The Phoenix Candidate(48)
Our next stop is a well-maintained brownstone with a little sign in the shape of a dress form. Lauren raps sharply on the door and twists the knob without waiting for a response.
A tiny man in an immaculate suit pops his head out of a backroom doorway. “Mrs. Darrow, welcome. Would you care for tea?”
“Coffee,” Lauren says.
He disappears, giving me a moment to gape at the large room lined in tall shelves, every crevice spilling over with bolts of fabric. The man returns with an ornate tray and sets it on a wide worktable. He pours while Lauren makes introductions.
“Grace, this is Han Lee, who is an absolute magician with tailoring. Han, this is my … project, Grace.”
He looks me up and down, nodding, and points to a round, foot-high platform. “Stand here, please, Miss Grace.”
I leave my full coffee on the worktable regretfully and step up on the platform, which makes me feel like a curiosity on display.
“Jacket off, please.” Han instructs.
I remove it and pass it to him. He begins taking my measurements.
Lauren sits on a chaise and sips coffee, watching the process. “So, Grace, tell me more about yourself.”
I’m not falling for that open-ended pit. “What would you like to know?”
“Tell me about where you grew up. What was it like?”
I groan inwardly. Sharing about my family—and they qualify only by the loosest definition—is as fun as a filibuster. “My family moved around a lot. Coos Bay, Stayton, Florence, Canby, Troutdale. Small towns, wherever my stepdad could find work.”
“I understand what it’s like to grow up with limited means,” Lauren sympathizes, and her comment holds genuine warmth. “You have to grow up a bit faster than your peers.”
“Yes. It’s a survival skill.”
“Tell me, what did learning to fend for yourself teach you? Did it make you more resourceful? More tenacious?”
“Yes and yes. And it made the difference between want and need really clear.”
“Please undress.” Han is looking at me expectantly, and I balk.
“Here?”
Lauren rises to pour herself more coffee while mine goes cold on the worktable. “We don’t have all day, Grace.” Then her expression softens. “But take your time. Use the screen if you need to. You can keep your panties on.”
I stumble off the platform and hide behind a flimsy fabric screen, peeling off my blouse, slacks, and bra. I emerge from behind the screen with my arm covering my breasts, eyes downcast, and slink back up to the platform, burning with embarrassment.
“No need to be shy, Grace. Han just needs to see what he’s working with.” Lauren’s voice is softer, conciliatory. “So just ignore Han and let’s keep chatting, shall we? You were saying about the difference between want and need. What do you need, Grace?”
I open my mouth to answer, but my brain doesn’t supply words easily. Need? I understand need. Too well.
I learned about need when I was eleven, broke my finger, and didn’t go to the doctor because I didn’t need to as urgently as my stepfather needed to finish a football game and my mom needed to finish her shift. Sometimes, our family didn’t need fresh food as badly as he needed gin. And when our family was forced to move in the middle of the night, leaving virtually all of my things behind, I needed more clothes so I could wash the ones I was wearing.
Need is funny and fickle and fucked up. I don’t need a fancy home, but I need safety. I don’t need a lifestyle with bespoke tailoring, but I need a few things I can call my own. Things that can’t be taken from me.
“I need freedom,” I finally answer Lauren. “Freedom to make my own decisions, freedom to live the way I want.”
“That’s not freedom,” Lauren interrupts. “You can be free as a bird and not have the ability to make what you want a reality. You don’t want freedom. You want power.”
“Arms above your head,” Han directs me, and now I’m even more exposed. He pulls a measuring tape taut around my rib cage and then around my breasts.
“Maybe I do. Maybe if power is the thing that’s going to let me right the wrongs and enjoy life, maybe that’s exactly what I want,” I confess.
Lauren smiles. “We’re not that different, Grace. I want to be first lady. Not for the pastel dresses and redecorating the White House. For the power.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to be president or vice president then?”
Lauren laughs. “Because I’d rather be the kingmaker. That’s where real power lies. And as first lady, I’ll get to pick and choose. I can influence what matters to me, rather than being bound to handle the mundane things.”