“It’s only because we didn’t attend the last show. Your order was miniscule.”
“I’ve been leaning more toward Dior as of late. I’m certain we could get—”
“I don’t want a Dior gown, I want Chanel.”
Gwen let her attention drift as Mrs. Vanderpelk and Milan shot horrible looks across the table at one another, their squabbling degenerating into low-level snippy comments. She maintained her smile as if she couldn’t hear them arguing.
Yes, she’d had clients before today who’d had couture gowns made for them, and yes, she’d worked on multimillion-dollar weddings, and yes, she’d had difficult brides, but today, at this moment, Milan’s toddleresque temper tantrum put Gwen in a less than kind humor.
The woman was engaged to a man she presumably loved and was having the wedding of the season, which her very wealthy parents had agreed to pay for. And yet, Milan was throwing one more in a series of world-class fits, this time because she preferred a couture wedding gown by Chanel instead of Dior. Gwen compressed her lips into a thin line and scanned the haphazard scatter of Milan’s ideas all across the table. A multitude of decisions to be made over the next eighteen months. Her job was to help Milan make those decisions, to turn this hodge-podge of ideas into a cohesive, well-planned event.
Gwen cleared her throat. “Perhaps we focus on the type of gown right now, knowing what you love, and then both the designer that you choose and I can use your unique aesthetic as a jumping-off point to design around.”
Both mother and daughter stopped bickering and turned toward her.
“My unique aesthetic?” Milan puffed up a bit, standing straighter behind the chair at the far end of the table.
“Well, of course.” Gwen nodded toward the myriad pictures on the giant table. “It’s obvious from this collection you have an innate sense of style that is all your own. I want to use your aesthetic to create your amazing wedding.”
“My wedding,” Milan mused, reaching out toward a picture of a bouquet made up of orchids and magnolias.
“Her style.” A look of revelation spread over Mrs. Vanderpelk’s face. “Yes, Milan’s style is unique and amazing, with such wit and charm.”
Milan looked up from the picture toward her mother suspiciously, but her face relaxed into a slight smile when she noted Mrs. Vanderpelk’s sincerity.
Her mother continued. “She’s had her own style since she was a child. Haven’t you, darling?”
Milan nodded. She reached down the table and started pulling more pictures toward her. “Yes. Yes, I have.” She looked at Gwen. “You’re absolutely right, let’s focus on my aesthetic as the place to begin.”
Gwen returned her nod and took a long deep breath. Calmer. Milan and her mother both seemed calmer now they had agreed upon a place to begin. Yes, Gwen had dealt with many, many overindulged and entitled brides, and most, she’d discovered, had similar fears and triggers. These women had been given every thing any person could want while growing up, but the one thing their childhoods had lacked was the praise and attention of their parents.
Milan did have an aesthetic, and she knew it, but her own sense of self and style had gone unrecognized until this very moment, by the one person who had been perhaps the most important in her life, her mother. Gwen’s chest tightened and she reached for the look-book that contained pictures of cakes.
Yes, a mother, a woman who was meant to be your template, to give you praise and attention, to instill in you a sense of value and self-worth and importance in the world. A strong woman who loved you and who you were.
Deep breath.
Gwen had been lucky. She’d had such a mother, if only for a short while. She pasted her professional smile onto her face and turned to Milan. The bride-to-be now sat surrounded by glossy pictures, a tiny smile hovering on her lips. Gwen would focus, as she had before, on helping this bride articulate her own style, all while maintaining a calm, pleasant demeanor. But inside she felt the Vanderpelk-Westerfeld wedding couldn’t get here soon enough.
*
“I didn’t agree to media interviews.” Leo glared across the table at his app designers.
Ilko took a bite of the yellowtail sashimi, unfazed, and Todd shoved an entire salmon nigiri into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. “Bruh, you’ve got to have the media fix. You’re a businessman. A successful businessman. You had to know we’d need some interviews when you said yes to the campaign.” He upended his cup of hot sake into his mouth. His fingernails were painted black with white skulls, probably to match the white skull-and-crossbones motifs bleached into his beard on each cheek.