Alexander McQueen Makes Bed Sheets Now 2/2
femslash09
Recipient: annaalamode
Writer: egalitarianmuse
Beta: istumen . Thanks!
Summary: Sharing shoes meant sharing clothes, meant sharing space. They did that anyway, but the shoes were a catalyst.
AN: I realize that you love fashion, so I’ve done a little research. As you make your way through the text, I’ll link you to some visuals that I think will help you enjoy the story more.
ANII: Inspired originally by these shoes from the Alexander McQueen Spring/Summer ’09 collection among many other things.
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I don’t own any characters recognizable as being from The Devil Wears Prada. They are the property of their producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
~!~
The first time she carried the handbag, Queen Elizabeth Windsor II could have walked by and Emily wouldn’t have given her a second look. She had been bestowed with the trademark of their brand and she was positively walking on air.
The purse, Socialite by Versace, was a delicious piece out of the designer’s 2009 Fall Collection. It was made of snakeskin and sported pure gleaming hardware, the vaunted trend of the year. It managed to be both functional and beautiful at once. It wasn’t any wonder that the magazine had immediately glommed to the imminently iconic accessory as their calling card. It was in the name, clearly meant to be.
And just as with any calling card, there were rules for its usage. Only those with the express authorization of Claudia Kingston herself could be caught alive-or dead-with Socialite in hand. Despite having a seat at the High Table, Emily had yet to be assigned the symbol of prestige. She was somewhat new admittedly, having been given the opportunity to skip the lower rungs of the ladder at Miranda’s recommendation, but she had proven herself capable of taking whatever Claudia could dish out. Long story short, in Emily’s completely humble opinion, It was about time.
In a matter of days, she’d be sitting across the runway from her former boss. As long as she could cool her anxiously burning skin against the stainless steel embellishments of this bag, she’d be fine. She had her touchstone. Now, what she needed was a drink.
~!~
Emily brushed back her auburn hair-fresh from a delectable haircut-and crossed her legs primly as she took a seat at the bar. She was feeling particularly classic tonight, her painted toes peeping playfully from the tips of her five-inchers. There was nothing like a red leather sole to give one the sense that they were at the height of fashion. She turned to Serena, who, having waited rather patiently for her to put herself on display, gave her the typical fashion maven’s once-over. Naturally she began from the ground up.
“Are those-“
“Louboutin’s Very Prive 120 peep-toe pumps,” Emily inquired aloud facetiously. “Why yes, they are.” She smirked, feeling duly triumphant. Then, she saw Serena’s legs, stretching casually forward as she adjusted her glasses. Emily blinked, almost blinded. “Are those…?”
“The multicolored Galaxy shoe, also by Louboutin,” Serena smiled, eyes wide with false guile. “Why yes, yes they are,” she mimicked. She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, expertly displaying the 4.5-inch heel and positively heart-breaking palette of yellow, platinum, and black. Emily could see herself in the mirrored fragments.
“Lovely,” she replied, all pleasure gone, save that which remained upon seeing Serena look so good. Shimmer was in and her friend positively glittered in the trendy, moody lighting of the scene. She didn’t do jealousy if she could help it, but she felt-perhaps just a little-that Serena put her to shame. It wasn’t a feeling she’d ever been fond of.
“Shall we dance,” she was asked suddenly. She blinked and turned back to Serena who’d tucked her glasses away in a black Enigme Vuitton clutch, which she promptly handed to the bartender before prompting Emily to do the same-which she did, albeit warily. She’d been in New York for several few years now, but the barkeeps were ever-changing and she’d never managed to feel comfortable doing things like this. Perhaps she’d lived in the States for too long; she always feared being ripped off.
Heedless of her thoughts on questionable-looking bartenders, Serena pulled her towards the middle of the club where few others were dancing. It was a low-key affair and Emily only went along because this was clearly a song that Serena liked. Some mid-beat club hit by a band called Stars. Only for her, Emily mused.
She was still thinking of Versace and Socialite and whether she had the number to Fraud Protection written down when Serena began to move. Her hair, which Emily only now noticed hung loose, swung around her face as she spun, her arms rocking above her head. She was singing soundlessly along to the words and she didn’t seem to care that others watched.
Emily cared. That was how she’d been raised, to always care what the world saw. That said, even she couldn’t take that away from Serena. She rolled her eyes, hardly believing she was about to involve herself in these shenanigans. That was love-or like, or friendship, or, or…something. She didn’t want to think about it anymore.
Feeling a bit silly, she tried to find the beat and forget the scorching intensity of appraising eyes. It was okay for a while and onlookers were easier to forget than she imagined. Serena wasn’t, however; she was a pervasive presence that Emily could feel swaying closer on reflective heels.
You drop a coin
Into the sea
And shout out,
"Please come back to me!"
And then, there were none, no watchers or bystanders, just Emily being drawn into Serena’s smile. She looked pleased with herself and Emily found herself pleased, too. In that moment, she was envious again, this time of the light as danced tirelessly across Serena’s skin.
Funny, this feeling she didn’t mind so much at all.
~!~
Among the many feelings Emily was beginning not to mind, the feeling of being catered to was chief among them. That, in conjunction with the sweeping sensation of exhilaration that came after Serena kissed her lightly on the lips before rushing her out to her waiting car, was making her head spin. She had a car!-and a kiss! But that was for another time. Well, she’d always had a car, even when she’d simply been another woman’s errand girl. This was completely different, though. This was her car, a car sent to ferry her from home to her work. This was so different as to be an entirely different universe.
Still, she’d regained her composure in time to step out onto the red carpet at the first event of the week: the showing of the Heart Truth's Red Dress Collection. On a Friday no less. She’d smiled and glad-handed the other Editors-in-Chief, all the while trying not to die of fashion-envy. These were the masters and mavens whose passions had fueled her formative years. The Burberry trench with a raised collar that hung so delightfully from her form only existed because they had forecast the trend. She was verklempt. Thankfully, her red and black tie-dyed Jimmy Choo Clue slingbacks had carried her into the tent and away from the press before she could bring shame to herself and her family’s good name.
The impish butterflies in her stomach returned as one of the many attendants wearing Bluetooths and carrying state-of-the-art Blackberries guided her to a seat near the end of the catwalk. She spied Jacqueline Follet whispering in French to a young man who instantly put her in the mind of Nigel. He seemed determined to fuss with Jacqueline’s ensemble, especially the ever-passé baroque collar. She wanted to hiss to him that some flaws could not be corrected, especially flaws such as painfully wrong-headed ideas about fashion genius.
She didn’t.
Jacqueline finally smacked his hand another time and he settled down. Literally seconds before the show was set to begin, the flaps to the tent parted once more to admit Her Majesty. And so the deserted seats in the very front row, directly across from Emily were filled with Miranda and all her entourage.
As though her arrival had been the opening act, the house lights rose once in recognition before falling dramatically to dark. Unsurprisingly, this had the effect of illuminating the woman to absolute godliness for an instant in time: her pale skin an unearthly white, her hair positively glowing, her eyes afire. Not to mention her shoes. They didn’t come more dazzling than those adorning her feet. In the flash, they’d given the woman the appearance of walking on light-not air, but light!
Miranda wore black Swarovski peep-toe pumps. Emily positively salivated at the sight of them. How could she not? She’d seen them in red. They weren’t publicly available yet, but had already been presented as a part of McQueen’s Autumn-Winter Collection. Naturally, the editrix would be given first dibs on ready-to-wear.
Emily sighed-her default response to just about everything now. Naturally.
She was no longer subordinate to this woman, she was competing with her-and, oh, what a steep competition it would be. She was choked by the reality of it, by the reality of knowing that she wouldn’t be here today had this woman not given her a chance. No matter where she went tomorrow, or what she accomplished, she was endlessly aware that she lived in Miranda Priestly’s debt. This epiphany was almost her undoing.
Her Socialite clutched in both hands, it was all she could do not to flee the tent to go hide under her desk. That seemed a safer place than here, right in this woman’s sights. Surely, she could see straight through Emily; surely, she saw through the designer costume with its designer price tag and thought, Poseur. Surely.
Emily dared to slide her eyes from the rail-thin models that lurched down to the catwalk to the ungodly being that had inhabited her nightmares for all of three years. She was assailed first by the eyes that, too, seemed less than interested in the show they’d come to see. They danced across Emily’s features, perhaps on a search for recognition, perhaps on a search for familiarity-Emily couldn’t say for certain which or if she’d found either. She could say that eventually the eyes came back to hers and there was no recrimination as she’d expected. There was no spite-if there was one person who could express spite as a tangible thing, it was Miranda-and there was no disdain. They were simply eyes that sought, out of an impassive face.
Once an eternity had danced by and the procession of breathing wire hangers was retaking the stage for the grand finale, Miranda broke her gaze to inspect them at last. Emily, for her part, was at a loss for what to say she’d seen. There were dresses of many kinds and they were red. Fascinating, she’d noted laconically. She must have said it out loud because her right-hand, appropriately named Rita, jotted it down with undue speed, leaving Emily to wonder if she’d ever truly been that desperate.
Wincing, she stood. She knew the answer to that.
~!~
What she didn’t know the answer to was why the Lacroix incident had not taught her to listen. Listen to avert catastrophe, her conscience told her belatedly. It was rather irritating that way.
Had she been paying the sort of attention she should have to her daily life, she would not have been surprised by this latest development. She took in her new seat counterpart from a distance.
White Alexander Wang booties with the zippered backs and transparent heels that led to legs like the Golden Road were waiting for her at the BCBGMaxAzria show hours later. Attached to those legs was a fine form cloaked in what had to be a black and white Alexander Wang block dress and topped with a black wool-blend Jil Sander jacket. Just when it seemed that she could be no more a slave to fashion, Emily registered the same Ralph Lauren eyeglasses she’d become accustomed to waking up to.
Serena, she breathed.
Her dark blonde hair was tucked away in a neat bun and her makeup was minimal. It made no difference. She was worthy of the cover of a magazine right as she sat. Emily was stunned motionless, which was a bit problematic under the circumstances. Waking from her reverie, she allowed herself to be herded to the front row, once again, a straight shot from the Runway party.
Miranda had come and enthralled, but not Emily, not again. She only had eyes for one ethereal creature at a time and her attention had been stolen too quickly by one she knew too well.
Serena didn’t play any games with her interest. The smile she sent Emily was akin to a view of the Eiffel Tower at night, something wondrous under the sun that only grew more amazing under the stars. Emily could not help but to return it. She was that far gone and she was unsure when she’d gotten there.
The arguably sentient mannequins waltzed by her, obscuring her view of Serena, and she could only comment on auto-pilot, her experience spinning its own tale. Rita wrote at an admirable pace as Emily dinged the designer’s limited palette in a season where color was very in, comparing it unfavorably to the show she’d earlier attended but hardly seen. Red, to say the least was something, she thought, even if that amount of it had been a lot of something.
The show eventually came to a close and they all stood in ovation of an alleged genius. Brilliance in their world came and went with Miranda’s nod. Emily still had hope of being that powerful. For the time being, she deferred.
The Devil in McQueen smiled faintly and clapped politely, her enthusiasm sorely lacking. Emily grimaced, mirroring the look Serena gave to the designer. He accepted her silent rebuke with a great deal more grace than most would have. He waved, albeit less proudly than before, blew kisses, and escorted his creations and their hosts back to dressing rooms. He did it with incredible dignity.
Emily gave him greater applause for that.
Naturally, Serena had done so at the same time.
Naturally.
~!~
She was seven days into the seven-day event before she got the hang of it. She hadn’t trusted her assistant to type up her notes, so she’d expended a great deal of her off-duty time to doing just that. The shorthand became words, which became sentences, which became pages of commentary on what passed for class nowadays-and what simply failed. She’d lost precious hours of rest sequestered behind her laptop.
She would have lost precious hours of time spent with her best friend, too, if Serena had allowed it. More often than not, Serena could be found parked at the pillow beside her, designing new and greater photo shoots to sate Miranda’s growing appetite for innovation. As the newly-promoted Art Director, the pressure was on.
Emily didn’t doubt that Serena was up for the challenge anymore than Serena doubted that she would one day rule Socialite. That didn’t mean she didn’t wish they’d spent those victorious nights wrapped in more than the glorious spoils abandoned by careless models.
She wished, in the recesses of her mind, that she could devote a night, or a lifetime, to loving the woman beside her as much as loved the shoes she wore, or the ones that she’d ‘borrowed’ in a fit of mindlessness-only to discover them waiting, gift-wrapped, on her desk a day later.
No. She’d love her more. Someday, Emily Charlton would have the world to offer and Serena would be free to borrow it if she wished, or even keep it.
She wouldn’t have to ask.
Recipient: annaalamode
Writer: egalitarianmuse
Beta: istumen . Thanks!
Summary: Sharing shoes meant sharing clothes, meant sharing space. They did that anyway, but the shoes were a catalyst.
AN: I realize that you love fashion, so I’ve done a little research. As you make your way through the text, I’ll link you to some visuals that I think will help you enjoy the story more.
ANII: Inspired originally by these shoes from the Alexander McQueen Spring/Summer ’09 collection among many other things.
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I don’t own any characters recognizable as being from The Devil Wears Prada. They are the property of their producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
~!~
The first time she carried the handbag, Queen Elizabeth Windsor II could have walked by and Emily wouldn’t have given her a second look. She had been bestowed with the trademark of their brand and she was positively walking on air.
The purse, Socialite by Versace, was a delicious piece out of the designer’s 2009 Fall Collection. It was made of snakeskin and sported pure gleaming hardware, the vaunted trend of the year. It managed to be both functional and beautiful at once. It wasn’t any wonder that the magazine had immediately glommed to the imminently iconic accessory as their calling card. It was in the name, clearly meant to be.
And just as with any calling card, there were rules for its usage. Only those with the express authorization of Claudia Kingston herself could be caught alive-or dead-with Socialite in hand. Despite having a seat at the High Table, Emily had yet to be assigned the symbol of prestige. She was somewhat new admittedly, having been given the opportunity to skip the lower rungs of the ladder at Miranda’s recommendation, but she had proven herself capable of taking whatever Claudia could dish out. Long story short, in Emily’s completely humble opinion, It was about time.
In a matter of days, she’d be sitting across the runway from her former boss. As long as she could cool her anxiously burning skin against the stainless steel embellishments of this bag, she’d be fine. She had her touchstone. Now, what she needed was a drink.
~!~
Emily brushed back her auburn hair-fresh from a delectable haircut-and crossed her legs primly as she took a seat at the bar. She was feeling particularly classic tonight, her painted toes peeping playfully from the tips of her five-inchers. There was nothing like a red leather sole to give one the sense that they were at the height of fashion. She turned to Serena, who, having waited rather patiently for her to put herself on display, gave her the typical fashion maven’s once-over. Naturally she began from the ground up.
“Are those-“
“Louboutin’s Very Prive 120 peep-toe pumps,” Emily inquired aloud facetiously. “Why yes, they are.” She smirked, feeling duly triumphant. Then, she saw Serena’s legs, stretching casually forward as she adjusted her glasses. Emily blinked, almost blinded. “Are those…?”
“The multicolored Galaxy shoe, also by Louboutin,” Serena smiled, eyes wide with false guile. “Why yes, yes they are,” she mimicked. She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, expertly displaying the 4.5-inch heel and positively heart-breaking palette of yellow, platinum, and black. Emily could see herself in the mirrored fragments.
“Lovely,” she replied, all pleasure gone, save that which remained upon seeing Serena look so good. Shimmer was in and her friend positively glittered in the trendy, moody lighting of the scene. She didn’t do jealousy if she could help it, but she felt-perhaps just a little-that Serena put her to shame. It wasn’t a feeling she’d ever been fond of.
“Shall we dance,” she was asked suddenly. She blinked and turned back to Serena who’d tucked her glasses away in a black Enigme Vuitton clutch, which she promptly handed to the bartender before prompting Emily to do the same-which she did, albeit warily. She’d been in New York for several few years now, but the barkeeps were ever-changing and she’d never managed to feel comfortable doing things like this. Perhaps she’d lived in the States for too long; she always feared being ripped off.
Heedless of her thoughts on questionable-looking bartenders, Serena pulled her towards the middle of the club where few others were dancing. It was a low-key affair and Emily only went along because this was clearly a song that Serena liked. Some mid-beat club hit by a band called Stars. Only for her, Emily mused.
She was still thinking of Versace and Socialite and whether she had the number to Fraud Protection written down when Serena began to move. Her hair, which Emily only now noticed hung loose, swung around her face as she spun, her arms rocking above her head. She was singing soundlessly along to the words and she didn’t seem to care that others watched.
Emily cared. That was how she’d been raised, to always care what the world saw. That said, even she couldn’t take that away from Serena. She rolled her eyes, hardly believing she was about to involve herself in these shenanigans. That was love-or like, or friendship, or, or…something. She didn’t want to think about it anymore.
Feeling a bit silly, she tried to find the beat and forget the scorching intensity of appraising eyes. It was okay for a while and onlookers were easier to forget than she imagined. Serena wasn’t, however; she was a pervasive presence that Emily could feel swaying closer on reflective heels.
You drop a coin
Into the sea
And shout out,
"Please come back to me!"
And then, there were none, no watchers or bystanders, just Emily being drawn into Serena’s smile. She looked pleased with herself and Emily found herself pleased, too. In that moment, she was envious again, this time of the light as danced tirelessly across Serena’s skin.
Funny, this feeling she didn’t mind so much at all.
~!~
Among the many feelings Emily was beginning not to mind, the feeling of being catered to was chief among them. That, in conjunction with the sweeping sensation of exhilaration that came after Serena kissed her lightly on the lips before rushing her out to her waiting car, was making her head spin. She had a car!-and a kiss! But that was for another time. Well, she’d always had a car, even when she’d simply been another woman’s errand girl. This was completely different, though. This was her car, a car sent to ferry her from home to her work. This was so different as to be an entirely different universe.
Still, she’d regained her composure in time to step out onto the red carpet at the first event of the week: the showing of the Heart Truth's Red Dress Collection. On a Friday no less. She’d smiled and glad-handed the other Editors-in-Chief, all the while trying not to die of fashion-envy. These were the masters and mavens whose passions had fueled her formative years. The Burberry trench with a raised collar that hung so delightfully from her form only existed because they had forecast the trend. She was verklempt. Thankfully, her red and black tie-dyed Jimmy Choo Clue slingbacks had carried her into the tent and away from the press before she could bring shame to herself and her family’s good name.
The impish butterflies in her stomach returned as one of the many attendants wearing Bluetooths and carrying state-of-the-art Blackberries guided her to a seat near the end of the catwalk. She spied Jacqueline Follet whispering in French to a young man who instantly put her in the mind of Nigel. He seemed determined to fuss with Jacqueline’s ensemble, especially the ever-passé baroque collar. She wanted to hiss to him that some flaws could not be corrected, especially flaws such as painfully wrong-headed ideas about fashion genius.
She didn’t.
Jacqueline finally smacked his hand another time and he settled down. Literally seconds before the show was set to begin, the flaps to the tent parted once more to admit Her Majesty. And so the deserted seats in the very front row, directly across from Emily were filled with Miranda and all her entourage.
As though her arrival had been the opening act, the house lights rose once in recognition before falling dramatically to dark. Unsurprisingly, this had the effect of illuminating the woman to absolute godliness for an instant in time: her pale skin an unearthly white, her hair positively glowing, her eyes afire. Not to mention her shoes. They didn’t come more dazzling than those adorning her feet. In the flash, they’d given the woman the appearance of walking on light-not air, but light!
Miranda wore black Swarovski peep-toe pumps. Emily positively salivated at the sight of them. How could she not? She’d seen them in red. They weren’t publicly available yet, but had already been presented as a part of McQueen’s Autumn-Winter Collection. Naturally, the editrix would be given first dibs on ready-to-wear.
Emily sighed-her default response to just about everything now. Naturally.
She was no longer subordinate to this woman, she was competing with her-and, oh, what a steep competition it would be. She was choked by the reality of it, by the reality of knowing that she wouldn’t be here today had this woman not given her a chance. No matter where she went tomorrow, or what she accomplished, she was endlessly aware that she lived in Miranda Priestly’s debt. This epiphany was almost her undoing.
Her Socialite clutched in both hands, it was all she could do not to flee the tent to go hide under her desk. That seemed a safer place than here, right in this woman’s sights. Surely, she could see straight through Emily; surely, she saw through the designer costume with its designer price tag and thought, Poseur. Surely.
Emily dared to slide her eyes from the rail-thin models that lurched down to the catwalk to the ungodly being that had inhabited her nightmares for all of three years. She was assailed first by the eyes that, too, seemed less than interested in the show they’d come to see. They danced across Emily’s features, perhaps on a search for recognition, perhaps on a search for familiarity-Emily couldn’t say for certain which or if she’d found either. She could say that eventually the eyes came back to hers and there was no recrimination as she’d expected. There was no spite-if there was one person who could express spite as a tangible thing, it was Miranda-and there was no disdain. They were simply eyes that sought, out of an impassive face.
Once an eternity had danced by and the procession of breathing wire hangers was retaking the stage for the grand finale, Miranda broke her gaze to inspect them at last. Emily, for her part, was at a loss for what to say she’d seen. There were dresses of many kinds and they were red. Fascinating, she’d noted laconically. She must have said it out loud because her right-hand, appropriately named Rita, jotted it down with undue speed, leaving Emily to wonder if she’d ever truly been that desperate.
Wincing, she stood. She knew the answer to that.
~!~
What she didn’t know the answer to was why the Lacroix incident had not taught her to listen. Listen to avert catastrophe, her conscience told her belatedly. It was rather irritating that way.
Had she been paying the sort of attention she should have to her daily life, she would not have been surprised by this latest development. She took in her new seat counterpart from a distance.
White Alexander Wang booties with the zippered backs and transparent heels that led to legs like the Golden Road were waiting for her at the BCBGMaxAzria show hours later. Attached to those legs was a fine form cloaked in what had to be a black and white Alexander Wang block dress and topped with a black wool-blend Jil Sander jacket. Just when it seemed that she could be no more a slave to fashion, Emily registered the same Ralph Lauren eyeglasses she’d become accustomed to waking up to.
Serena, she breathed.
Her dark blonde hair was tucked away in a neat bun and her makeup was minimal. It made no difference. She was worthy of the cover of a magazine right as she sat. Emily was stunned motionless, which was a bit problematic under the circumstances. Waking from her reverie, she allowed herself to be herded to the front row, once again, a straight shot from the Runway party.
Miranda had come and enthralled, but not Emily, not again. She only had eyes for one ethereal creature at a time and her attention had been stolen too quickly by one she knew too well.
Serena didn’t play any games with her interest. The smile she sent Emily was akin to a view of the Eiffel Tower at night, something wondrous under the sun that only grew more amazing under the stars. Emily could not help but to return it. She was that far gone and she was unsure when she’d gotten there.
The arguably sentient mannequins waltzed by her, obscuring her view of Serena, and she could only comment on auto-pilot, her experience spinning its own tale. Rita wrote at an admirable pace as Emily dinged the designer’s limited palette in a season where color was very in, comparing it unfavorably to the show she’d earlier attended but hardly seen. Red, to say the least was something, she thought, even if that amount of it had been a lot of something.
The show eventually came to a close and they all stood in ovation of an alleged genius. Brilliance in their world came and went with Miranda’s nod. Emily still had hope of being that powerful. For the time being, she deferred.
The Devil in McQueen smiled faintly and clapped politely, her enthusiasm sorely lacking. Emily grimaced, mirroring the look Serena gave to the designer. He accepted her silent rebuke with a great deal more grace than most would have. He waved, albeit less proudly than before, blew kisses, and escorted his creations and their hosts back to dressing rooms. He did it with incredible dignity.
Emily gave him greater applause for that.
Naturally, Serena had done so at the same time.
Naturally.
~!~
She was seven days into the seven-day event before she got the hang of it. She hadn’t trusted her assistant to type up her notes, so she’d expended a great deal of her off-duty time to doing just that. The shorthand became words, which became sentences, which became pages of commentary on what passed for class nowadays-and what simply failed. She’d lost precious hours of rest sequestered behind her laptop.
She would have lost precious hours of time spent with her best friend, too, if Serena had allowed it. More often than not, Serena could be found parked at the pillow beside her, designing new and greater photo shoots to sate Miranda’s growing appetite for innovation. As the newly-promoted Art Director, the pressure was on.
Emily didn’t doubt that Serena was up for the challenge anymore than Serena doubted that she would one day rule Socialite. That didn’t mean she didn’t wish they’d spent those victorious nights wrapped in more than the glorious spoils abandoned by careless models.
She wished, in the recesses of her mind, that she could devote a night, or a lifetime, to loving the woman beside her as much as loved the shoes she wore, or the ones that she’d ‘borrowed’ in a fit of mindlessness-only to discover them waiting, gift-wrapped, on her desk a day later.
No. She’d love her more. Someday, Emily Charlton would have the world to offer and Serena would be free to borrow it if she wished, or even keep it.
She wouldn’t have to ask.