The Oysterville Sewing Circle

That, she knew, would be life-changing. People back home had never quite understood her aspirations. They had been kind enough. They were quick to say they appreciated her creativity. Yet they’d always been mystified by her life and work. Her entry-level jobs, most of them involving long hours and low pay, had struck them as thankless and unrewarding. Which was quite an indictment, coming from her family of restaurateurs.

But a line of apparel—that would be concrete proof that she’d set out on the right path. A ready-to-wear collection was a tangible achievement, something everyone could see. That alone was thrilling. It also gave Caroline the kind of fulfillment she’d always sought—the satisfaction of a particular creative hunger.

She had been focused on this goal for eight seasons of working for Mick Taylor. She’d learned a lot, but it wasn’t her dream. The dream was what she did after she went home, after she’d spent uncounted hours designing season after season of cutting-edge fashions under the keen eye of Rilla Stein. She’d learned to subsist on microwave burritos and too much caffeine, staying up long into the night to create something wholly her own, an exuberant expression of her unique aesthetic.

She pulled her gear along the sidewalk toward Illumination, dreaming of a day when she’d have assistants and stylists to help. Today’s show venue had a long runway and brilliant lighting, a waterfall backdrop, and tons of backstage monitors so she wouldn’t miss a moment. Every time she pictured her collection on display, she had to pinch herself.

She hoped her outfit was okay. She had opted for stark black and white, her usual work attire. The skinny black pants and boxy white top, chunky jewelry and flat shoes were well suited for rushing around the city.

The backstage was divided into two wings, east and west, separated by a folding wall. Caroline was assigned to the east side. In the staging area, a buzz of excitement vibrated through the air, which smelled of hair spray and aniline. She joined the flow of rushing designers, dressers, assistants, models, producers, photographers and their entourages, bloggers, and reporters. It was a ballet of barely controlled chaos as showtime approached. The established designers would show their collections, and Caroline’s debut would come at the very end.

She wove a path through the racks and found her station. She checked her notes and spotted Angelique standing on a riser and chatting with Orson Maynard, who was furiously taking notes.

“I heard a rumor that you’re responsible for all this lovely,” Orson said, regarding the fantasy ball gown Caroline had designed for Mick Taylor’s line.

“The garment’s my design, but all the lovely comes from Angelique.” Caroline noticed a raw edge peeking out of the bodice. “Hold still,” she said, swiftly threading a needle to tack it into place.

Daria arrived, huffing and puffing as she set down a box of accessories. She stepped back to admire Angelique. “Wow.”

“How are you feeling?” Caroline took a chunky cocktail ring from the box and tried it on Angelique.

“I’m good,” said Daria. “I’d rather be out on the runway, but you’re the only designer in need of a massively pregnant model.” She selected a makeup brush and touched up Angelique’s cheekbones.

“You both looked incredible at my presentation,” said Caroline.

Orson bustled forward with his notepad. “And …?” he asked.

Caroline had forgotten he was there. She ducked her head and busied herself by sorting through the accessories.

“You’re not supposed to have heard anything.” Caroline suppressed a riff of excitement.

“You know how the rumors fly,” he told her.

“What did you hear?”

“That your originals have been selected for the Emerging Talent program.”

She tried not to react. Tried not to hyperventilate. “Oh?”

“Stomp your foot once if it’s true, twice if it’s not.”

“It is true,” Angelique murmured between strokes of Daria’s makeup brush. “But you cannot say anything about it yet.”

“She’s right,” said Caroline. “This whole conversation has to be off the record.”

“Of course.” Orson put away his notes. “So I take it you’re stomping once.”

Caroline couldn’t keep the grin from her face. “The whole world will see at the end of today’s show.”

“It’s so awesome,” Daria said. “When I saw the work she submitted to the panel, I knew they’d pick her.”

“Now I’m salivating,” said Orson.

“I’ve barely been able to sleep or eat since I got the call.” Caroline was bursting. The moment she’d heard the news, her entire world had shifted on its axis.

“Can you set my phone by me?” Angelique asked. “I need to call my kids.”

Caroline propped the phone on a rack close by, and Angelique made a video call. Her daughter picked up, poking her face in close. “Maman,” she said in her little Minnie Mouse voice, and then asked something in Haitian Kreyòl.

“At the show, ti cheri mwen. Tell your brother to come.”

The picture tilted as Addie called for Flick. The two of them leaned in close, chattering to their mother in a rapid patois of French and English.

“Her kids are so danged cute,” Daria said.

Caroline poked her face next to Angelique’s. “Hi, guys! Remember me?”

“Caroline!” Addie clapped her hands. “You made me a hood with a mask.”

“That’s right. For when you need to hide from the paparazzi.”

“What’s paparazzi?” asked Flick.

“All the people who want to take your picture when you’re getting coffee,” said Caroline.

“I don’t like coffee,” Flick said.

“Then you probably don’t have to worry about the paparazzi,” said Angelique.

“When are you coming home, Maman?” asked Addie.

“After the show. After you’re asleep. Be good for Nila, okay?” She added something in French and blew them a kiss.

“They’re wonderful,” Caroline said.

Angelique smiled. “They’re my life.”

“I don’t know how you do it all, being a single mom and having this amazing career.”

Daria nodded. “It must be really hard. No idea how I could make it work if I didn’t have Layton.”

“I don’t wonder about these things,” said Angelique. “I do what must be done.”

Daria’s hand drifted to her distended belly. She gasped and moved her hand lower.

“Are you all right?” asked Caroline.

She nodded. “Braxton-Hicks contractions.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. Saw the doctor this morning.”

“Here we go,” a production manager called. “Five-minute warning!”

Caroline had to set aside her worry through the backstage frenzy of the show. Everyone pitched in to style the models and send them out to the percussive soundtrack that flowed through the speakers. Between hurried wardrobe changes, Caroline and Daria watched on the live-feed monitors set backstage. The buzziest stars and media types sat in the front rows along the runway. Plugged-in bloggers commented on the show in a constant stream, and the feed scrolled along the bottom of the monitors.

Even on the screens, the scene looked incredible. The theme of water and light worked beautifully. The models appeared to float along with the current projected on the surface of the runway.

“God, I love my job,” she murmured, watching a gaucho pants and midriff blouse ensemble she’d designed for Mick Taylor shimmer past the admiring crowd.

The accolades for the entire collection were enthusiastic, judging by the popping of cameras, the eruptions of applause, and the sight of critics and bloggers madly live-tweeting and broadcasting the show. She checked her phone’s live feed. The list that scrolled up the screen was filled with words of praise.

Daria high-fived her. “That was incredible. And we’re done here. The finale is coming from the other side of the stage. After that, it’s your moment.”

She shuddered with pleasure and nerves. “Cool. Let’s watch.”

Jostled by models hurrying to and fro to change, they found a spot by a large screen just as the final collection came from the opposite side of the stage. The soundtrack shifted to a haunting electronic version of Handel’s Water Music.

The lead model emerged, and a collective gasp issued from the audience. The live feed at the bottom of the screen immediately lit with comments. Caroline tilted her head up to watch. She blinked, then frowned in confusion. What the hell …?

The model, visibly and dramatically pregnant, was wearing a tunic. And not just any tunic. It was a piece Caroline had designed for her original line.

She grabbed Daria’s arm and dug her fingers in deep.

“Ouch! Hey—”

“Look at the runway,” Caroline said in a strangled whisper. At the far end, the model demonstrated the garment’s conversion from maternity tunic to nursing top, and the audience went crazy.

“Holy crap,” Daria said. “Is that …? Oh, God.”

“It’s my collection.” Caroline felt nauseous as her clothes paraded down the runway, garnering looks of admiration and bursts of applause. The garments were virtually indistinguishable from her designs. Her original designs. The samples were made from slightly different fabrics. More expensive headwear and footwear. Models she’d never seen before.

But the unique aspects of the clothing—the conversion from maternity to nursing to fashion, and even the stylized nautilus motif at the shoulder—had been lifted straight from Caroline’s own designs. A blatant, outright theft.

The collection was touted as Mick Taylor’s innovative new line called Cocoon.

Caroline crossed her arms in front of her middle as a wave of nausea reared up inside her. The sense of violation was as overwhelming as a physical assault, invasive and shocking. The live tweet feed at the bottom of the screen lit with more praise: Mick Taylor is back with a stunner of a collection.

Daria was saying something, but Caroline couldn’t hear through the roar of outrage in her ears. Her gaze stayed glued to the monitor, which now showed Mick Taylor at center stage, accepting accolades like a conquering hero.

All through the backstage area, the post-show rush continued to swirl like a tornado, but still she didn’t move. Yet her thoughts whirled around and around. Mick Taylor had copied her original collection, the one that was meant to launch her own career. The man she worked for, the man to whom she’d given her loyalty and hard work, had stolen her designs.

She staggered, dizzy with outrage. Angelique appeared at her side, bringing her to a stool. “Did you see?” Caroline asked, still too shocked to feel anything but numb disbelief.

“I’m so sorry. Come sit,” Angelique said.

“How completely shitty,” Daria said. “What an underhanded thing to do.”

Caroline took a deep breath. The numbness was wearing off and giving way to something more awful. Everyone knew what stealing looked like, but nothing could have prepared her for the shock of it. “I’m shaking. God, I feel so violated.”

“He is terrible,” said Angelique. “I’m ashamed to even know him.”

Caroline had to remind herself to breathe. This was a common occurrence in the fashion industry, happening at all levels. No one was safe. This particular situation was a virtual case study of a major label appropriating designs from an independent artist. Students in design school were told to expect it, and maybe on some level she had. The practice went by different names—“referencing,” “inspired by,” “an homage.”

Trying not to puke, she rocked back and forth on the stool. “No one is dead or injured,” she muttered. “No one has been given a cancer diagnosis. It’s not the end of the world.”

“That is right,” Angelique said. “You’re strong. You’ll get through this. You will go on to do great things.”

She tried to shake off the nausea. Tried to pull herself together. Her phone vibrated, the screen crowded with messages and notifications. After a few minutes, a new sensation coursed through her—a slow burn of anger. “Right,” she said. “I never got into this field because it was easy, did I?”

“Exactly,” said Daria.

“I’m going to go find him.”

“No,” said Angelique, her eyes widening. “Don’t do it, Caroline. Mick will—”

“He’ll what?” Caroline stood. The anger simmered like a fever, heightening her senses. “What will he do? Destroy my career? He’s already done that.” The reality shuddered through her: “I can’t show my collection now. I literally have nothing to lose.”

Daria and Angelique looked at each other. “I’m sorry,” Daria whispered.

Mick had planned the theft just right, Caroline realized. He had preempted her debut and sabotaged any attempt she might make to launch her line—with these designs, anyway. “I’ll survive,” she said with quiet conviction. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll go without a fight.”

To her utter mortification, an announcement was made, and her collection was sent out on the runway. The audience was expecting a big reveal of the Emerging Talent recipient. Caroline couldn’t bring herself to look at the monitors. She didn’t want to see the expressions on the faces of the attendees. Didn’t want to see them pointing and whispering, speculating about the rampant similarities between her designs and those of Mick Taylor. As far as the audience knew, she was the thief, not him.

It was the ultimate betrayal by a man she had trusted. She had a complicated relationship with him; for the past couple of years it had been the biggest relationship of her life, leaving little room for anything else. She owed her career to him. Yet today he’d stolen that and destroyed her in public. She felt duped and naive. How could she have trusted him? How had she not seen this coming?

Maybe she’d been dazzled by his fame, drawn in by his aw-shucks charm and charisma. Maybe she’d missed the signs.

Someone—a production assistant or intern—gave her a shove to follow the final model out onto the runway. What should have been a march of triumph had turned into a walk of shame. The applause was subdued, and instead of her prepared remarks about her inspiration and her expressed gratitude to Mick Taylor, she managed to choke out, “Thank you for the opportunity.”

There was a collective hush, followed by a scramble as the audience made for the exits. Caroline rushed backstage, on fire with a sense of betrayal.

“Caroline, wait.” Angelique reached for her.

Caroline shook her head, then wove a path through the crowd and made her way into the auditorium. It was emptying out slowly. The star designers were clustered near the runway, surrounded by their entourages, accepting congratulations, getting invited to after-parties, posing for photos, answering questions from the press.

Mick was easy enough to find, the center of an undulating cluster of reporters and photographers. He and Rilla were all smiles as they basked in the afterglow of the successful show.

Caroline jostled a path through the crowd. Rilla noticed her first. “Good show, Caroline,” she said. “The looks you worked on were so great.”

Caroline ignored her, even though Rilla was her mentor at work, the one who’d hired her and the supervisor she reported to. Rilla was supposed to protect her designers. But of course the design director’s first loyalty was to Mick.

Squeezing through an opening in the crowd, she planted herself directly in front of him. “You stole my designs,” she stated, speaking slowly and clearly.

He looked down at her, his brow quirked in a small frown. “Sorry, what?”

Several cameras snapped their picture.

She went up on tiptoe and said into his ear, “You copied my designs—your so-called Cocoon line.”

The frown deepened. His gaze flicked briefly to Rilla. Then he reacted with a patronizing smile. A few more camera flashes went off. “And what was your name again?”

Caroline knew the deliberate, direct cut was meant to put her in her place. Standing on tiptoe again, she cupped her hands and said with perfect articulation, “I’m about to be your worst nightmare. That’s who I am.”

His easy smile never wavered. Her bravado now felt like a curl of dread in her gut. Deep down, she knew what he was doing. “And five minutes from now,” Mick said, “no one will remember your name.”

The door buzzer sounded in the middle of the night. Caroline scrambled out of bed in confusion and went to stand in front of the receiver by the door. All the locks were done up.

The buzzer went off again.

Still she hesitated. Nobody came to see her in the middle of the night. Nobody came to see her at all anymore. Not since she had declared war on Mick Taylor—and lost. She’d gone down in flames of glory. No, not even glory. All the righteous anger in the world was no foil for reality in the fashion business—designers stole from one another, shamelessly and blatantly, all the time. And the victims had almost no recourse. Mick held all the cards. He had the power to get someone fired and blackballed with a single swipe on his phone.

Shrugging into a hoodie, she went to the front window and looked out. Angelique’s car was parked on the street in front of the downstairs deli. What the hell? She buzzed her in, then clumped down the stairs.

“We need a place to stay,” Angelique said. “Me and my kids.” Addie and Flick clung to her legs.

“Did something happen?”

Angelique ducked her head, indicating the children. “Can you help?”

Caroline was not mystified. She knew this had something to do with the bruises she had observed on Angelique at the fashion show a while back. She nodded. Within minutes, they had brought the children up to her place. Her impossibly tiny place. Flick and Addie whined in sleepy protest. Caroline and Angelique managed to get them settled on the foldout sofa. After they were asleep, Angelique collapsed into a chair. Even in the dim light, Caroline could see that the model’s lip was swollen and crusted with dried blood.

“Who did this?” She got a damp cloth and some ice for her friend’s lip. “Was it Roman?”

“Roman? No. He’s … we’re … no.” She seemed confused, agitated. “I told you, I broke up with Roman. He’s not—”

“Is he pissed about the breakup? Will he be a problem?”

“Roman? No,” she said again.

“Then who hurt you? We need to get you to a doctor. Or the police.”

Angelique shook her head. “And be up all night answering questions? What do I do with my kids? Listen, I don’t need either. I’m … I just need to get away. I was behind on the rent. There was an eviction notice. Everything I own is in the car.”

“Ange, I had no idea. I thought you were doing so well.”

“My agency was deducting rent money from my pay—but not paying the rent. And that is only the start.”

Caroline knew some agencies were notorious for taking advantage of models. She didn’t want to press Angelique tonight. “Tell me who did this. This is serious. You need help. More help than I know how to give.”

“No,” she said again. “I can’t—I’ll be all right. It’s complicated.”

“It’s not complicated. You’ve been assaulted—and not for the first time. I’m calling the police.”

“You can’t. You must not. I’ll be deported.”

Caroline frowned. “Are you undocumented?”

Angelique nodded. “My work visa expired. If you call the authorities, I could lose my kids. I’m just so tired. I need to rest. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

“Are you safe?” Caroline asked. “Were you followed?”

“No. I wouldn’t put you in danger.”

“Listen, you and your kids can stay as long as you need to,” said Caroline. “But if you don’t report this, there’s no guarantee that you’ll be safe.”

“I can’t risk being deported,” she repeated with a shudder.

“Then could you claim asylum or something? I know it’s probably not a simple process, but it would be a start.”

“I’m not starting anything tonight.” Angelique gave a weary sigh and dabbed gingerly at her lip. “It was a mistake to come here. I should go.”

“Don’t you dare. I want to help. But I have to know how. We need to figure out what to do in a situation like this.”

Angelique steadfastly refused to name her attacker. She refused to press charges. “My visa’s expired,” she explained again. “That means I’m here illegally. My kids are here illegally. I can’t risk it.”

“What happened to you is illegal, regardless of your status.”

“Perhaps, but I still won’t risk it.”

“What would happen if you did go back to Haiti?” Caroline asked. “Would it be the end of the world?”

“As a matter of fact, it would.”

“It would be worse than being battered by a man you’re scared to name?” She still suspected Roman, the jilted boyfriend, but for some reason, Angelique was protecting him.

“Haiti is much worse, and I do not say that lightly.”

“Seriously? Don’t you have family back home? Friends?”

Angelique looked at her for several seconds. “Let me tell you about life in Haiti. What I would go back to. We lived in the Cité Soleil slum—that’s in Port-au-Prince—in a shack made from sheets of corrugated tin. I was three years old when I lost my mother. I’m told she died of the cholera along with my baby brother. There is always a cholera outbreak in Cité Soleil.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“My father had no education because his family turned him out to work when he was ten years old. He survived by working as a bayakou.” She paused. “Do you know what that is?”

“No, sorry, I don’t.”

“Consider yourself fortunate that you don’t. You see, in Haiti, in many parts of the city, there is no sewage system. Families that can’t afford them have latrines instead. And these latrines need to be emptied. That is the job of the bayakou. My father earned the equivalent of four dollars a night doing this work. It was barely enough to keep us alive. He went out at night while I slept.” She paused. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“You lived it. I can handle hearing it.”

“He worked his job naked, because there was no way to clean clothes tainted by the filth. When I was very small, I was proud to have such a hardworking papa. By the time I reached school age, that all changed. The other children shunned me because of the labor my father did. You can imagine the names they called me.”

“Jesus, Angelique. I had no idea.”

“Most of the world does not. I was fifteen when Papa died. It was an infection. He was always getting something from the work he did—infections, sores that wouldn’t heal. He kept me away from him. I have no memory of ever touching him. When he died, I had nothing. I sold bracelets made from cowrie shells I found on the beach, and sometimes relied on the charity of strangers.”

Caroline gently covered Angelique’s slim, elegant hand with her own. Angelique’s nails were bitten and ragged. “You had it so rough. I can’t even imagine. Now I know you’re even more awesome because you found a way to survive.”

Angelique was silent for several seconds. Then at last she cried. Her tears were fierce and regal, and she looked like a queen sitting there, her life in tatters. “I came here to give my children a chance at a better life. What a terrible failure I am now.”

Caroline tried to sound confident and decisive. “None of this is your fault. And you’re not alone. I want you to try getting some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll figure out a way through this.”

Caroline didn’t sleep at all that night. She couldn’t. It was too upsetting to think about some monster hitting her friend. It was the height of frustration that she was at such a loss. She was angry—at her friend for not leveling with her. At the assailant Angelique refused to name. At the agency that exploited a vulnerable model. At herself for not knowing how to support her friend.

She spent hours online, researching shelters and aid organizations for both immigrants and victims of domestic violence. She stalked Roman Blake online. She stalked Angelique, too, culling through her list of friends and associates, trying to determine who else in her life might have attacked her.