirped in agreement about the unethical reprobate of an astrologist. Did psychics have no on-call system for just this type of emergency? Who was covering?

Dior employees returning from breaks were ready to turn tail and make a run for it.

Leo believed in everything: astrology, tarot, psychic readings, tea leaves, coffee grounds, and having the bumps on his head examined. He didn’t start his day without consulting with at least one of his team of prophets.

Lion-hearted Gema finally spoke up: “Dios mio, Leo! Tranquilo! Tranquilo!”

Gema’s reprimand, vexed Jacques even more, driving up his decibels. Emerald wondered if that was Gema’s master plan for toddler management--get him to wear himself out more quickly.

Leo finally noticed petite Emerald. He squinted down at her, “Who are *you*?”

“Emerald, Emerald Dane. We’ve met before,” she said with a sigh[In my novel writing courses, they beat us over our heads with a 2 x 4 for this.]

[Characters can’t really ‘sigh’ their words. ]

[The instructors nail everyone on these. It’s so typical of current writing styles.]

[We have to change it to a behavior that the character actually could *do* before or after their words.]

[That’s why I added “with a sigh” rather than “we’ve met before,” she sighed. Physically, that’s quite impossible.].

“Indeed,” “Indeed,” His Designership studied the beautiful woman. He noted her attire and decided, last year’s blouse notwithstanding, she was probably of decent stock and worthy of entry into what he (erroneously) believed was his kingdom.

“All right. You may stay.”

“Actually, I have to be running along,” as entertaining as Leo could be, Emerald had important matters on her mind.

With raised eyebrows, Leo had to know more about this impertinent sprite. “What is it you do?”

“I am the Consumer Psychologist.:

“I seeeeeeee. So, it’s you who brainwashes the ladies into buying my glorious creations?”

Emerald nodded, “Yes, exactly that.”

“So, just who will buy my designs?”

“Women who can afford them.”

“And who are these women?” Jaques pressed, hoping for an answer that he could explode over and obsess upon.

Emerald silently thanked the elevator gods as she heard the notoriously slow car making its way towards the bottom floor, “I will work on getting some names for you, but I must dash now.”

With that, the elevator doors opened and Emerald left the pageantry behind.

It would be a few minutes before Jacques thought to ask himself whether Emerald Dane had been mocking him.

Gema was staring at the Thread Wall, her back turned to the diva designer, snickering quietly.

Emerald understood why the company kept Jacques. He was most certainly a lunatic and a gigantic pain. But his designs were unparalleled. He set the trends. He raised the bar. The entire fashion world held its collective breath when Dior scheduled a show featuring the latest from Jacques. He could work anywhere but had grown fond of his coworkers, though he would never admit it. Sadly, it was a one-way street.

There was no heart of gold under all of the bluster and blow. Jaques was just a jerk.

The amusement over Jacques’ silliness wore off quickly and Emerald again found herself in the elevator thinking about Gema’s fabrics. Nothing about this felt right, Gema’s glee notwithstanding.

*There is no way the budget could have covered the cost of those fabrics. Especially when taxes, export fees, and tariffs are tacked on. What was going on here? *

And, Jacques! He would have been running his mouth nonstop months about *his* amazing new textiles.*

Everyone knew that, to Jacques, a nondisclosure agreement was worth less than toilet paper.

There had been no talk of hiking the budget over the past two quarters and not a word about some wonderful, serendipitous event that allowed Dior to pick up the magnificent textiles at fire sale prices.

*If our buyers had scored a great deal on the fabrics, it would have been big news, a true cause[“Cause célèbre” is actually a correct and common saying in French. It means a cause to celebrate.]

[No “a” should be added.]

[I used it here because the meaning is easily deduced via context. And it fits the whole haute couture scene.] célèbre.*

The Consumer Psychologist certainly would have been looped in. Material of this quality would elevate the entire label. The marketing would have been intense with plenty of lead time.

But her thoughts were cut short when she stepped out of the elevator and into a man waking in her direction.

POV: Brad

It occurred to Brad as he began roaming the building, that Dior employees wore badges, exactly as Charme employees were required to do. He should have been sporting a “Visitor” badge, but he found none during his men’s room sweep. It was time for a little play-acting. Fortunately for Brad, the plethora of security guards had lulled employees into a false sense of safety.

*Act like you belong here and no one will bother you. Wait.That only works in hospitals.*

Brad’s hypothesis had but one flaw: his remarkable and distinctive good looks. The young man would be noticed. Bradford Van Arsdale was always noticed. The attention was a low-key version of the fascination ginned up by movie stars.

It was a short wait for an authentic Dior employee to round the corner. Brad correctly pegged him as mid-management.

Once again, he felt himself driven to take action, albeit crazy action. “Jeff! I don’t believe it! What the heck are you doing at Dior, man?”

The employee looked around for the imaginary “Jeff.”

“You don’t recognize me? It’s Jared, Jared Winslow. Everyone tells me I haven’t changed a bit since college! Ok, maybe I have added a few more pounds. But how the heck are ya? And Brittany! How is Brittany?” (There was *always* a Brittany).

The young executive quickly found his equilibrium. Any ambitious junior executive knows how to handle awkward social situations. It’s usually best to play along. Don’t take the risk of offending some bigwig, and never assume that upper management won’t test you.

“Oh, of course! Jared, how the hell are ya?” The employee grabbed Brad’s hand for a firm shake.

Following a convincing story about losing his visitor’s badge while gawking at models, the stranger led the stranger to “Jeff’s” office, where he kept a stash of Visitor badges in his desk drawer.

*Jared, Jeff, who’s next, the March Hare and the Mad Hatter?*

Once Brad was safely out of earshot, Jeff’s assistant, who was smitten already, asked: “Who was that?”

“I have no idea.”