Fic: "Living In the Red" - Chapter 2
DISCLAIMER: "Once Upon a Time" and all its wonderful characters belong to ABC and Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis, etc.. I borrow them only with love.
TITLE: Living In the Red
PAIRINGS: Outlaw Queen (AU)
RATING: Mature
SUMMARY: Regina Rossi is an internationally successful fashion designer. She has it all, right? Or maybe she doesn't realize how broken she has become until a stranger appears in the night and flips her world upside down. Outlaw Queen AU.
Major beta gratitude to helenhighwater7 and shinewithalltheuntold.
Author's Note A (the more relevant one LOL): Thank you to everyone who has taken an interest in the launch of this story! I am going to try to be really strict with myself about updates. My goal is to shoot for the two to three week mark and to never go more than month. I will try my best not to let life get too much in the way of that. This chapter was originally meant to carry you through Robin and Regina's first "date", but there was a lot more involved in setting up the scenario than I estimated, so in order to keep the chapters relatively uniform in length (she says optimistically before they bloom way out of hand later) and to get this update out on time, you get only brief interaction in this chapter and get to dive headlong into their date in the next chapter.:)
Author's Note B (the one that had to be said): After I posted Chapter 1, a Guest left a comment accusing me of intolerance for denying Dolce&Gabbana the right to their own views (I deleted the comment, simply because the poster made further remarks that showed he or she had not even read my entire note before flaming me). My issue is not with their right to their opinions on biomedical practices or family morals (I may disagree, but their right to a differing view is something I would defend). My issue is with them hurting children. Disagreeing with how a family is created is one thing, but calling the innocent children already conceived by those methods "synthetic" is reprehensible. The issue behind the act, and whether or not I agree, does not matter. If the topic were rape, something we can pretty universally agree is WRONG, to call an innocent child born out of rape an abomination would be utterly intolerable. So, Guest, if you are saying I am intolerant of people who would shame, hurt, or disparage an innocent child, then I will proudly accept that label. Now, back to fandom squee.:)
LIVING IN THE RED
by
Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2015
Chapter 2
"Am I out of touch? Am I out of my place?
When I keep saying that I'm looking for an empty space"
-Imagine Dragons, 'Shots'
Regina lifts her head with aching neck muscles, cupping a hand to the base of her skull for support, and squints through the veil of her hair at the clock on the bedside table. 11:37am.
Shit. Clearly, she is getting too old for the party scene. It is nearly noon and she still feels like hell and doesn't want to open her eyes. She was wise to schedule this party while Henry was still away. He would be bouncing on her mattress and begging for pancakes, right about now. Regina tucks her head down, rolls onto her stomach and shifts and stretches beneath the covers. The movement makes her aware of how much of her skin is bared to her silky sheets. At least she isn't naked, and she is alone, so clearly she did not drink enough to have done anything stupid. She remembers being relatively clear-headed and merely drowsy when she crawled into her bed. That must have been the end of her night.
Regina rolls onto her back and shoves the rumpled sheets down to her hips, wanting cool air on her skin. Her bra feels snug and uncomfortable, where she had hardly felt it the night before.
She closes her eyes and a jumble of images flicker across her inner vision. Nameless people, familiar faces, sparkling dresses, champagne, Graham and a vague sense of discomfort, the couple by the dining room making out like teenagers, something with Angelina Jolie playing on the flatscreen, a bowl of popcorn, city lights, the view from the balcony--oh, fuck. Regina's eyes snap open, and she stares hard at the ivory-colored ceiling. The balcony. Fuck. She almost fell off the balcony.
Well, that is a first. All those years of worrying about Henry, and...
Regina lifts an arm to sling across her light-sensitive eyes, once again retreating to her inner darkness. "Oh, my God," she whispers. "What the hell are you doing, Regina?" Her life has somehow turned from success beyond her wildest dreams, to something she never meant to live.
Six months ago, life had seemed to make a little more sense.
She hides behind her eyelids for another few minutes, letting her thoughts circle and flit and generally numb her back into peaceful oblivion. But her subconscious sense of time is eating away at her, and she knows she needs to be in motion and starting on her day. Her cleaning lady will be here within an hour or two, griping and moaning as usual about her "childish guests" and "decadent lifestyle". Telling her the city is no place for a young boy to grow up. Regina draws a slow breath and pushes up to a sitting position. She can see the message light twinkling on her phone but she doesn't want to look. Her hand reaches out anyway, because she is a mother and her son is away from her, and ignoring messages is not an option. She doubts she would have slept through an actual phone call, but lots of things have been surprising her, lately.
She scrolls through the notices, squints and continues to pretend she doesn't actually need those reading glasses that are stuffed in that drawer over there. She registers that a couple of the messages are work related and she tries not to look at the content. No work before coffee, not on a weekend. The last notice is the one that makes her smile. A single line of text from Henry. How was the party?
Regina stares at the words for a long moment, the cadence of Henry's voice circling like a comfortable warmth in her head. She types back, "Long and messy. A little fun here and there. A Mario Kart night with you would have been better," then punches 'send'.
She tosses her phone to the foot of the bed and slides from the protective cocoon of her blankets. Last night, she hadn't even taken the time to bring her robe over and lay it across the foot of the bed as per her usual habit, so she is left to brave the elements as far as her closet and wonder why from the moment she remembered the incident on the balcony, she hasn't been able to stop thinking about the feeling of that strong arm and the warm body behind her.
*****
Lightly buttered toast and steaming hazelnut coffee are the only things her stomach will accept in the first hours after waking. Regina stands at the breakfast bar, her bare toes curling into the softness of the thick throw rug, silky robe soothing her skin. She lets the warmth from the coffee rise up against her cheeks and nudge her further into consciousness.
It is impressive just how much of a mess supposed adults can leave around her apartment. Her cleaning lady does have a point.
Regina is flipping pages of the New York Times on her tablet and getting involved in a feature article on a campaign to save the historic building currently housing a local elementary school, when the buzz and blare of her cell phone startles her nearly enough to splash hot coffee up her arm. She recovers just in time to avoid injury. The phone is playing "You Can Fly!" from Disney's Peter Pan, which means it is Tatiana, Regina's personal assistant, and in many ways the second in command of Rossi Designs, Inc.. On Tati's first day at the company, Regina teased her about the Tinkerbelle protective case on her iPhone and was told in greatly impassioned terms that Tatiana always believed Tinkerbelle had gotten a bad rap in the media and was a far more intelligent and long-suffering character than most people believed.
Regina stared at her in confused disbelief and never let her forget the outburst since.
She snatches up the phone, now, and clicks the Talk button. "Sunday, Tatiana. It's Sunday morning." Her voice still sounds like she was up half the night, and the exposure in that irks her, even if it does help make her own point.
"Afternoon, in a few minutes," comes the snarky Australian lilt. At least, today, it's snarky. It's usually snarky.
"I have had exactly three sips of coffee. Do not test me. Make this good."
"Can you come into the office for just an hour? We need you in on this." And perky. Annoyingly perky.
"In on what?" Regina grouses. "And what the hell are you doing at the office? Sunday. Morning."
"Hey, somebody has to keep the world running, so you can have your precious Sunday mornings with Henry. But I know for a fact Henry's still not back from camp, so I'm asking you to come in."
"And I'm asking you again -- for what?"
"I don't want to tell you."
Regina lowers her coffee mug to the counter, closes her eyes, and draws a slow breath. She counts to five. "Miss Michaels. What is the business of the day that requires my attention?"
"I'll show you when you get here. Will I see you in an hour?"
"You are aware you work for me, correct?"
"I am, and my job is to encourage what's best for the firm. See you in an hour?"
Regina stalls just long enough to convince herself she is still in control. She will have the final word on how things go. "Fine," she concedes, trying to sound more authoritative than pouty. She hangs up before Tatiana can say another word.
She runs the shower water generously warm to take off the chill of the night's air conditioning. She left the settings cool enough to keep the penthouse comfortable with rooms of tightly packed bodies. A bit cold for one slender woman alone in her bed.
She takes extra time beneath the water, letting the turbulent dreams she cannot quite recall run off of her skin, over her breasts, down her abdomen, along the curve of her hips with the slip-slide of lavender-scented body wash. She still likes the body she inhabits, still luxuriates in her subtle curves and smooth skin. Even after all she has put herself through this past year, even as she begins to see forty looming on the distant horizon. The feather-caresses of lather and water rivulets have her thinking about other things and entertaining the fleeting thought that perhaps she should have gone with the moment and let Graham stay the night. But as much as that choice would have provided temporary distraction and comfort, she is finding herself less and less willing to accept a life of surface pleasures and distraction.
Blood and loss will do that to you.
She snaps her eyes open on the undesirable image of diluted red running down her legs to the floor of this very shower stall, and with a sharp shake of her head, she reaches for her face soap. She finishes up her ablutions with more deliberate direction, then she reaches for a thick burgundy towel before the cool air can assault her damp skin.
Regina's closet is a little obscenely extensive. She writes off her indulgences to a professional obligation, or perhaps a professional hazard. She has always believed that one must live one's reputation. But the truth is, she is a fashion whore. In cold honesty, it is the one thing her mother raised her to be that she took to like a bear to honey, and that is how she landed in this business in the first place. She likes to create an image, paint a picture. She likes to build Regina Rossi from the ground up.
Today, she dresses for strength and confidence, she dresses to pull herself up by her bootstraps and get her ass in gear and her life back together before her son comes home. After all, this was the point of this camp, really. Cora decided her daughter was losing hold on her life and that she needed some space and time to put things back together. She pulled some strings and got Henry into the music camp after the official deadline. And Regina let it happen, because Henry was bubbling over at the thought like it was two days until Christmas. Sometimes, socially connected grandmothers are useful tools. Regina is both resentful of and grateful for her mother's actions. She has never been away from Henry for more than a couple of days at a time and she is still not sure either of them is ready. Over the past two weeks away from her little boy, she has felt both free to breathe, and lost at sea without her trusted anchor. But the goal remains the same -- a month from now, she intends to have her feet solidly beneath her, so when Henry comes home, she can be the mother she was a year ago and not the one she has been these past meandering months.
She emerges from her closet in a fitted blue sundress that falls just above the knee, a white silk scarf tied elegantly at her throat. She chooses the best matching Fuck Me heels she can find on the shoulder high rack beside the bathroom door. Stopping briefly at the floor length mirror by her bed, she fluffs her hair with her fingers, smoothes the edge of her crimson lipstick, and takes in her overall look. Probably a slightly slutty ensemble for a Sunday morning (afternoon?), bearing just the slightest hint of the Walk of Shame, but it is how she feels. This morning, she is about reclaiming control. An outfit like this one makes her feel secure in her own skin. And she wants that. Oh, how she wants that.
Regina is in the upper hallway, about to enter the elevator as the door slides open, when she nearly stumbles over her cleaning lady. "Oh! There you are," she exclaims, too tired and too startled to bother keeping the air of impatience out of her voice. She grabs at the elevator door with a hand to keep it from closing while she speaks to Rose.
Rose is moving at her own leisurely pace across the threshold, hauling the usual post-event cleaning supplies. The woman is in her sixties, grey hair in a disorganized and frizzy bunch on her head, waist a bit too broad, and shoes entirely too practical. Regina actually feels a little badly letting a woman her mother's age clean up after her, but she pays Rose quite well for her time, and as long as the woman is willing to work, Regina feels it is not her place to stop her. The woman cleans well, even if her attitude could use a little adjustment. Regina feels that, karmically speaking, she should really be a little forgiving of that particular flaw.
"Well, I didn't expect you to be much of an early riser, today," Rose says without apology as she sets down the heaviest of her burdens and turns to address her employer.
Regina lifts her eyebrows. "We set a time," she says firmly.
Rose just nods and her implacable nature is infuriating, and Regina starts to wonder if she is really the boss of anyone, anymore. The urge to rant is strong, but she needs to get to the office and get on with her day, because the truth is, she did sleep late, so she closes her eyes and takes a deliberate breath before speaking. "There's a new spot on the dining room carpet that needs attention, the vacuum is in the front closet, and the inside of the refrigerator needs a wipe down."
Rose nods. "Will do."
"I'm going into work, but I should be back in a couple of hours."
Rose just nods again, her people skills as jagged as ever. She gathers up her things.
Regina shrugs and steps onto the semi-private elevator, letting the older woman trudge off toward the penthouse door. She doesn't really like elevators, but they have become a necessary evil in her whirlwind life. Living on the fortieth floor, stairs are not a viable daily option. But she cannot pretend she does not still grow just slightly panicky every time the doors close her into the confined space. She counts down the floors in her head, waiting for the moment of relief when the doors slide open and she is once again safe and free. Even interior hotel rooms without openable windows make her skin crawl. The balcony is what makes her penthouse palatable. Regina craves open air and accessible escape routes.
Graham pinned her against the wall of this very elevator once, long ago. The gesture had been meant to be hot and sexy and charming, and for a half a second it was. Then, the restraint hit her, and she shoved him off with a violence that he never quite understood and maybe never quite forgave. She was embarrassed and felt badly at the hurt in his eyes, but...restraint just was not something she could do, especially not in an already confined space. She smoothed things over by charging at him like an animal, slamming him against the opposite wall and shoving her tongue halfway down his throat. The confusion was hot in his taste, but her thigh hooking on his hip and her skirt riding up to give his hands free access was enough to melt the lingering hesitation into a foggy forgotten past.
The memory sends a shiver down her spine that is a strange mix of apprehension and pleasure. Coffee. She needs more coffee.
The elevator doors slide open and Regina takes the short hall from the private penthouse elevator into the main lobby. She pulls the sunglasses from the top of her head and slips them into place before she has to make eye contact with any more people than necessary. A quick nod to the doorman is more than enough.
The late June day is pleasantly warm. A gentle breeze lifts her hair from her shoulders and caresses her bare arms. She likes the noise and bustle on the street around her. No one wants eye contact, no one wants anything from her but maybe a quick glance down her figure for eye candy (a sensation she generally enjoys from the receiving side), yet she is in the middle of the pulse of life. She decides on the subway over a cab. Some days she just likes to be an ordinary New Yorker. The station is only a block away.
She doesn't need to wait more than five minutes for the next train, the car isn't uncomfortably crowded on a Sunday, and when she emerges from the underground at her destination, climbing the stairs back up to the comforting sunlight, she is only half a block's walk from her office. The studios are housed in a patchwork part of Chelsea where half the buildings are disintegrating and shady, while the rest have been snatched up as trendy renovations and made into elegant old school spaces for creative artists to live or work or teach. She feels at home here, sometimes more so than she does in the penthouse that had once been Leo's as much as hers. Though in his last couple of years before his death, Leopold had spent more and more time at their elegant and prestigious townhouse on the Upper East Side even as she continued to favor the penthouse. She has made it her own in the years since, hers and Henry's.
Her mother still cannot understand why on earth she prefers to live in the West Village.
Regina makes a quick stop at her favorite corner coffee shop, just one building away from her office, and orders an extra tall latte. The barista is not someone she knows well, she is less acquainted with the Sunday staff. But the first sip of her drink is soothing and invigorating and makes her feel far more prepared to take on whatever Tatiana has in store. She slips the security card from the outer pouch of her purse and scans it to open the front doors, punches in her authorization code. The lobby is quiet, like it is when she works late into the night (or, in the days before a big show, sleeps on her office couch).
Regina chose this building almost entirely for its back elevator. That, and the incredible amount of open space and light on the top floor. But the elevator, the one that goes all the way to the top, is so quirky and charming it keeps her from hating every moment she is at its mercy. It is an old school contraption not without its flaws, but with heavy wood lift-gates that have to be manually opened and lowered, and every time she goes in and out she feels like some character in a movie that she has always desperately wanted to be.
This morning, at the top of the ride, she hauls the gate open onto the sprawling space that will be bustling with activity on Monday morning, but for now is devoid of all but two employees besides herself.
Tatiana is on her in a heartbeat.
"There you are!"
"You said an hour, it's been...," Regina slides her phone out of her purse and glances at the time, "52 minutes. That's damned good time to go from my pajamas to Chelsea."
"Come on, we need to talk," Tatiana says, hurriedly, and she leads the way toward the back corner she long ago claimed for her own.
Regina drops her bag onto a work table nearby and follows Tatiana around to the wide desktop and computer where she has clearly been hard at work. Regina takes another sip of her coffee, targeting her brain away from her morning's wandering thoughts and directly onto work. She actually finds the notion of a challenge a welcome distraction, right up until Tatiana says, "Now, let me say this before you shoot me down. I've been talking to Evanna's agent, again."
"No." There is no other response to this.
"Regina, just...listen for half a second."
"No." She simply lifts her eyebrows and gives not an inch of space.
Tatiana frowns and visibly steels herself for battle. Regina resists the urge to roll her eyes. "I know why you hate this idea. I get it. But just hear me out for two seconds."
"No."
"Regina!"
She lifts her chin with an air of regality. "What?" she snaps.
Tatiana turns in her chair to give this her all. Regina is nonplussed by the effort. "We need to choose a model for the concept vid, for the upcoming layouts. We need an image for the new line. Evanna is at the absolute top of her game, right now, and considering the lack of stellar reception of our designs in the past year, it is a small miracle she is considering this job."
Regina scoffs. "She is considering the job? She's 12."
"She's 17, Regina."
"Have you looked at her? She's a child. We are Rossi. She is not considering us. We are considering her. Except we are not. End of discussion."
"Regina...Rossi is one of the best design labels in the world. A top design house by every estimation, no argument. But the top is a precarious place to balance, and we both know that. It's far to fall. And we've been slipping. Evanna's face on your designs would throw us back into the limelight, make us the center of attention with the next generation of buyers. She is an incredibly powerful trend-setter. She is--"
"Tatiana, we have talked about this, you know I will not compromise what this company stands for by--"
"Regina, listen to me." Tatiana pushes back her chair and rises to her feet, placing her on eye level with Regina, and Regina feels her defenses rise, feels her posture straighten to meet the implied challenge. She is glad she chose her lofty heels. "We have lost our edge," Tatiana says boldly. "We're not going to fold, but we're not going to thrive going on the way we have, and you know this. Unless you are content to be relegated to designing upscale office wear for middle-aged executive women and having your lines featured at Macy's or Bloomingdale's in a few years, I suggest you listen to what I am saying to you."
It's a low blow. Regina's temper flares, but she is determined to channel her fury into productive fire, not just rip apart her employee to no gain. Henry would hate that. She has mellowed a little in her years at this company, learned what works and what does not. And maybe what she can stomach. She bites out each word with as much controlled passion as she can harness. "Evanna is an anorexic, sickly child. For my money, she is a junkie, as well. And I will not allow that image to lead the direction of Rossi clothing. Ever."
"Her agent is claiming she's that weight naturally."
Regina barks out an ugly laugh. "That’s bullshit and you know it."
Tatiana just cocks her jaw and holds her ground.
"She is a size zero, Tati. That is not what we do. No one should be a size zero. That means you are nothing. Invisible. We design clothes for healthy, in-shape women. It is what we have always done, and what we will always do, and we have survived on the top runways in the world with that philosophy. An oh-so-rare accomplishment. But that is Regina Rossi. We do not promote plus sizes, nor do we promote zeros. Evanna will not model my clothing."
The stand-off holds for several breaths, drawing the subtle attention of the intern on the other side of the room, before Tatiana backs down. She lowers her gaze, carefully controls her voice and says in soft tones. "Fine. Just offering my advice."
Regina breathes for a moment, slowing her pulse and pacing her thoughts. She knows their philosophy has been an uphill battle. She knows Tatiana's plan would boost their sales. But this is not what she came to this business to do. She has never needed the money, never wanted power for power's sake. Only to have control over her life and what is done to her.
Regina lets her stance soften a bit. "Look," she says, placating as sincerely as she can without an actual apology, which just isn't on her horizon, "our focus needs to be on the spring line. I realize it is idealistic to think the work can stand entirely on its own. I'm not new, here. I've been in this business longer than you have. And I know that also means it has changed as I did. I am fully aware that we sink or swim in the ocean of social media and live streaming. But I built this company by appealing to a particular need in the realm of fashion, and that need still exists. Women around the world are still looking to me to maintain a certain standard of elegance and dignity, and I do not intend to compromise that ideal. I know I have not been contributing...what I normally contribute in the past year, but that is changing. This spring line is going to happen, and it is going to kick ass. And I want your focus in helping us to achieve that goal not to be on how to homogenize and appease the masses, but on making sure we design the most appealing and inspired clothing possible and present the absolute finest of what the Rossi label has to offer. Is that clear?"
Tatiana nods, and Regina knows she is listening as a friend as much as an employee, but Regina does not want that right now. She wants to be pure businesswoman, today, Queen Bitch of Rossi Designs. That is what she knows how to be, and the only way she knows to succeed. She focuses on her posture in these vicious stilettos and turns back to the computer screen. "Now, bring up the latest sketches. I don't like the lack of cohesion in our theme. I don't want to be too narrow in our focus, you know I hate a show wrapped around a single fabric, but we need the line to have a solid voice. We need a clear color theme. We're too diverse, right now."
Tatiana is well-trained to Regina's manner and vocal cues and knows when to take direct instruction and stop being the challenger. That's one of the things Regina likes best about the woman. She doesn't fail now, turning back to the computer and calmly and dutifully bringing up the requested slideshow.
For the next half hour or more they get lost in the work, assessing and brainstorming and coming up with new ideas and fresh approaches. Regina starts to get comfortably lost in the process, her neurons firing, connections sparking, and she loves this, loves the creative process, building an image and lifestyle to present. She is sitting shoulder to shoulder with Tatiana and she is starting to be able to see it, see the vision they need to be heading toward, starts choreographing the fashion concept video in her head.
"And what about accessories for these dresses? Anything? Nothing? Something simple?"
Regina gazes long and hard at the selection of sketches fanned across the broad screen, envisioning the actualized versions, imagining where she wants to draw the observer's eye. "Not much," she says after a long moment of thought. "But a few sparing pieces. A bracelet or two. Maybe a necklace. No more than one piece per ensemble."
"Okay, that sounds like something we can pull together later."
"It is. It's not the focus. No distractions."
"All right. Which brings us to textile designs. I have the new samples Greg sent up. They worked up some promising stuff from your suggestions."
Tatiana is clicking through programs, switching over to bring up the samples and Regina is still thinking about bracelets when her fingers move unconsciously to touch her own wrist, to feel for the bracelet she chose especially to get her through the events of last night, and -- Oh, God. Her gaze snaps hard to her own wrist and finds nothing but bare skin, her fingers fumbling to catch at nothing. "Oh, God," she breathes aloud, and she feels Tatiana glance her way, but she is staring at own her wrist. She shoves her chair back a few inches and glances futilely at the empty floor around her.
"What is it?" Tatiana asks.
She didn't take it off last night. Did she? She just crawled into bed, right? Did she have it on this morning? She can't remember working the soap around it in the shower... Her stomach is hot and aching and she feels like her legs are just going to melt beneath her.
Regina pushes up from her chair. "I have to go," she says, voice sounding sick and shaky and she hates it, hates all of this, feels like every bit of ground she has gained is sliding through her fingers with nowhere to find purchase.
Tatiana blinks at her, staring like her boss has lost her mind, caught between anger and concern. "What? Regina, we're finally getting somewhere with--"
She's right, Regina knows this, but she can't, she just can't, the bracelet is gone, it can't be gone, she has to find it, she can't...she...maybe it fell off in bed, somewhere in her bedroom... "I have to go," she repeats, stepping away and snatching up her purse from the nearby table, leaving behind her half-full coffee as she starts toward the elevator.
"Why? Regina, what the hell?" Tatiana is on her feet now, too. "You can't keep just...what the hell?"
Regina is hauling up the gates of the elevator. "Later. I can't." She hears her own words even as she exists a million miles away. She knows this looks like she is acting exactly as she has for months. Like she is affirming every concern Tatiana has had, undoing every bit of progress they have made in the past week and in the past thirty minutes. Like she is distracted and uncommitted and her heart is not in the work, anymore, but in this exact moment it is all true and there is nothing she can do to stop it. Because all that matters in the world is keeping her feet beneath her, retracing her steps, and finding that bracelet before she cannot draw another breath.
She punches the button for the lobby almost convulsively and lets Tatiana's words fade to silence as the elevator moves her down.
Her eyes scan the ground beneath her as she walks, almost runs, as though there is any chance a bracelet dropped in New York City would remain untouched. She thinks she might suffocate on the 12 minute subway ride, then she's pushing rudely through the crowd and hurrying back toward her apartment. She shoves through the doors, ignores the doorman, and accosts the man at the front desk without preamble, despite his obvious preoccupation with a phone call. "Has anyone turned in a bracelet?"
Marc, the wiry and high-voiced attendant with the pale blond buzzcut, looks startled and maybe a little frightened, because he knows exactly who she is, and she is clearly upset. "I'm sorry, what was that, Ms. Rossi?" Then he says into the phone, "I'm sorry, could you please hold for a moment?" She sees him slap the hold button without waiting for a reply.
"A bracelet," she repeats, trying not to sound desperate, not to talk too fast, but she wants to get upstairs, tear apart her covers, her sofa, her shower drain, anywhere she can search until she has her hands on that bracelet, once more. It cannot be gone. Eighteen years, it cannot be gone.
"No, I'm sorry, Ms. Rossi, I don't think we have anything like that at the desk right now."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, I believe so, but if you'd like to wait, I can go check in the back in the safe, if on the last shift--"
She shakes her head, too anxious to stay still. "No, forget it. I'll look on my own." Before Marc can say another word, Regina is off and rushing down the hallway to the private elevator. This time the ride is interminable and the claustrophobia hateful and she is wondering if she really is going to throw up before the door slides open. She makes it in one piece, and she punches the access code into her front door with shaking fingers.
When she comes in the door, Rose is bent over with her head in the refrigerator, carrying out the requested wipe-down, jars lined up on the nearby counter. At quick glance, the rest of the apartment already looks much better. But Regina just doesn't care. "Did you find a bracelet, anywhere?" she demands as Rose rises from the refrigerator, hands pressing on the tops of her knees.
"What's that? You looking for a bracelet?"
"Yes, did you find anything. On the floor, or in the couch, or..."
Rose is shaking her head. "No, ma'am, I haven't found anything like that, this time. There was a scarf on the dining table, I thought it was yours and--"
"It doesn't matter. I need to find the bracelet. It's a gold tennis bracelet, with ruby-colored stones. I had it on last night, I...I didn't know it was gone." She doesn't wait for a reply, rushing across the open rooms, heading toward her bedroom.
Rose hasn't been in here, yet, things are still just as Regina left them. She throws back the covers, uncaring of where they land, and runs her hands frantically and seekingly over the rumpled sheets. She shakes out the pillows, curls her fingers into cracks. The sick heat in her stomach is ever-present and she is starting to feel dizzy.
She scans the plush carpet, tries to remember everywhere she might have walked. She tears through her drawers of intimates, just in case the bracelet caught on something when she gathered her clothes before her shower. She tries to think through the night before, capture a single moment in her memory when she is certain the bracelet was still there It was there when she was making out with Graham, she remembers making sure the clasp did not catch in his hair. It was there when she was standing on her balcony taking in the fresh night air, she remembers shaking it down to her wrist as she spread her shawl over her bare arms. And then...then... Oh, God. Regina races out to her balcony, scanning the open space, searching table tops and chair seats, but it's futile, there is nowhere for a bracelet to hide. What if when she was falling, when she was grabbing at the railing. Fuck.
She races back through the living room where Rose is lifting up couch cushions, having picked up the search of her own volition. "I don't see anything here," she is saying as Regina rushes by. Regina doesn't bother explaining where she is going, but she is out the door and taking that fucking elevator back down.
The sidewalk below her balcony isn't packed, but it's more crowded than she would like as Regina scours the ground, the gutter, the dust piles and bushes at the building's base. Anywhere she can think of, not caring who is watching, who might recognize her, or what this must look like, because she cannot lose this bracelet, she needs it back in her hands so badly her muscles ache.
There is nothing here.
Upstairs, Regina tells Rose to leave.
"I still have a couple of more rooms to do, so--"
"Just go. We'll reschedule."
"Do you want me to--"
"Just go!" It's harsh, but she can't, she can't deal with anyone, right now. Her voice is shaking.
"All right," Rose says softly, and she begins gathering her things. To the woman's credit (and Regina knows on some level, she will appreciate it, later), Rose pauses on her way out the door and asks with a tone of genuine human caring, "Are you all right, Ms. Rossi?"
Regina takes two shallows breaths and says only, "Just go," but the sting is gone from her words and she hopes Rose understands. The older woman nods and takes her leave.
Regina can't stand still. She paces back to the bedroom, searching and re-searching and desperately trying to think of anywhere, anywhere else the bracelet could be, until she's shaking and hot and cold all at once, and it just hits her like a sucker punch to the gut that it's gone. It's gone, she just...it's gone. Everything's gone.
She slides her back down her bedroom wall to land in a wilted mess on the floor, shoes thrown aside, dress riding up -- falling in a cascade of tears.
She hasn't felt this alone in a very long time.
She misses Henry with a visceral pull in her chest. She wants to call him, to hear his beautiful voice, but he'll hear she has been crying, and the last thing she wants is to fail at motherhood, as well. Her mother is the last person on Earth she would call for comfort in this matter. Her father would only soothe her with empty words and offer to make her tea and stroke her hair, but he would make her feel as powerless as he has always been.
Does she...does she have any friends, anymore?
She thinks to call Graham. They aren't exactly friends and they aren't exactly lovers, but they've been...something to one another. Haven't they? He's been...a kind of comfort. There's been care.
Regina reaches over to where she tossed her purse on the table by the door and pulls her phone from the pocket. She brings up Graham's contact info and punches "Call." With the phone to her ear, she tries to slow her breathing, tries to stop her hands from shaking, because she just wants to hear a familiar voice, just wants something to ground her when the floor seems to be slipping from beneath her feet. She doesn't want a shoulder to cry on.
Her call goes to voice mail.
Irrationally furious at the presumed rejection, Regina slaps at the End button and hurls her phone across the room, watching it bounce off a magazine rack and land on the carpet. The anger quickly melts into hurt, and she pull her knees tight against her chest, shoulders shaking as she can't stop her tears.
Three hours ago, she thought she was getting her confidence back. She has never felt more pathetic and broken in her life.
"Hello?"
Regina startles sharply, lifting her head with a brisk, wet intake of air. "What the hell?" she whispers.
"Hello?" the voice says, again. And it's coming from her phone. Is that Graham? Did she not hang up? Did he...
"Ms. Rossi?"
The accent is English, not Irish. Confused and shaky, Regina crawls the few feet across her carpet and reaches for her phone.
"Are you there?" the voice says again, just as she lifts the device and blinks the lighted image into focus. What the hell? On her phone, is a picture, clear as day, of the man from the balcony last night. Her savior. Robin, wasn't it? Yes, it says below the picture, Robin Archer, followed by his phone number. In the picture, Robin is smiling, and it is daylight, and his hair is a little longer than it was last night.
Moving as though she has suddenly slipped into a dream world, uncertain of the consequences of her every action, Regina lifts the phone to her ear. "Mr. Archer?"
"Oh, you are there!" he says, brightly. And it is definitely him. That same mix of snark and glee and genuine honesty that confused the hell out of her last night.
"How...how are you calling me?"
"What? No, I didn't. You called me."
The phone must have dialed when it hit the magazine rack. But, no, it couldn't have dialed an entire number. He had to be in her contacts. He couldn't possibly be in her contacts. She had never seen him before. "What? How could I call you, I don't...I don't have your number."
"Ah, well, actually, you do. I'm afraid I must admit, I put it into your phone last night."
She repeats that in her head, for a moment. "You put your information into my phone?"
"Guilty as charged."
Regina crosses her leg into a habitual yoga pose and draws up into a more elegant posture. "Are you...are you stalking me?"
"Hmmm, no, I'm fairly certain that would have involved attempting to get your number into my phone. And I did not have your number until you just now called me." His tone is infuriatingly light and logical. Maybe even a bit condescending.
It irks her. She lets out a sigh of something between exasperation and confusion. "But..how did you even get it all entered so quickly? You only had my phone for a second. And the picture, your picture came up when it dialed."
"Ah, that," he says. "Magic."
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, sad story, I did a lot of magic as a child, geeky boy that I was. I practiced a great deal, rather mastered a bit of sleight of hand. Can come in handy, now and again."
"Magic." She has no idea what to say to that. Or how she came to be having this conversation. Or what has happened to her life.
She blinks, clears her throat, tries to ask something intelligent, but before she can speak, Robin adds, "And the picture was likely my Google contact photo. I popped my email address in there, too, so it probably synced, and..."
"Right."
They fall to silence. Because what are you supposed to talk about with a strange savior suddenly on your phone? Regina looks around her, taking in her disheveled bedroom with a little distance and uncomfortable perspective. The chaos reminds her afresh of the missing treasure, and the nausea washes over her, again.
After a moment, Robin's voice comes soft and surprisingly gentle in her ear. "Please forgive me, Ms. Rossi, but...are you...are you all right? You sound...well, you sound like you may have been crying, and..."
Regina can't suppress a mirthless laugh. It's not like she could sink much lower, might as well be humiliated as well. "Yeah," she concedes, "Not my best day."
"I'm sorry to hear that." And he sounds like he actually is, which is ridiculous and confusing, and...and he did save her life last night. "Ms. Rossi, would you like...would you like to meet for some coffee or tea or something?"
Oh, God, she is not a charity case, and she does not need to be watchdogged or babysat or nursed back to functionality, for Christ's sake. "No." She clears her throat and strengthens her voice. "No, I'm fine. Thank you, but...you don't have to worry."
"Oh, no, it's not...it's just...I would like to have coffee with you. Would you like to get some coffee with me? Or possibly...a donut?"
He never once has said what she expected of him. "You want to have a donut with the crazy lady who almost fell off her balcony and then accidentally called you and accused you of stalking?"
"Yes. That's why I put my number in your phone."
This time her laugh carries a slight, uncomfortable edge of hysteria. "You know that's insane, right?"
"Probably, yes. But I'm fairly certain there's a hell of a lot more to Regina Rossi than one bad day and too much champagne. You do run an internationally successful business, after all. And I would like to have coffee with you and learn a bit more. And if that changes up your bad day as well, well, then, that's good, too, yes?"
She tries with every shred of dignity she still holds to find a reason to say "no." She takes a breath to do just that, because of course the answer is "no," she has not completely lost hold, she is not going on a coffee date with a stranger who appeared in her bedroom and put himself in her phone, and especially now when she is mascara-streaked and utterly disheveled and trying to reconstruct her self-respect, and she opens her mouth to say "no," of course, "no" but she feels so untethered and his accented voice is the first thing that has felt truly comforting in so many days and it is like someone else entirely is talking when she says, "All right. When?"
*****
TITLE: Living In the Red
PAIRINGS: Outlaw Queen (AU)
RATING: Mature
SUMMARY: Regina Rossi is an internationally successful fashion designer. She has it all, right? Or maybe she doesn't realize how broken she has become until a stranger appears in the night and flips her world upside down. Outlaw Queen AU.
Major beta gratitude to helenhighwater7 and shinewithalltheuntold.
Author's Note A (the more relevant one LOL): Thank you to everyone who has taken an interest in the launch of this story! I am going to try to be really strict with myself about updates. My goal is to shoot for the two to three week mark and to never go more than month. I will try my best not to let life get too much in the way of that. This chapter was originally meant to carry you through Robin and Regina's first "date", but there was a lot more involved in setting up the scenario than I estimated, so in order to keep the chapters relatively uniform in length (she says optimistically before they bloom way out of hand later) and to get this update out on time, you get only brief interaction in this chapter and get to dive headlong into their date in the next chapter.:)
Author's Note B (the one that had to be said): After I posted Chapter 1, a Guest left a comment accusing me of intolerance for denying Dolce&Gabbana the right to their own views (I deleted the comment, simply because the poster made further remarks that showed he or she had not even read my entire note before flaming me). My issue is not with their right to their opinions on biomedical practices or family morals (I may disagree, but their right to a differing view is something I would defend). My issue is with them hurting children. Disagreeing with how a family is created is one thing, but calling the innocent children already conceived by those methods "synthetic" is reprehensible. The issue behind the act, and whether or not I agree, does not matter. If the topic were rape, something we can pretty universally agree is WRONG, to call an innocent child born out of rape an abomination would be utterly intolerable. So, Guest, if you are saying I am intolerant of people who would shame, hurt, or disparage an innocent child, then I will proudly accept that label. Now, back to fandom squee.:)
LIVING IN THE RED
by
Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2015
Chapter 2
"Am I out of touch? Am I out of my place?
When I keep saying that I'm looking for an empty space"
-Imagine Dragons, 'Shots'
Regina lifts her head with aching neck muscles, cupping a hand to the base of her skull for support, and squints through the veil of her hair at the clock on the bedside table. 11:37am.
Shit. Clearly, she is getting too old for the party scene. It is nearly noon and she still feels like hell and doesn't want to open her eyes. She was wise to schedule this party while Henry was still away. He would be bouncing on her mattress and begging for pancakes, right about now. Regina tucks her head down, rolls onto her stomach and shifts and stretches beneath the covers. The movement makes her aware of how much of her skin is bared to her silky sheets. At least she isn't naked, and she is alone, so clearly she did not drink enough to have done anything stupid. She remembers being relatively clear-headed and merely drowsy when she crawled into her bed. That must have been the end of her night.
Regina rolls onto her back and shoves the rumpled sheets down to her hips, wanting cool air on her skin. Her bra feels snug and uncomfortable, where she had hardly felt it the night before.
She closes her eyes and a jumble of images flicker across her inner vision. Nameless people, familiar faces, sparkling dresses, champagne, Graham and a vague sense of discomfort, the couple by the dining room making out like teenagers, something with Angelina Jolie playing on the flatscreen, a bowl of popcorn, city lights, the view from the balcony--oh, fuck. Regina's eyes snap open, and she stares hard at the ivory-colored ceiling. The balcony. Fuck. She almost fell off the balcony.
Well, that is a first. All those years of worrying about Henry, and...
Regina lifts an arm to sling across her light-sensitive eyes, once again retreating to her inner darkness. "Oh, my God," she whispers. "What the hell are you doing, Regina?" Her life has somehow turned from success beyond her wildest dreams, to something she never meant to live.
Six months ago, life had seemed to make a little more sense.
She hides behind her eyelids for another few minutes, letting her thoughts circle and flit and generally numb her back into peaceful oblivion. But her subconscious sense of time is eating away at her, and she knows she needs to be in motion and starting on her day. Her cleaning lady will be here within an hour or two, griping and moaning as usual about her "childish guests" and "decadent lifestyle". Telling her the city is no place for a young boy to grow up. Regina draws a slow breath and pushes up to a sitting position. She can see the message light twinkling on her phone but she doesn't want to look. Her hand reaches out anyway, because she is a mother and her son is away from her, and ignoring messages is not an option. She doubts she would have slept through an actual phone call, but lots of things have been surprising her, lately.
She scrolls through the notices, squints and continues to pretend she doesn't actually need those reading glasses that are stuffed in that drawer over there. She registers that a couple of the messages are work related and she tries not to look at the content. No work before coffee, not on a weekend. The last notice is the one that makes her smile. A single line of text from Henry. How was the party?
Regina stares at the words for a long moment, the cadence of Henry's voice circling like a comfortable warmth in her head. She types back, "Long and messy. A little fun here and there. A Mario Kart night with you would have been better," then punches 'send'.
She tosses her phone to the foot of the bed and slides from the protective cocoon of her blankets. Last night, she hadn't even taken the time to bring her robe over and lay it across the foot of the bed as per her usual habit, so she is left to brave the elements as far as her closet and wonder why from the moment she remembered the incident on the balcony, she hasn't been able to stop thinking about the feeling of that strong arm and the warm body behind her.
*****
Lightly buttered toast and steaming hazelnut coffee are the only things her stomach will accept in the first hours after waking. Regina stands at the breakfast bar, her bare toes curling into the softness of the thick throw rug, silky robe soothing her skin. She lets the warmth from the coffee rise up against her cheeks and nudge her further into consciousness.
It is impressive just how much of a mess supposed adults can leave around her apartment. Her cleaning lady does have a point.
Regina is flipping pages of the New York Times on her tablet and getting involved in a feature article on a campaign to save the historic building currently housing a local elementary school, when the buzz and blare of her cell phone startles her nearly enough to splash hot coffee up her arm. She recovers just in time to avoid injury. The phone is playing "You Can Fly!" from Disney's Peter Pan, which means it is Tatiana, Regina's personal assistant, and in many ways the second in command of Rossi Designs, Inc.. On Tati's first day at the company, Regina teased her about the Tinkerbelle protective case on her iPhone and was told in greatly impassioned terms that Tatiana always believed Tinkerbelle had gotten a bad rap in the media and was a far more intelligent and long-suffering character than most people believed.
Regina stared at her in confused disbelief and never let her forget the outburst since.
She snatches up the phone, now, and clicks the Talk button. "Sunday, Tatiana. It's Sunday morning." Her voice still sounds like she was up half the night, and the exposure in that irks her, even if it does help make her own point.
"Afternoon, in a few minutes," comes the snarky Australian lilt. At least, today, it's snarky. It's usually snarky.
"I have had exactly three sips of coffee. Do not test me. Make this good."
"Can you come into the office for just an hour? We need you in on this." And perky. Annoyingly perky.
"In on what?" Regina grouses. "And what the hell are you doing at the office? Sunday. Morning."
"Hey, somebody has to keep the world running, so you can have your precious Sunday mornings with Henry. But I know for a fact Henry's still not back from camp, so I'm asking you to come in."
"And I'm asking you again -- for what?"
"I don't want to tell you."
Regina lowers her coffee mug to the counter, closes her eyes, and draws a slow breath. She counts to five. "Miss Michaels. What is the business of the day that requires my attention?"
"I'll show you when you get here. Will I see you in an hour?"
"You are aware you work for me, correct?"
"I am, and my job is to encourage what's best for the firm. See you in an hour?"
Regina stalls just long enough to convince herself she is still in control. She will have the final word on how things go. "Fine," she concedes, trying to sound more authoritative than pouty. She hangs up before Tatiana can say another word.
She runs the shower water generously warm to take off the chill of the night's air conditioning. She left the settings cool enough to keep the penthouse comfortable with rooms of tightly packed bodies. A bit cold for one slender woman alone in her bed.
She takes extra time beneath the water, letting the turbulent dreams she cannot quite recall run off of her skin, over her breasts, down her abdomen, along the curve of her hips with the slip-slide of lavender-scented body wash. She still likes the body she inhabits, still luxuriates in her subtle curves and smooth skin. Even after all she has put herself through this past year, even as she begins to see forty looming on the distant horizon. The feather-caresses of lather and water rivulets have her thinking about other things and entertaining the fleeting thought that perhaps she should have gone with the moment and let Graham stay the night. But as much as that choice would have provided temporary distraction and comfort, she is finding herself less and less willing to accept a life of surface pleasures and distraction.
Blood and loss will do that to you.
She snaps her eyes open on the undesirable image of diluted red running down her legs to the floor of this very shower stall, and with a sharp shake of her head, she reaches for her face soap. She finishes up her ablutions with more deliberate direction, then she reaches for a thick burgundy towel before the cool air can assault her damp skin.
Regina's closet is a little obscenely extensive. She writes off her indulgences to a professional obligation, or perhaps a professional hazard. She has always believed that one must live one's reputation. But the truth is, she is a fashion whore. In cold honesty, it is the one thing her mother raised her to be that she took to like a bear to honey, and that is how she landed in this business in the first place. She likes to create an image, paint a picture. She likes to build Regina Rossi from the ground up.
Today, she dresses for strength and confidence, she dresses to pull herself up by her bootstraps and get her ass in gear and her life back together before her son comes home. After all, this was the point of this camp, really. Cora decided her daughter was losing hold on her life and that she needed some space and time to put things back together. She pulled some strings and got Henry into the music camp after the official deadline. And Regina let it happen, because Henry was bubbling over at the thought like it was two days until Christmas. Sometimes, socially connected grandmothers are useful tools. Regina is both resentful of and grateful for her mother's actions. She has never been away from Henry for more than a couple of days at a time and she is still not sure either of them is ready. Over the past two weeks away from her little boy, she has felt both free to breathe, and lost at sea without her trusted anchor. But the goal remains the same -- a month from now, she intends to have her feet solidly beneath her, so when Henry comes home, she can be the mother she was a year ago and not the one she has been these past meandering months.
She emerges from her closet in a fitted blue sundress that falls just above the knee, a white silk scarf tied elegantly at her throat. She chooses the best matching Fuck Me heels she can find on the shoulder high rack beside the bathroom door. Stopping briefly at the floor length mirror by her bed, she fluffs her hair with her fingers, smoothes the edge of her crimson lipstick, and takes in her overall look. Probably a slightly slutty ensemble for a Sunday morning (afternoon?), bearing just the slightest hint of the Walk of Shame, but it is how she feels. This morning, she is about reclaiming control. An outfit like this one makes her feel secure in her own skin. And she wants that. Oh, how she wants that.
Regina is in the upper hallway, about to enter the elevator as the door slides open, when she nearly stumbles over her cleaning lady. "Oh! There you are," she exclaims, too tired and too startled to bother keeping the air of impatience out of her voice. She grabs at the elevator door with a hand to keep it from closing while she speaks to Rose.
Rose is moving at her own leisurely pace across the threshold, hauling the usual post-event cleaning supplies. The woman is in her sixties, grey hair in a disorganized and frizzy bunch on her head, waist a bit too broad, and shoes entirely too practical. Regina actually feels a little badly letting a woman her mother's age clean up after her, but she pays Rose quite well for her time, and as long as the woman is willing to work, Regina feels it is not her place to stop her. The woman cleans well, even if her attitude could use a little adjustment. Regina feels that, karmically speaking, she should really be a little forgiving of that particular flaw.
"Well, I didn't expect you to be much of an early riser, today," Rose says without apology as she sets down the heaviest of her burdens and turns to address her employer.
Regina lifts her eyebrows. "We set a time," she says firmly.
Rose just nods and her implacable nature is infuriating, and Regina starts to wonder if she is really the boss of anyone, anymore. The urge to rant is strong, but she needs to get to the office and get on with her day, because the truth is, she did sleep late, so she closes her eyes and takes a deliberate breath before speaking. "There's a new spot on the dining room carpet that needs attention, the vacuum is in the front closet, and the inside of the refrigerator needs a wipe down."
Rose nods. "Will do."
"I'm going into work, but I should be back in a couple of hours."
Rose just nods again, her people skills as jagged as ever. She gathers up her things.
Regina shrugs and steps onto the semi-private elevator, letting the older woman trudge off toward the penthouse door. She doesn't really like elevators, but they have become a necessary evil in her whirlwind life. Living on the fortieth floor, stairs are not a viable daily option. But she cannot pretend she does not still grow just slightly panicky every time the doors close her into the confined space. She counts down the floors in her head, waiting for the moment of relief when the doors slide open and she is once again safe and free. Even interior hotel rooms without openable windows make her skin crawl. The balcony is what makes her penthouse palatable. Regina craves open air and accessible escape routes.
Graham pinned her against the wall of this very elevator once, long ago. The gesture had been meant to be hot and sexy and charming, and for a half a second it was. Then, the restraint hit her, and she shoved him off with a violence that he never quite understood and maybe never quite forgave. She was embarrassed and felt badly at the hurt in his eyes, but...restraint just was not something she could do, especially not in an already confined space. She smoothed things over by charging at him like an animal, slamming him against the opposite wall and shoving her tongue halfway down his throat. The confusion was hot in his taste, but her thigh hooking on his hip and her skirt riding up to give his hands free access was enough to melt the lingering hesitation into a foggy forgotten past.
The memory sends a shiver down her spine that is a strange mix of apprehension and pleasure. Coffee. She needs more coffee.
The elevator doors slide open and Regina takes the short hall from the private penthouse elevator into the main lobby. She pulls the sunglasses from the top of her head and slips them into place before she has to make eye contact with any more people than necessary. A quick nod to the doorman is more than enough.
The late June day is pleasantly warm. A gentle breeze lifts her hair from her shoulders and caresses her bare arms. She likes the noise and bustle on the street around her. No one wants eye contact, no one wants anything from her but maybe a quick glance down her figure for eye candy (a sensation she generally enjoys from the receiving side), yet she is in the middle of the pulse of life. She decides on the subway over a cab. Some days she just likes to be an ordinary New Yorker. The station is only a block away.
She doesn't need to wait more than five minutes for the next train, the car isn't uncomfortably crowded on a Sunday, and when she emerges from the underground at her destination, climbing the stairs back up to the comforting sunlight, she is only half a block's walk from her office. The studios are housed in a patchwork part of Chelsea where half the buildings are disintegrating and shady, while the rest have been snatched up as trendy renovations and made into elegant old school spaces for creative artists to live or work or teach. She feels at home here, sometimes more so than she does in the penthouse that had once been Leo's as much as hers. Though in his last couple of years before his death, Leopold had spent more and more time at their elegant and prestigious townhouse on the Upper East Side even as she continued to favor the penthouse. She has made it her own in the years since, hers and Henry's.
Her mother still cannot understand why on earth she prefers to live in the West Village.
Regina makes a quick stop at her favorite corner coffee shop, just one building away from her office, and orders an extra tall latte. The barista is not someone she knows well, she is less acquainted with the Sunday staff. But the first sip of her drink is soothing and invigorating and makes her feel far more prepared to take on whatever Tatiana has in store. She slips the security card from the outer pouch of her purse and scans it to open the front doors, punches in her authorization code. The lobby is quiet, like it is when she works late into the night (or, in the days before a big show, sleeps on her office couch).
Regina chose this building almost entirely for its back elevator. That, and the incredible amount of open space and light on the top floor. But the elevator, the one that goes all the way to the top, is so quirky and charming it keeps her from hating every moment she is at its mercy. It is an old school contraption not without its flaws, but with heavy wood lift-gates that have to be manually opened and lowered, and every time she goes in and out she feels like some character in a movie that she has always desperately wanted to be.
This morning, at the top of the ride, she hauls the gate open onto the sprawling space that will be bustling with activity on Monday morning, but for now is devoid of all but two employees besides herself.
Tatiana is on her in a heartbeat.
"There you are!"
"You said an hour, it's been...," Regina slides her phone out of her purse and glances at the time, "52 minutes. That's damned good time to go from my pajamas to Chelsea."
"Come on, we need to talk," Tatiana says, hurriedly, and she leads the way toward the back corner she long ago claimed for her own.
Regina drops her bag onto a work table nearby and follows Tatiana around to the wide desktop and computer where she has clearly been hard at work. Regina takes another sip of her coffee, targeting her brain away from her morning's wandering thoughts and directly onto work. She actually finds the notion of a challenge a welcome distraction, right up until Tatiana says, "Now, let me say this before you shoot me down. I've been talking to Evanna's agent, again."
"No." There is no other response to this.
"Regina, just...listen for half a second."
"No." She simply lifts her eyebrows and gives not an inch of space.
Tatiana frowns and visibly steels herself for battle. Regina resists the urge to roll her eyes. "I know why you hate this idea. I get it. But just hear me out for two seconds."
"No."
"Regina!"
She lifts her chin with an air of regality. "What?" she snaps.
Tatiana turns in her chair to give this her all. Regina is nonplussed by the effort. "We need to choose a model for the concept vid, for the upcoming layouts. We need an image for the new line. Evanna is at the absolute top of her game, right now, and considering the lack of stellar reception of our designs in the past year, it is a small miracle she is considering this job."
Regina scoffs. "She is considering the job? She's 12."
"She's 17, Regina."
"Have you looked at her? She's a child. We are Rossi. She is not considering us. We are considering her. Except we are not. End of discussion."
"Regina...Rossi is one of the best design labels in the world. A top design house by every estimation, no argument. But the top is a precarious place to balance, and we both know that. It's far to fall. And we've been slipping. Evanna's face on your designs would throw us back into the limelight, make us the center of attention with the next generation of buyers. She is an incredibly powerful trend-setter. She is--"
"Tatiana, we have talked about this, you know I will not compromise what this company stands for by--"
"Regina, listen to me." Tatiana pushes back her chair and rises to her feet, placing her on eye level with Regina, and Regina feels her defenses rise, feels her posture straighten to meet the implied challenge. She is glad she chose her lofty heels. "We have lost our edge," Tatiana says boldly. "We're not going to fold, but we're not going to thrive going on the way we have, and you know this. Unless you are content to be relegated to designing upscale office wear for middle-aged executive women and having your lines featured at Macy's or Bloomingdale's in a few years, I suggest you listen to what I am saying to you."
It's a low blow. Regina's temper flares, but she is determined to channel her fury into productive fire, not just rip apart her employee to no gain. Henry would hate that. She has mellowed a little in her years at this company, learned what works and what does not. And maybe what she can stomach. She bites out each word with as much controlled passion as she can harness. "Evanna is an anorexic, sickly child. For my money, she is a junkie, as well. And I will not allow that image to lead the direction of Rossi clothing. Ever."
"Her agent is claiming she's that weight naturally."
Regina barks out an ugly laugh. "That’s bullshit and you know it."
Tatiana just cocks her jaw and holds her ground.
"She is a size zero, Tati. That is not what we do. No one should be a size zero. That means you are nothing. Invisible. We design clothes for healthy, in-shape women. It is what we have always done, and what we will always do, and we have survived on the top runways in the world with that philosophy. An oh-so-rare accomplishment. But that is Regina Rossi. We do not promote plus sizes, nor do we promote zeros. Evanna will not model my clothing."
The stand-off holds for several breaths, drawing the subtle attention of the intern on the other side of the room, before Tatiana backs down. She lowers her gaze, carefully controls her voice and says in soft tones. "Fine. Just offering my advice."
Regina breathes for a moment, slowing her pulse and pacing her thoughts. She knows their philosophy has been an uphill battle. She knows Tatiana's plan would boost their sales. But this is not what she came to this business to do. She has never needed the money, never wanted power for power's sake. Only to have control over her life and what is done to her.
Regina lets her stance soften a bit. "Look," she says, placating as sincerely as she can without an actual apology, which just isn't on her horizon, "our focus needs to be on the spring line. I realize it is idealistic to think the work can stand entirely on its own. I'm not new, here. I've been in this business longer than you have. And I know that also means it has changed as I did. I am fully aware that we sink or swim in the ocean of social media and live streaming. But I built this company by appealing to a particular need in the realm of fashion, and that need still exists. Women around the world are still looking to me to maintain a certain standard of elegance and dignity, and I do not intend to compromise that ideal. I know I have not been contributing...what I normally contribute in the past year, but that is changing. This spring line is going to happen, and it is going to kick ass. And I want your focus in helping us to achieve that goal not to be on how to homogenize and appease the masses, but on making sure we design the most appealing and inspired clothing possible and present the absolute finest of what the Rossi label has to offer. Is that clear?"
Tatiana nods, and Regina knows she is listening as a friend as much as an employee, but Regina does not want that right now. She wants to be pure businesswoman, today, Queen Bitch of Rossi Designs. That is what she knows how to be, and the only way she knows to succeed. She focuses on her posture in these vicious stilettos and turns back to the computer screen. "Now, bring up the latest sketches. I don't like the lack of cohesion in our theme. I don't want to be too narrow in our focus, you know I hate a show wrapped around a single fabric, but we need the line to have a solid voice. We need a clear color theme. We're too diverse, right now."
Tatiana is well-trained to Regina's manner and vocal cues and knows when to take direct instruction and stop being the challenger. That's one of the things Regina likes best about the woman. She doesn't fail now, turning back to the computer and calmly and dutifully bringing up the requested slideshow.
For the next half hour or more they get lost in the work, assessing and brainstorming and coming up with new ideas and fresh approaches. Regina starts to get comfortably lost in the process, her neurons firing, connections sparking, and she loves this, loves the creative process, building an image and lifestyle to present. She is sitting shoulder to shoulder with Tatiana and she is starting to be able to see it, see the vision they need to be heading toward, starts choreographing the fashion concept video in her head.
"And what about accessories for these dresses? Anything? Nothing? Something simple?"
Regina gazes long and hard at the selection of sketches fanned across the broad screen, envisioning the actualized versions, imagining where she wants to draw the observer's eye. "Not much," she says after a long moment of thought. "But a few sparing pieces. A bracelet or two. Maybe a necklace. No more than one piece per ensemble."
"Okay, that sounds like something we can pull together later."
"It is. It's not the focus. No distractions."
"All right. Which brings us to textile designs. I have the new samples Greg sent up. They worked up some promising stuff from your suggestions."
Tatiana is clicking through programs, switching over to bring up the samples and Regina is still thinking about bracelets when her fingers move unconsciously to touch her own wrist, to feel for the bracelet she chose especially to get her through the events of last night, and -- Oh, God. Her gaze snaps hard to her own wrist and finds nothing but bare skin, her fingers fumbling to catch at nothing. "Oh, God," she breathes aloud, and she feels Tatiana glance her way, but she is staring at own her wrist. She shoves her chair back a few inches and glances futilely at the empty floor around her.
"What is it?" Tatiana asks.
She didn't take it off last night. Did she? She just crawled into bed, right? Did she have it on this morning? She can't remember working the soap around it in the shower... Her stomach is hot and aching and she feels like her legs are just going to melt beneath her.
Regina pushes up from her chair. "I have to go," she says, voice sounding sick and shaky and she hates it, hates all of this, feels like every bit of ground she has gained is sliding through her fingers with nowhere to find purchase.
Tatiana blinks at her, staring like her boss has lost her mind, caught between anger and concern. "What? Regina, we're finally getting somewhere with--"
She's right, Regina knows this, but she can't, she just can't, the bracelet is gone, it can't be gone, she has to find it, she can't...she...maybe it fell off in bed, somewhere in her bedroom... "I have to go," she repeats, stepping away and snatching up her purse from the nearby table, leaving behind her half-full coffee as she starts toward the elevator.
"Why? Regina, what the hell?" Tatiana is on her feet now, too. "You can't keep just...what the hell?"
Regina is hauling up the gates of the elevator. "Later. I can't." She hears her own words even as she exists a million miles away. She knows this looks like she is acting exactly as she has for months. Like she is affirming every concern Tatiana has had, undoing every bit of progress they have made in the past week and in the past thirty minutes. Like she is distracted and uncommitted and her heart is not in the work, anymore, but in this exact moment it is all true and there is nothing she can do to stop it. Because all that matters in the world is keeping her feet beneath her, retracing her steps, and finding that bracelet before she cannot draw another breath.
She punches the button for the lobby almost convulsively and lets Tatiana's words fade to silence as the elevator moves her down.
Her eyes scan the ground beneath her as she walks, almost runs, as though there is any chance a bracelet dropped in New York City would remain untouched. She thinks she might suffocate on the 12 minute subway ride, then she's pushing rudely through the crowd and hurrying back toward her apartment. She shoves through the doors, ignores the doorman, and accosts the man at the front desk without preamble, despite his obvious preoccupation with a phone call. "Has anyone turned in a bracelet?"
Marc, the wiry and high-voiced attendant with the pale blond buzzcut, looks startled and maybe a little frightened, because he knows exactly who she is, and she is clearly upset. "I'm sorry, what was that, Ms. Rossi?" Then he says into the phone, "I'm sorry, could you please hold for a moment?" She sees him slap the hold button without waiting for a reply.
"A bracelet," she repeats, trying not to sound desperate, not to talk too fast, but she wants to get upstairs, tear apart her covers, her sofa, her shower drain, anywhere she can search until she has her hands on that bracelet, once more. It cannot be gone. Eighteen years, it cannot be gone.
"No, I'm sorry, Ms. Rossi, I don't think we have anything like that at the desk right now."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, I believe so, but if you'd like to wait, I can go check in the back in the safe, if on the last shift--"
She shakes her head, too anxious to stay still. "No, forget it. I'll look on my own." Before Marc can say another word, Regina is off and rushing down the hallway to the private elevator. This time the ride is interminable and the claustrophobia hateful and she is wondering if she really is going to throw up before the door slides open. She makes it in one piece, and she punches the access code into her front door with shaking fingers.
When she comes in the door, Rose is bent over with her head in the refrigerator, carrying out the requested wipe-down, jars lined up on the nearby counter. At quick glance, the rest of the apartment already looks much better. But Regina just doesn't care. "Did you find a bracelet, anywhere?" she demands as Rose rises from the refrigerator, hands pressing on the tops of her knees.
"What's that? You looking for a bracelet?"
"Yes, did you find anything. On the floor, or in the couch, or..."
Rose is shaking her head. "No, ma'am, I haven't found anything like that, this time. There was a scarf on the dining table, I thought it was yours and--"
"It doesn't matter. I need to find the bracelet. It's a gold tennis bracelet, with ruby-colored stones. I had it on last night, I...I didn't know it was gone." She doesn't wait for a reply, rushing across the open rooms, heading toward her bedroom.
Rose hasn't been in here, yet, things are still just as Regina left them. She throws back the covers, uncaring of where they land, and runs her hands frantically and seekingly over the rumpled sheets. She shakes out the pillows, curls her fingers into cracks. The sick heat in her stomach is ever-present and she is starting to feel dizzy.
She scans the plush carpet, tries to remember everywhere she might have walked. She tears through her drawers of intimates, just in case the bracelet caught on something when she gathered her clothes before her shower. She tries to think through the night before, capture a single moment in her memory when she is certain the bracelet was still there It was there when she was making out with Graham, she remembers making sure the clasp did not catch in his hair. It was there when she was standing on her balcony taking in the fresh night air, she remembers shaking it down to her wrist as she spread her shawl over her bare arms. And then...then... Oh, God. Regina races out to her balcony, scanning the open space, searching table tops and chair seats, but it's futile, there is nowhere for a bracelet to hide. What if when she was falling, when she was grabbing at the railing. Fuck.
She races back through the living room where Rose is lifting up couch cushions, having picked up the search of her own volition. "I don't see anything here," she is saying as Regina rushes by. Regina doesn't bother explaining where she is going, but she is out the door and taking that fucking elevator back down.
The sidewalk below her balcony isn't packed, but it's more crowded than she would like as Regina scours the ground, the gutter, the dust piles and bushes at the building's base. Anywhere she can think of, not caring who is watching, who might recognize her, or what this must look like, because she cannot lose this bracelet, she needs it back in her hands so badly her muscles ache.
There is nothing here.
Upstairs, Regina tells Rose to leave.
"I still have a couple of more rooms to do, so--"
"Just go. We'll reschedule."
"Do you want me to--"
"Just go!" It's harsh, but she can't, she can't deal with anyone, right now. Her voice is shaking.
"All right," Rose says softly, and she begins gathering her things. To the woman's credit (and Regina knows on some level, she will appreciate it, later), Rose pauses on her way out the door and asks with a tone of genuine human caring, "Are you all right, Ms. Rossi?"
Regina takes two shallows breaths and says only, "Just go," but the sting is gone from her words and she hopes Rose understands. The older woman nods and takes her leave.
Regina can't stand still. She paces back to the bedroom, searching and re-searching and desperately trying to think of anywhere, anywhere else the bracelet could be, until she's shaking and hot and cold all at once, and it just hits her like a sucker punch to the gut that it's gone. It's gone, she just...it's gone. Everything's gone.
She slides her back down her bedroom wall to land in a wilted mess on the floor, shoes thrown aside, dress riding up -- falling in a cascade of tears.
She hasn't felt this alone in a very long time.
She misses Henry with a visceral pull in her chest. She wants to call him, to hear his beautiful voice, but he'll hear she has been crying, and the last thing she wants is to fail at motherhood, as well. Her mother is the last person on Earth she would call for comfort in this matter. Her father would only soothe her with empty words and offer to make her tea and stroke her hair, but he would make her feel as powerless as he has always been.
Does she...does she have any friends, anymore?
She thinks to call Graham. They aren't exactly friends and they aren't exactly lovers, but they've been...something to one another. Haven't they? He's been...a kind of comfort. There's been care.
Regina reaches over to where she tossed her purse on the table by the door and pulls her phone from the pocket. She brings up Graham's contact info and punches "Call." With the phone to her ear, she tries to slow her breathing, tries to stop her hands from shaking, because she just wants to hear a familiar voice, just wants something to ground her when the floor seems to be slipping from beneath her feet. She doesn't want a shoulder to cry on.
Her call goes to voice mail.
Irrationally furious at the presumed rejection, Regina slaps at the End button and hurls her phone across the room, watching it bounce off a magazine rack and land on the carpet. The anger quickly melts into hurt, and she pull her knees tight against her chest, shoulders shaking as she can't stop her tears.
Three hours ago, she thought she was getting her confidence back. She has never felt more pathetic and broken in her life.
"Hello?"
Regina startles sharply, lifting her head with a brisk, wet intake of air. "What the hell?" she whispers.
"Hello?" the voice says, again. And it's coming from her phone. Is that Graham? Did she not hang up? Did he...
"Ms. Rossi?"
The accent is English, not Irish. Confused and shaky, Regina crawls the few feet across her carpet and reaches for her phone.
"Are you there?" the voice says again, just as she lifts the device and blinks the lighted image into focus. What the hell? On her phone, is a picture, clear as day, of the man from the balcony last night. Her savior. Robin, wasn't it? Yes, it says below the picture, Robin Archer, followed by his phone number. In the picture, Robin is smiling, and it is daylight, and his hair is a little longer than it was last night.
Moving as though she has suddenly slipped into a dream world, uncertain of the consequences of her every action, Regina lifts the phone to her ear. "Mr. Archer?"
"Oh, you are there!" he says, brightly. And it is definitely him. That same mix of snark and glee and genuine honesty that confused the hell out of her last night.
"How...how are you calling me?"
"What? No, I didn't. You called me."
The phone must have dialed when it hit the magazine rack. But, no, it couldn't have dialed an entire number. He had to be in her contacts. He couldn't possibly be in her contacts. She had never seen him before. "What? How could I call you, I don't...I don't have your number."
"Ah, well, actually, you do. I'm afraid I must admit, I put it into your phone last night."
She repeats that in her head, for a moment. "You put your information into my phone?"
"Guilty as charged."
Regina crosses her leg into a habitual yoga pose and draws up into a more elegant posture. "Are you...are you stalking me?"
"Hmmm, no, I'm fairly certain that would have involved attempting to get your number into my phone. And I did not have your number until you just now called me." His tone is infuriatingly light and logical. Maybe even a bit condescending.
It irks her. She lets out a sigh of something between exasperation and confusion. "But..how did you even get it all entered so quickly? You only had my phone for a second. And the picture, your picture came up when it dialed."
"Ah, that," he says. "Magic."
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, sad story, I did a lot of magic as a child, geeky boy that I was. I practiced a great deal, rather mastered a bit of sleight of hand. Can come in handy, now and again."
"Magic." She has no idea what to say to that. Or how she came to be having this conversation. Or what has happened to her life.
She blinks, clears her throat, tries to ask something intelligent, but before she can speak, Robin adds, "And the picture was likely my Google contact photo. I popped my email address in there, too, so it probably synced, and..."
"Right."
They fall to silence. Because what are you supposed to talk about with a strange savior suddenly on your phone? Regina looks around her, taking in her disheveled bedroom with a little distance and uncomfortable perspective. The chaos reminds her afresh of the missing treasure, and the nausea washes over her, again.
After a moment, Robin's voice comes soft and surprisingly gentle in her ear. "Please forgive me, Ms. Rossi, but...are you...are you all right? You sound...well, you sound like you may have been crying, and..."
Regina can't suppress a mirthless laugh. It's not like she could sink much lower, might as well be humiliated as well. "Yeah," she concedes, "Not my best day."
"I'm sorry to hear that." And he sounds like he actually is, which is ridiculous and confusing, and...and he did save her life last night. "Ms. Rossi, would you like...would you like to meet for some coffee or tea or something?"
Oh, God, she is not a charity case, and she does not need to be watchdogged or babysat or nursed back to functionality, for Christ's sake. "No." She clears her throat and strengthens her voice. "No, I'm fine. Thank you, but...you don't have to worry."
"Oh, no, it's not...it's just...I would like to have coffee with you. Would you like to get some coffee with me? Or possibly...a donut?"
He never once has said what she expected of him. "You want to have a donut with the crazy lady who almost fell off her balcony and then accidentally called you and accused you of stalking?"
"Yes. That's why I put my number in your phone."
This time her laugh carries a slight, uncomfortable edge of hysteria. "You know that's insane, right?"
"Probably, yes. But I'm fairly certain there's a hell of a lot more to Regina Rossi than one bad day and too much champagne. You do run an internationally successful business, after all. And I would like to have coffee with you and learn a bit more. And if that changes up your bad day as well, well, then, that's good, too, yes?"
She tries with every shred of dignity she still holds to find a reason to say "no." She takes a breath to do just that, because of course the answer is "no," she has not completely lost hold, she is not going on a coffee date with a stranger who appeared in her bedroom and put himself in her phone, and especially now when she is mascara-streaked and utterly disheveled and trying to reconstruct her self-respect, and she opens her mouth to say "no," of course, "no" but she feels so untethered and his accented voice is the first thing that has felt truly comforting in so many days and it is like someone else entirely is talking when she says, "All right. When?"
*****