“There’s some good news, though,” Marcia said. She swallowed her gum and took out another stick. Marcia ate gum like it was actual food, and Victory shuddered to think what her insides must look like. “The accessories you did last spring, for the duty-free shops? They’re doing really well. Those umbrellas and rainboots and gloves? So far, we’re showing a profit of five hundred and eighty-nine thousand dollars, and it’s going to be lousy winter weather for at least five more months.”
“Rainboots and umbrellas,” Victory said. “Who would have thought?”
“That’s the kind of stuff you need when you’re traveling and you always forget to pack. And it’s really hard to find cute umbrellas.”
Victory nodded, wincing slightly at the word “cute.” Would she ever get away from it? “Victory Ford is just so cute!” her kindergarten teacher had written in her very first report card. The word followed her all the way from Minnesota to Manhattan. “Cute! Cute! Cute!” was the headline from her first interview in Women’s Wear Daily. She’d never been able to shed it.
Cute, she thought with disgust. In other words, nonthreatening. Pleasant, but not good enough to be taken seriously . . .
“The spring line wasn’t cute,” she said.
“Nope. It wasn’t.” Marcia looked right at her.
“What did you think about it? Really,” Victory asked, hating herself for appearing insecure in front of Marcia.
“I thought it was . . . different,” Marcia said, noncommitally. “But really, you know?” She swallowed yet another piece of gum. “Long skirts aren’t that practical. Especially if you have to take the subway every day.”
Victory nodded. She felt a stab of guilt. She’d let everyone down by trying to do something different, and even loyal Marcia was disappointed.
“Thanks,” she said, standing up.
“What are we going to do?” Marcia asked.
“We’ll figure something out,” Victory said, with more confidence than she actually felt. “We always do.”
She went down the hall to her office.
Her own workspace was located in a sun-filled corner in the front of the building, overlooking Seventh Avenue. It was noisy, but the light made it worthwhile. The space was mostly utilitarian, containing a large Mission-style desk and a long, narrow library table on which she did her sketching. One wall was covered with corkboard, where designs in various stages of development were tacked up. In the center of the room was the one concession to glamour: four art deco chairs from a mansion in Palm Beach, covered with white leather, sat in front of an ornate wrought-iron-and-glass coffee table. The table was covered with magazines and newspapers, and on top of the pile were two large manila envelopes on which her name was written neatly in silver magic marker.
She groaned and sat down on one of the chairs, ripping open the top envelope.
Inside were several drawings done on heavy white sketch paper. She looked through them quickly, then put them back on the pile, leaning back in the chair and pressing her eyes closed with her fingers. As she’d expected, Miss Matsuda’s drawings sucked.
She removed her hands from her face and stared at the second envelope. The silver writing suddenly appeared ominous. She turned it over so she didn’t have to look at it, and tore open the flap.
These were worse than the first! She’d spent most of her life looking at drawings, analyzing them, trying to figure out what wasn’t working, and how, by changing the proportions by a few millimeters, she could make something better and more aesthetically pleasing. It took her only a few seconds to see that Miss Matsuda’s drawings were a disaster.
She put the drawings on top of the pile, and stood up, shaking with anger. This was an insult. The girl had no talent, and in an attempt to copy her style, had taken her trademark details and turned them into a parody. That was it then. Miss Matsuda had made the decision for her. Years ago, Nico had told Victory something she’d never forgotten, and glancing down at Miss Matsuda’
s drawings, she was reminded of Nico’s words: “When it comes to business, you only have to remember one thing. You have to wake up in the morning and be able to look at yourself in the mirror. Of course, the trick is in understanding what you can and can’t tolerate in your own behavior.” There was simply no way she could look at herself in the mirror, knowing those designs were out there with her name on them.
As if she would ever design anything so awful.
Mr. Ikito was going to get a piece of her mind. She’d put up with enough of his abuse. He could be supportive and take his chances with her spring line, or he could have Victory Ford shops with nothing in them . . .
She looked at her watch. It was now about one in the morning in Toyko; too late to call. And Mr. Ikito wasn’t her only problem. The department stores—her bread and butter for the last twenty years—seemed to be turning against her too.
For a moment, she envisioned calling up everyone she knew in the fashion business and yelling at them, but anger didn’t tend to work if you were a woman. If she let anyone in the business know how hurt and angry and upset she was at the lousy reception she’d gotten for her last show, they would call her bitter and washed up. Only losers complained about their failures and bad luck, laying the blame everyplace but where it belonged—on oneself.
She walked to the corkboard wall and examined her original drawings for the spring collection. Despite what the critics had said, she still thought they were beautiful; daring and original and new. Why hadn’t the rest of the world seen what she had? “Look, Vic,” Wendy had said at lunch. “I’ve seen this happen a million times with directors and actors and writers. Once you’ve had some success, the world wants to put you in a box and label you. When you try to do something different, suddenly you’re a threat. The critics’ first instinct is to kill you. And since they can’t literally murder you, they do the next best thing—they try to kill your spirit. It’s easy to handle success,” Wendy continued, chewing on a piece of lettuce. “The real test is how you handle failure.”
Victory had had failures before, but back then they hadn’t mattered. There weren’t so many expectations, nor had her failures been so public. “I feel like everyone’s laughing at me behind my back.”
“I know,” Wendy had said, nodding. “It sucks. But you have to remember that they’re not. Most people are too wrapped up in themselves to really pay attention . . .”
“Hey!” Her assistant, Zoe, skittled into the room. “Sandy Berman from Neiman Marcus is on the phone. Clare said you were here, but I couldn’t find you.”
“I was with Marcia,” Victory said.