Rumpeled

Chapter 2

2

“This is so stressful. You are so lucky no one ever asked you to marry them, Midori.”

Midori Miller gritted her teeth so hard she heard her molars grind. Catching her client’s eyes in the reflection of the full-length mirror, Midori used her tongue to poke each corner inside of her mouth up into a simulation of a smile. But it didn’t matter.

Phancy Jenning’s eyes weren’t on Midori. They were on her own size two waist, not down near her calves where Midori knelt. So, Midori dropped the facade of a smile and turned back to the lace in her hands. She’d rather pay more attention to it. The smile she offered the fabric didn’t need an inner push.

Phancy’s wedding gown was a thing of beauty. The bodice was a low scoop neck that showed off the woman’s breasts. The fine lace at the shoulders was so light and airy that it fluttered like the wings of a butterfly. The lace material then wrapped around the torso in an intricate fashion that had taken Midori days to effect. And then the material fluttered out once more until it reached the ground in a crescendo. Phancy looked breathtaking in the gown.

From the front.

The back was another story; a story Midori was trying to alter.

“Sometimes, I envy you,” Phancy continued. “Dropping out of modeling when you did. I wish I could eat what I wanted and gain ten pounds.” Phancy dropped her gaze down to where Midori knelt, hemming the dress. “Or more.”

Midori wore a simple, black sheath dress that fell to her knees. The dress was cinched at the waist to accentuate the curves that—contrary to current opinion—Midori was not ashamed of. And her long black tresses were pulled up in a bun so that she could work without obstruction.

Midori picked up her sharp scissors from the floor. It took everything in her to aim for the fabric and not Phancy’s bony ankles. Luckily, Midori’s breeding kicked in. Though they were in a New York City hotel room at the moment, both Midori and Phancy were Southern Belles. Each highly trained in the art of etiquette, manners, and cutting down a rival without breaking a nail.

“Well, I’ve been too busy running a business to bother with men,” Midori said. “It’s made me truly value the dollar, having to earn it myself and not rely on my daddy or another man.”

“God, I couldn’t imagine not having a man for a week, much less a decade,” said Phancy.

The lace caught in Midori’s nail. She carefully extricated her finger, lest she damage the delicate fabric.

When they’d first met, Midori had thought that maybe she’d found a kindred spirit in Phancy—someone else who’d been ostracized because of her odd features, which the fashion industry deemed beautiful. There was a time when exotic-looking models of mixed heritage were all the rage. Midori, whose mother was Japanese and her father African-American; and Phancy, whose mother was originally from Thailand, and her father also African-American by way of Kenya, were once the toast of the New York and Paris fashion scene.

Midori had entered that world, lured there by the beautiful clothes, the sparkling accessories, and the eccentric people who appreciated her unusual looks and unique sense of style. When she met Phancy, a girl of mixed heritage similar to her own, Midori had thought she’d found a soul sister.

She’d been wrong.

Lavender eyes twinkled down at Midori. There was a fake smile on Phancy’s face to match her contacts. Unnatural eye color was in this season. If it was a trend, Phancy was right on top of it. Anything to get a leg up—even if that meant putting her legs up in the air.

“You have no idea how much work it is to stay on top,” said Phancy.

Phancy stepped off the stool, giving Midori a good look at her Jimmy Chu’s.

God, when’s the last time she’d had on a new pair of high quality heels? Much of her designer wear was over a decade old; from the last time she’d walked a runway. And contrary to current opinion, she could still fit into... all of the shirts. Her hips had spread a bit in the past ten years. Phancy’s hips were as narrow and flat as ever, which was why Midori was having trouble fitting her wedding dress.

Midori designed clothes for real women, with real curves, bumps and humps. Phancy, her fake name and fake eyes included, was a caricature of what the fashion world considered a real woman. She had size D breasts—thank-you, silicone. Size two hips. Size eight feet and age twelve hips. No grown woman had a twelve year old’s hips. Grown women grew up.

This was one of the reasons Midori didn’t regret her decision to leave the runway. She’d been signed at sixteen, right after her last growth spurt. The year before, she still had the same body she’d had at twelve. She’d stood just under six feet tall with small boobs, a small waist, and no hips. All that changed just before her sixteenth birthday when her breasts developed and her hips hit a bump in the road. A bump the guys on the street called out to, but the guys in the fashion world pursed their lips at and tried to hide.

Midori pursed her lips now as she stood looking at the excess fabric at Phancy’s backside. She’d designed the dress to be a waterfall, but because it had nothing to fall from on Phancy, it hung like a straight curtain. “I’m going to have to let it out a bit.”

Phancy whirled around, nearly knocking Midori back. Midori pulled the shearing edge of the scissors away, more concerned with nicking the lace of the dress than Phancy’s skin.

“What are you talking about? I haven’t gained an ounce.” Phancy gripped the back of the gown, her smug face shifting into a look of horror.

Midori’s eyes rose to Phancy’s, her memory clicking into place. Phancy was the type of person whose bark and bite were equally treacherous. But she was also the type who could dish it out but couldn’t take it. Midori was tempted to play against the other woman’s insecurities, but she didn’t have the time nor the energy to play these childish games. She had grown woman things to do.

“The dress looks fantastic in the front, but the back isn’t falling the way it was designed to because you lack... the extra assets.” It was Midori’s signature style, accentuating a woman’s humps and bumps, not hiding them.

“Well, of course it’s not gonna fall that way,” Phancy brushed at her backside as though to flatten it farther.

Though the world of modeling dabbled from time to time in the ethnic and exotic, those were not the standards of beauty. Midori had been raised proud of both her parents’ heritages. Phancy—

“I’m not some African bush mama.”

—had not.

You’d think, as black women, they would stick together. But in the world of modeling, where ethnic faces were few and far between, and the jobs even fewer, Midori and Phancy had been pitted against each other as two of the only women of color walking the runway.

Midori watched Phancy flatten the back of the dress once more. It threw her whole design off. Phancy had had all of her bridesmaid’s gowns designed by an up-and-coming designer out of Milan. But she’d reached out to Midori for this gown. When Midori asked her why, Phancy told her it was because she’d seen another gown Midori had designed.

Last year, Midori had made a gown for Pumpkin Tavares, now Pumpkin Charmayne, the wife of a reformed playboy, and now Mayor of her hometown in Louisiana. That dress had gotten Midori an increased, and more monied, clientele. But Pumpkin’s wedding was small potatoes in comparison to the grandness and attendance of Phancy’s. The people who would see Phancy in Midori’s dress were ones who mattered in the fashion world. Midori’s hands shook as she grasped the scissors at the thought. Then an idea struck her.

“It’s a shame,” Midori began, opening and closing the scissors. “The derrière is in this year. Have you seen the Kardashians? And who’s that pop singer everyone is swearing had ass implants?”

With the seed planted, Midori gathered the fabric. She opened the shears, and—

Phancy grabbed the fabric out Midori’s hands. “You know... I don’t want you taking any of the fabric away. If you snip in the wrong place it could ruin the whole dress. Why don’t you just add some padding to fill in the back?”

“Excellent idea.” Midori closed the scissors. “I should’ve thought of that.”

“Well, you’re just a seamstress. I had to guide you on the whole design.”

Before Midori could talk herself into keeping her mouth shut, the door to the hotel room opened.

“Phancy pants? You in there?”

Phancy shrieked. “William, don’t come in here. I’m in my wedding dress. You can’t see me.” She hopped down from the stool and shut herself in the bathroom.

Through the door came a belly with a shiny belt buckle that had, of all things, a dollar sign gleaming at the straining clasp. William J. Mason, III was from old money, and he’d laid new money on top of it. Ignoring Phancy’s protests, he came into the room like he owned it. He probably did.

Mason surveyed the room. His eyes landed on Midori. Then they spent an inordinate amount of time roving over Midori’s breasts and hips, giving her body parts tons of unwanted attention.

Midori gathered up her fabric, allowing it to drape in front of her body to obstruct his view. “Phancy, if you’ll just take off the dress I can finish the rest of the alterations tonight.”

Midori heard a muffled cry from behind the door.

“She’s a little dramatic,” said her fiancé. His leer now on Midori’s thighs. Midori had worn a knee length skirt to allow her free movement while making her alterations. She now wished she’d opted for long slacks... and a floor length fur coat.

This wasn’t the first committed man who looked at her as a temporary plaything while the missus was preoccupied. Midori gathered her tools, keeping the scissors clenched in hand and in clear view.

“Maybe you could come back later,” said Mason. “We could do a fitting with my tux?”

“Sorry,” Midori placed the fabric in her garment bag. “I only do women’s clothing.”

Mason frowned, as if he didn’t understand. Then, as if on cue, a light went off in his eyes. “There’s a woman I know who needs a fitting. She’s my mistress and she needs some new lingerie. She’s in room 846. Perhaps you could pay us a visit later on tonight.”

Midori’s stomach turned. Less at his offer—she’d heard worse during her days at after parties and model castings. Her stomach clenched at his assumption that she was the kind of girl who would take such an offer. She and Phancy were far from friends, but it was evident that they were working together. Plus, Phancy was in the next room for god’s sake.

Men with money, with power, thought they could take whatever they wanted. That anyone they deemed beneath them would just fall at their feet, follow behind, or be thankful for their crumbs. Well, he had the wrong one today.

Midori would never be anyone’s plaything again. She wouldn’t keep anyone’s secret or be their secret. She was a legitimate businesswoman who’d made her own way on her talent, and didn’t rest on her back. Midori opened her mouth to tell Mr. Belt Buckle all of that when the door to the bathroom opened.

“The dress is in there, Midori. Wait until we leave before you bring it out. And make the last alterations here before having the front desk bring it to my room. I don’t want you to take it back to your dingy hotel. Lord knows I don’t want my dress to get bed bugs. Come on, Wills, take me out to dinner. Don’t you think it’s so sweet that he didn’t have a bachelor party his final night as a single man. He wanted to spend it with me.”

Midori looked over at Mason. He still had his eyes on her breasts.

Phancy snapped her fingers in front of his nose. The older man blinked, his eyes going strangely glassy. Then he gave Phancy a dopey grin. They rubbed noses, grinning like school children.

“That’s my Willy Wonka,” Phancy cooed.

Midori laid a hand on her stomach in an effort to keep the contents steady.

“Take as long as you need,” Phancy said. “I’ll be sleeping in his room.” She pulled Mason out the door and he followed like a puppet on her string.

Midori locked the door behind them. She felt oddly drained. Then she remembered she always felt drained when she worked with Phancy on the runway and in shoots. The woman seemed to have that effect on people. Midori shook it off and got to work on the dress, intent on getting out of there before Mason had a chance to come back.

She put the final touches on the gown that was now hanging on a mannequin. When she was finished, she rose and surveyed her work. Phancy would look like a million bucks in it, which was probably what she was getting, once the divorce was final.

Midori straightened and backed away from her creation. The dress was as near to perfection as it was ever going to get. The gown was fit for royalty. It looked at home in this expensive suite in the Waldorf Astoria. Midori shook her head to realize the dress would be spending the night alone in this room, which cost more than a month of groceries. But that was the way of the wealthy.

She was ready to call it a night and head back to her hotel room near the bus station. She looked and smelled like a wreck. She decided to take advantage of the hot water and sweet smelling soap, and jumped in the shower to wash away the day. The water on her skin felt good. It washed away her time with Phancy and the encounter with her distasteful, soon-to-be-ex-husband fiancé.

Midori was wrapping a towel around herself when she heard the door jiggle. She looked at the clock. It wasn’t even midnight yet. Was he back already? And she was standing in the middle of the room in a towel. She eyed her shears, which were across the room.

She could scream. But that would alert the hotel staff, who might alert the media, who were surrounding the hotel because of all the celebrities and socialites staying for the wedding. And how would that look? Fledgling designer seduces groom before wedding day. That wasn’t the kind of exposure Midori wanted for her business.

The door opened. A large figure loomed in the dim light.

How the hell was she gonna get out of this?