Post by slyoldweasel on Jul 25, 2013 15:07:03 GMT -5
A/N This is based off the song. I decided to start yet another story to fill the emptiness that I feel after my twin one. I hope you enjoy this one. I made a majority of it set in New York because I like the setting;) Also, it will only have twelve or so updates, but they're all fairly long. Thank you for viewing.
CHAPTER one
I'm biting my tongue
Tour rehearsals and album recordings were extremely grueling and more hardcore than he had expected. It's just my first tour, so I guess it'll be easier the next time… These words ran through his head every day, like a continuous, never-ending mantra. He would wake up in the morning – four in the morning – to get ready to head to the recording studio early. He would be there until noon. After that, he would have a fifteen-minute lunch (kindly provided to him by his manager), and head straight to the local theater for tour rehearsal. Costume designers, his production managers, and people prodding him to test this microphone or that headset, or even that new guitar would then hound him continuously for hours.
He was incredibly happy he had Sundays off.
Usually on a Sunday morning, he would sleep in until eight, and go for a jog ("Just keep fit," his manager constantly told him), occasionally get stopped by a fan, grab a latte at Starbucks, and check out the small bookstore right next to the Laundromat on Fifth Avenue. He would usually purchase the latest issues of Vogue, Rolling Stone – among others.
But, this Sunday, he couldn't believe what he saw.
He was merely looking for the latest copy of Vogue to devour for the afternoon when he stopped and stared at its latest cover.
He couldn't believe it.
Damian McGinty absolutely couldn't believe it. His gaze lingered on the front cover of Vogue's latest issue, the bright-red embossed words sticking out to him like a sore thumb.
On the cover was a very, very familiar face. The face of an incredibly stunning, porcelain-skinned young woman adorning a long, blue chiffon dress, legs crossed in a pose.
Laurel Rose Tyler.
Fashion's best is getting married, the cover read. Special edition issue, 2nd cover.
Laurel Tyler…his ex-girlfriend. Usually, the magazine wouldn't have marriage announcements of fashion designers on its front cover, but apparently, Laurel Tyler was the only exception. Se was, of course, Vogue's main fashion news contributor, the owner of the amazing, best-selling clothing brand Blluejay (Damian still snickered every time he heard Laurel say this in an occasional interview – then Damian would change the channel quickly), and a favorite for this year's Tony Award for Best Actress in the Broadway re-production of Wicked (Elphaba, could you believe it?). Her story was legend, as well – the kid who suffered bullying through high school was now the woman who was a major ambassador for The Trevor Project.
…And among all of these things, she was the singer Damian McGinty's famous ex-girlfriend.
Getting married? Why hadn't he heard of this? Damian quickly grabbed the magazine and brought it to the register, paying for it. Telling the woman at the register to keep the change, he ran out and hurried back to Starbucks, taking a corner seat. He quickly flipped through to the table of contents. Page 40. Ignoring the normal things he usually read, he found himself staring at a photo of Laurel with another man, who was handsome, with dark brown hair, and a sculpted figure.
"Fashion's Best: Laurel Tyler, 25, is getting married to the love of her life, painter Anthony Marksman. Read on."
Damian stared at the magazine in disbelief. Only three years ago, he and Laurel had broken up, and in the meantime, she found a partner. He scanned the article for any mention of his name, but Damian couldn't find a thing. Of course she wouldn't mention me – or she probably told them to edit out any questions about me, he thought scathingly.
But…he was mentioned.
Interviewer: So, Laurel, are you still in contact with Grammy-award winning singer, Damian McGinty, who you famously split with in summer 2016?
Laurel: No, actually. No comment. (Laughter) Next question, please.
No comment? "No comment." Next question, please.
Of course she hadn't kept in contact! After such a nasty break-up, why would they keep in contact? Wasn't that the case for most separations? Stupid interviewer!
Damian stood up, slammed the magazine shut, and threw it in the nearest garbage bin, to the stares of curious coffee-drinkers.
Next question, please.
The girl he so desperately loved was getting married. And to a painter, of all professions and men possible! Damian jogged down the street, and headed back to his San Francisco flat, frustrated. Married. And she didn't tell me. Ugh, stupid, of course she wouldn't have to tell you, you're her ex-boyfriend, and she doesn't care about you anymore. She broke up with you in the first place because of Broadway, distance, and everything in between, so you shouldn't care if she doesn't. You're in California, and she's in New York, so forget it, Damian, forget it.
He flopped down on his couch, turning on the television, going straight to MTV. "Next question, please," he snorted, watching the latest MGMT music video. "Pathetic," he mumbled, lying down on the leather now. "I am so pathetic."
Ring, ring, ring. Groaning, Damian stood up and walked to his kitchen. "Hello?" he answered the phone, teeth clenched.
"Hi, Damo," came the comforting, familiar voice of his younger sister, Danielle McGinty.
"Dani, I'm glad you called," Damian sighed in relief. "Did you see Vogue? Did you?"
"That's why I called," she mumbled. "I bought a long-distance card just so I could call you."
His younger sister, 20, was studying in a university in Canada.
"Shouldn't you be studying?" Damian asked, leaning against the whitewashed wall of the kitchen. "Get crackin' on the books, kid, and don't mind me."
"But…she's getting married, Damian. Aren't you going to call her or something?"
"Nope," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't need to – remember what she said? 'I don't need you in my life anymore,'" his voice a perfect imitation of Laurel's.
"You should really call her and everything just to see what's up, and I know this may be hard for you, but try to congratulate her. I think she needs more than just her fellow designers and Broadway people to applaud her."
"If you haven't noticed, Dani, I haven't forgotten a word she said to me three summers ago."
"Take this as a time of reconciliation."
"You sound so saint-like. So unlike you."
"Because as soon as I saw that cover, Damian, I thought of you. To be honest, I don't condone things like this, but you…screw what I said earlier. Forget that 'congratulations' crap. I want you to go to her and tell her you still love her."
"Uhm, I think that would be borderline awkward," Damian snapped. "She and I are over—we have been over, Danielle."
"I think she still loves you. I think that deep inside she broke up with you just so that she could get over the pain that you were all the way in San Fran, and she was, or, uhm, is, in New York City."
"Yeah, yeah right. If she really cared, we would still be together."
"You're going to be in NYC next Friday for your first show, right? You'll be there for the weekend."
"What? Yeah, of course."
"I checked up your tour schedule with mom and dad. They said you'll be in NYC next Friday, and will be there until Tuesday."
"And you remind of me this, why?"
"You have a chance to redeem yourself with her. Tell her you still love her. Make it like the movies, where the desperately in love boy rushes to the altar, or the engagement party, to tell the girl he loves that he still loves her and wants to take her back."
"The engagement party is next weekend?" Damian asked; his voice piqued.
"Yeah."
"And you know this, how?"
"Through tabloids…and, well…I was invited."
"Wait, what?" he exclaimed, his eyes growing wide. "Why were you invited, and I wasn't, Danielle Marie McGinty?"
"OBVIOUSLY, Damian, she didn't want to invite her ex-boyfriend in order to avoid awkwardness."
"Excuse me. So she invites her ex-boyfriend's sister."
"Don't ask me why!" Danielle snapped. "Maybe she wanted to avoid a fight between you and Anthony."
"See, and if I do end up gate-crashing the party, I'll cause a media craze. I can see the tabloid headlines now: Grammy-award winning singer Damian McGinty seeks to kill ex-girlfriend's fiancé! Violent tendencies, yes? Perez Hilton would be buzzing with gossip."
"There is tight security; no paparazzi is allowed inside, the invite said," Danielle said sourly.
"How can I get in if there's tight security? I don't have an invite."
"Damian Joseph McGinty, your sister is a tentative mass communications major and a pro at Photoshop. I'll just edit the invite so that it says your name," she said impishly. "I know all fonts and all kinds of paper types."
"No way," Damian breathed. "No, no, no, Danielle, I am not going to cause problems, okay? This is madness."
"This isn't Sparta, either, buckeye. This is life, and if you don't take this opportunity and do what I say... it's your life,'" she said, attempting to sound cold. "You won't get another girlfriend, and Laurel will be married to a hot painter."
"You amuse me," Damian grumbled. He thought about it.
I could have Laurel back.
"This sounds selfish," Damian finally said, "but…fine. I'll try. Send me the invitation."
"I already made it this morning when I saw the issue, and sent it right after."
"You crazy kid," he laughed.
"Anything for you, my equally crazy kid."
"When do you think it'll get here?"
"Tomorrow morning. Sent it via FedEx, so it'll be faster and get here before your tour starts."
"You are so prepared."
"Mom and Dad's credit card always keeps me prepared, and anyway, I love you and Laurel together, so whatever, Dee. I'll talk to you later."
"I love you, Dani."
"I love you too, Dee."
He hung up the phone with a click. He was going to New York City for the start of his first tour, and crashing an engagement party. Damian had a full schedule on his hands for the next weekend, and was almost prepared to handle it.
-
Laurel Tyler stared at two mannequins, one male and one female, in front of her – the male one was wearing a white polo and black tie, with a dark blue blazer on top. The blazer's collar was lined with red pipe, and an ornately stitched B was embedded onto the left breast pocket.
She had no idea why she had designed this specific outfit, but her hands just worked and worked until this came up as her result. It looked too much like something familiar.
It looked too much like St. Andrew's uniform. A private school in Massachusetts' uniform.
"Too much red piping; I could do without it all," she muttered to herself, picking up her sketchbook and redrawing the sketch of the blazer. She looked over to the female mannequin, which was wearing a tube-top dress of the same color as the blazer. It was form fitting up to the waist, and then branched out in ballerina skirt-like layers from the waist to the knee. The layers of the sequined skirt were blue and red together.
"The dress, yes, the red piping on the blazer, no thank you," she said again, gesturing for her assistant to come forward
"Yes, Ms. Tyler?" her assistant and NYU intern, Jamie Lewis, asked, pulling out a notepad.
"I want to re-edit the entire male line. The blue and red aren't really working for me anymore," Laurel sighed, rubbing her temples with her hands. "Can you take note that I don't really want any more red piping on these blazers?"
"But, ma'am, the colors seem patriotic. Didn't you say you were going for a patriotic theme when Vogue interviewed you two months ago?"
"Dump the patriotic theme. It's too Betsy Ross mixed in with 'innocent little Massachusetts private school boy,'" the designer snapped, turning to face Jamie. Jamie blinked, backing up a little. Laurel softened her glance, and patted her shoulder.
"Sorry, Jamie," she murmured. "Didn't mean to get at you like that."
"It's all okay, Ms. Tyler," she responded, biting her bottom lip. "What do you suggest we do now?"
"I'll think of something tonight, I always do," she winked, putting her arm over Jamie's shoulders. "You see these two outfits?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," she responded curiously.
"These are sure-fire signs that I am starting to go mad," Laurel nodded, pursing her lips together. She patted her shoulder and walked off, leaving her with the mannequins in the bright, fluorescent lit studio, slamming the door behind her.
Once she was sure she was alone, Laurel ran to her bathroom and washed her face. She looked in the mirror and found that her eyes were red and stinging furiously.
Come on, Laurel, get a grip on yourself, she thought angrily. Of course he might have seen the magazine, you know he reads it. Why did you do something so stupid? And those outfits—stop creating things that remind you of him. Besides, you're the one who ended it, you extremely ignorant baby penguin. And, you have Anthony. Anthony loves you. Yes, he does, very much.
She pulled paper towels from the dispenser in the corner and dabbed at her face. "Now, get out there, and put on a happy face," she said to herself, and then walked out, and back into her studio, where Jamie was still waiting for her to come back.
"Sorry about that, Jamie," she cleared her throat. "Just needed to use the bathroom."
"Yes, ma'am," she said quietly. "I also wanted to, um, congratulate you on your engagement, by the way."
"Thank you," Laurel said, smiling brightly. "Now, my dear, would you like to help me start an entirely new line?"
Jamie could only stutter. "Y-yes, ma'am! Of course—I would love to!"
"Let's get cracking," Laurel grinned even bigger, handing her a sketchbook.
"Not quite yet," a voice piped up. Laurel's smile plastered onto her face as her fiancé – her fiancé – walked into the studio.
Anthony Marksman was statuesque, amazingly chiseled, with dark brown hair that could only have been dyed – Laurel knew this right away when they first met. Despite his 'fake hair,' Anthony was gorgeous; his dark brown eyes made her, Laurel, melt.
"Hey, babe," Anthony grinned, giving Laurel a kiss on the cheek. Blushing, Laurel kissed him back in response.
"You're early," she breathed, her eyebrows furrowing slightly. "And what do you mean 'not quite yet'?"
"I thought we were going out for dinner," Anthony pouted. Jamie looked from Laurel to Anthony, and backed away onto the closest couch.
"I thought I texted you earlier, saying that I have to work late today?" Laurel sighed, gesturing towards her two mannequins and tables full of fabric and sketches.
"Take a break, Laurel," Anthony laughed, "I got us a perfect window-seat table at the new Italian Restaurant down the street from here."
"That sounds absolutely lovely, Anthony, but I really have to finish the concept for my new line by tomorrow so I can talk to marketing as well. You know how much this means to me," Laurel pleaded, taking his hands in hers. "This new line will make Bluejay earn millions! I'll even get to go to Paris Fashion Week for a second time, this time as a major designer!"
"Dinner," Anthony pouted once more. "Please?"
"This weekend, I promise, after I get this and all the PR stuff and sewing and all that done, okay? I promise."
"You're no fun," Anthony sighed. "Oh well. Fine. Go ahead."
"I'm sorry, babe," Laurel said sincerely.
"At least we have our party next week," Anthony sighed, and let go. "I'll talk to you later; I have to sell one of my paintings at the gallery on the Upper East Side," he added. "Call me when you need someone to pick you up."
"Okay. Bye," Laurel said, waving enthusiastically. Anthony walked out of the office, dejected. Once the door was closed and she heard the lift take her fiancé downstairs, Laurel breathed a sigh of relief.
"Boss, are you really okay?" Jamie asked, clutching her new sketchbook and her old notepad to her chest. "That was…tense."
"It's just one of those days," Laurel shrugged, beginning to compare fabrics. Jamie stood up and patted her shoulder.
"I know I haven't worked for you long, Ms. Tyler, but if you ever need anything, or need to talk, or whatever, you've got me."
"Thank you, Jamie," Laurel smiled at her. "Just call me Laurel. 'Ms. Tyler' is my mom, and that just sounds weird."
"Right…Laurel," she said happily.
"Alright, Jamie, I need you to check out that silk over there, and I'm going to get some of my old stuff and see if I can work from it."
"Roger that."
CHAPTER one
I'm biting my tongue
Tour rehearsals and album recordings were extremely grueling and more hardcore than he had expected. It's just my first tour, so I guess it'll be easier the next time… These words ran through his head every day, like a continuous, never-ending mantra. He would wake up in the morning – four in the morning – to get ready to head to the recording studio early. He would be there until noon. After that, he would have a fifteen-minute lunch (kindly provided to him by his manager), and head straight to the local theater for tour rehearsal. Costume designers, his production managers, and people prodding him to test this microphone or that headset, or even that new guitar would then hound him continuously for hours.
He was incredibly happy he had Sundays off.
Usually on a Sunday morning, he would sleep in until eight, and go for a jog ("Just keep fit," his manager constantly told him), occasionally get stopped by a fan, grab a latte at Starbucks, and check out the small bookstore right next to the Laundromat on Fifth Avenue. He would usually purchase the latest issues of Vogue, Rolling Stone – among others.
But, this Sunday, he couldn't believe what he saw.
He was merely looking for the latest copy of Vogue to devour for the afternoon when he stopped and stared at its latest cover.
He couldn't believe it.
Damian McGinty absolutely couldn't believe it. His gaze lingered on the front cover of Vogue's latest issue, the bright-red embossed words sticking out to him like a sore thumb.
On the cover was a very, very familiar face. The face of an incredibly stunning, porcelain-skinned young woman adorning a long, blue chiffon dress, legs crossed in a pose.
Laurel Rose Tyler.
Fashion's best is getting married, the cover read. Special edition issue, 2nd cover.
Laurel Tyler…his ex-girlfriend. Usually, the magazine wouldn't have marriage announcements of fashion designers on its front cover, but apparently, Laurel Tyler was the only exception. Se was, of course, Vogue's main fashion news contributor, the owner of the amazing, best-selling clothing brand Blluejay (Damian still snickered every time he heard Laurel say this in an occasional interview – then Damian would change the channel quickly), and a favorite for this year's Tony Award for Best Actress in the Broadway re-production of Wicked (Elphaba, could you believe it?). Her story was legend, as well – the kid who suffered bullying through high school was now the woman who was a major ambassador for The Trevor Project.
…And among all of these things, she was the singer Damian McGinty's famous ex-girlfriend.
Getting married? Why hadn't he heard of this? Damian quickly grabbed the magazine and brought it to the register, paying for it. Telling the woman at the register to keep the change, he ran out and hurried back to Starbucks, taking a corner seat. He quickly flipped through to the table of contents. Page 40. Ignoring the normal things he usually read, he found himself staring at a photo of Laurel with another man, who was handsome, with dark brown hair, and a sculpted figure.
"Fashion's Best: Laurel Tyler, 25, is getting married to the love of her life, painter Anthony Marksman. Read on."
Damian stared at the magazine in disbelief. Only three years ago, he and Laurel had broken up, and in the meantime, she found a partner. He scanned the article for any mention of his name, but Damian couldn't find a thing. Of course she wouldn't mention me – or she probably told them to edit out any questions about me, he thought scathingly.
But…he was mentioned.
Interviewer: So, Laurel, are you still in contact with Grammy-award winning singer, Damian McGinty, who you famously split with in summer 2016?
Laurel: No, actually. No comment. (Laughter) Next question, please.
No comment? "No comment." Next question, please.
Of course she hadn't kept in contact! After such a nasty break-up, why would they keep in contact? Wasn't that the case for most separations? Stupid interviewer!
Damian stood up, slammed the magazine shut, and threw it in the nearest garbage bin, to the stares of curious coffee-drinkers.
Next question, please.
The girl he so desperately loved was getting married. And to a painter, of all professions and men possible! Damian jogged down the street, and headed back to his San Francisco flat, frustrated. Married. And she didn't tell me. Ugh, stupid, of course she wouldn't have to tell you, you're her ex-boyfriend, and she doesn't care about you anymore. She broke up with you in the first place because of Broadway, distance, and everything in between, so you shouldn't care if she doesn't. You're in California, and she's in New York, so forget it, Damian, forget it.
He flopped down on his couch, turning on the television, going straight to MTV. "Next question, please," he snorted, watching the latest MGMT music video. "Pathetic," he mumbled, lying down on the leather now. "I am so pathetic."
Ring, ring, ring. Groaning, Damian stood up and walked to his kitchen. "Hello?" he answered the phone, teeth clenched.
"Hi, Damo," came the comforting, familiar voice of his younger sister, Danielle McGinty.
"Dani, I'm glad you called," Damian sighed in relief. "Did you see Vogue? Did you?"
"That's why I called," she mumbled. "I bought a long-distance card just so I could call you."
His younger sister, 20, was studying in a university in Canada.
"Shouldn't you be studying?" Damian asked, leaning against the whitewashed wall of the kitchen. "Get crackin' on the books, kid, and don't mind me."
"But…she's getting married, Damian. Aren't you going to call her or something?"
"Nope," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't need to – remember what she said? 'I don't need you in my life anymore,'" his voice a perfect imitation of Laurel's.
"You should really call her and everything just to see what's up, and I know this may be hard for you, but try to congratulate her. I think she needs more than just her fellow designers and Broadway people to applaud her."
"If you haven't noticed, Dani, I haven't forgotten a word she said to me three summers ago."
"Take this as a time of reconciliation."
"You sound so saint-like. So unlike you."
"Because as soon as I saw that cover, Damian, I thought of you. To be honest, I don't condone things like this, but you…screw what I said earlier. Forget that 'congratulations' crap. I want you to go to her and tell her you still love her."
"Uhm, I think that would be borderline awkward," Damian snapped. "She and I are over—we have been over, Danielle."
"I think she still loves you. I think that deep inside she broke up with you just so that she could get over the pain that you were all the way in San Fran, and she was, or, uhm, is, in New York City."
"Yeah, yeah right. If she really cared, we would still be together."
"You're going to be in NYC next Friday for your first show, right? You'll be there for the weekend."
"What? Yeah, of course."
"I checked up your tour schedule with mom and dad. They said you'll be in NYC next Friday, and will be there until Tuesday."
"And you remind of me this, why?"
"You have a chance to redeem yourself with her. Tell her you still love her. Make it like the movies, where the desperately in love boy rushes to the altar, or the engagement party, to tell the girl he loves that he still loves her and wants to take her back."
"The engagement party is next weekend?" Damian asked; his voice piqued.
"Yeah."
"And you know this, how?"
"Through tabloids…and, well…I was invited."
"Wait, what?" he exclaimed, his eyes growing wide. "Why were you invited, and I wasn't, Danielle Marie McGinty?"
"OBVIOUSLY, Damian, she didn't want to invite her ex-boyfriend in order to avoid awkwardness."
"Excuse me. So she invites her ex-boyfriend's sister."
"Don't ask me why!" Danielle snapped. "Maybe she wanted to avoid a fight between you and Anthony."
"See, and if I do end up gate-crashing the party, I'll cause a media craze. I can see the tabloid headlines now: Grammy-award winning singer Damian McGinty seeks to kill ex-girlfriend's fiancé! Violent tendencies, yes? Perez Hilton would be buzzing with gossip."
"There is tight security; no paparazzi is allowed inside, the invite said," Danielle said sourly.
"How can I get in if there's tight security? I don't have an invite."
"Damian Joseph McGinty, your sister is a tentative mass communications major and a pro at Photoshop. I'll just edit the invite so that it says your name," she said impishly. "I know all fonts and all kinds of paper types."
"No way," Damian breathed. "No, no, no, Danielle, I am not going to cause problems, okay? This is madness."
"This isn't Sparta, either, buckeye. This is life, and if you don't take this opportunity and do what I say... it's your life,'" she said, attempting to sound cold. "You won't get another girlfriend, and Laurel will be married to a hot painter."
"You amuse me," Damian grumbled. He thought about it.
I could have Laurel back.
"This sounds selfish," Damian finally said, "but…fine. I'll try. Send me the invitation."
"I already made it this morning when I saw the issue, and sent it right after."
"You crazy kid," he laughed.
"Anything for you, my equally crazy kid."
"When do you think it'll get here?"
"Tomorrow morning. Sent it via FedEx, so it'll be faster and get here before your tour starts."
"You are so prepared."
"Mom and Dad's credit card always keeps me prepared, and anyway, I love you and Laurel together, so whatever, Dee. I'll talk to you later."
"I love you, Dani."
"I love you too, Dee."
He hung up the phone with a click. He was going to New York City for the start of his first tour, and crashing an engagement party. Damian had a full schedule on his hands for the next weekend, and was almost prepared to handle it.
-
Laurel Tyler stared at two mannequins, one male and one female, in front of her – the male one was wearing a white polo and black tie, with a dark blue blazer on top. The blazer's collar was lined with red pipe, and an ornately stitched B was embedded onto the left breast pocket.
She had no idea why she had designed this specific outfit, but her hands just worked and worked until this came up as her result. It looked too much like something familiar.
It looked too much like St. Andrew's uniform. A private school in Massachusetts' uniform.
"Too much red piping; I could do without it all," she muttered to herself, picking up her sketchbook and redrawing the sketch of the blazer. She looked over to the female mannequin, which was wearing a tube-top dress of the same color as the blazer. It was form fitting up to the waist, and then branched out in ballerina skirt-like layers from the waist to the knee. The layers of the sequined skirt were blue and red together.
"The dress, yes, the red piping on the blazer, no thank you," she said again, gesturing for her assistant to come forward
"Yes, Ms. Tyler?" her assistant and NYU intern, Jamie Lewis, asked, pulling out a notepad.
"I want to re-edit the entire male line. The blue and red aren't really working for me anymore," Laurel sighed, rubbing her temples with her hands. "Can you take note that I don't really want any more red piping on these blazers?"
"But, ma'am, the colors seem patriotic. Didn't you say you were going for a patriotic theme when Vogue interviewed you two months ago?"
"Dump the patriotic theme. It's too Betsy Ross mixed in with 'innocent little Massachusetts private school boy,'" the designer snapped, turning to face Jamie. Jamie blinked, backing up a little. Laurel softened her glance, and patted her shoulder.
"Sorry, Jamie," she murmured. "Didn't mean to get at you like that."
"It's all okay, Ms. Tyler," she responded, biting her bottom lip. "What do you suggest we do now?"
"I'll think of something tonight, I always do," she winked, putting her arm over Jamie's shoulders. "You see these two outfits?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," she responded curiously.
"These are sure-fire signs that I am starting to go mad," Laurel nodded, pursing her lips together. She patted her shoulder and walked off, leaving her with the mannequins in the bright, fluorescent lit studio, slamming the door behind her.
Once she was sure she was alone, Laurel ran to her bathroom and washed her face. She looked in the mirror and found that her eyes were red and stinging furiously.
Come on, Laurel, get a grip on yourself, she thought angrily. Of course he might have seen the magazine, you know he reads it. Why did you do something so stupid? And those outfits—stop creating things that remind you of him. Besides, you're the one who ended it, you extremely ignorant baby penguin. And, you have Anthony. Anthony loves you. Yes, he does, very much.
She pulled paper towels from the dispenser in the corner and dabbed at her face. "Now, get out there, and put on a happy face," she said to herself, and then walked out, and back into her studio, where Jamie was still waiting for her to come back.
"Sorry about that, Jamie," she cleared her throat. "Just needed to use the bathroom."
"Yes, ma'am," she said quietly. "I also wanted to, um, congratulate you on your engagement, by the way."
"Thank you," Laurel said, smiling brightly. "Now, my dear, would you like to help me start an entirely new line?"
Jamie could only stutter. "Y-yes, ma'am! Of course—I would love to!"
"Let's get cracking," Laurel grinned even bigger, handing her a sketchbook.
"Not quite yet," a voice piped up. Laurel's smile plastered onto her face as her fiancé – her fiancé – walked into the studio.
Anthony Marksman was statuesque, amazingly chiseled, with dark brown hair that could only have been dyed – Laurel knew this right away when they first met. Despite his 'fake hair,' Anthony was gorgeous; his dark brown eyes made her, Laurel, melt.
"Hey, babe," Anthony grinned, giving Laurel a kiss on the cheek. Blushing, Laurel kissed him back in response.
"You're early," she breathed, her eyebrows furrowing slightly. "And what do you mean 'not quite yet'?"
"I thought we were going out for dinner," Anthony pouted. Jamie looked from Laurel to Anthony, and backed away onto the closest couch.
"I thought I texted you earlier, saying that I have to work late today?" Laurel sighed, gesturing towards her two mannequins and tables full of fabric and sketches.
"Take a break, Laurel," Anthony laughed, "I got us a perfect window-seat table at the new Italian Restaurant down the street from here."
"That sounds absolutely lovely, Anthony, but I really have to finish the concept for my new line by tomorrow so I can talk to marketing as well. You know how much this means to me," Laurel pleaded, taking his hands in hers. "This new line will make Bluejay earn millions! I'll even get to go to Paris Fashion Week for a second time, this time as a major designer!"
"Dinner," Anthony pouted once more. "Please?"
"This weekend, I promise, after I get this and all the PR stuff and sewing and all that done, okay? I promise."
"You're no fun," Anthony sighed. "Oh well. Fine. Go ahead."
"I'm sorry, babe," Laurel said sincerely.
"At least we have our party next week," Anthony sighed, and let go. "I'll talk to you later; I have to sell one of my paintings at the gallery on the Upper East Side," he added. "Call me when you need someone to pick you up."
"Okay. Bye," Laurel said, waving enthusiastically. Anthony walked out of the office, dejected. Once the door was closed and she heard the lift take her fiancé downstairs, Laurel breathed a sigh of relief.
"Boss, are you really okay?" Jamie asked, clutching her new sketchbook and her old notepad to her chest. "That was…tense."
"It's just one of those days," Laurel shrugged, beginning to compare fabrics. Jamie stood up and patted her shoulder.
"I know I haven't worked for you long, Ms. Tyler, but if you ever need anything, or need to talk, or whatever, you've got me."
"Thank you, Jamie," Laurel smiled at her. "Just call me Laurel. 'Ms. Tyler' is my mom, and that just sounds weird."
"Right…Laurel," she said happily.
"Alright, Jamie, I need you to check out that silk over there, and I'm going to get some of my old stuff and see if I can work from it."
"Roger that."