She smiles, pleased that I’ve agreed, and starts talking about the art installation her board is sponsoring in Chelsea. “They want to hang four thousand hand-blown glass marbles from the ceiling, each filled with a different pigment and left to age in the sunlight. It’ll be a disaster, but at least they’ll remember our name for years.” When the salad arrives, she eats with small, careful movements, never getting vinaigrette on her hands.
I try to copy her, arranging my lettuce neatly and eating each piece carefully. But my teeth ache with need and the memory of being bitten. When my fork hits my teeth, I wince as pain shoots through me. I drink more water to distract myself.
“Is work going alright?” she asks. “Still playing dress-up for the socialites?”
I laugh, but it comes out more like a cough. “If chasing unpaid invoices and asking heiresses not to wear white to other people’s weddings counts as work, then yes. It’s a joy.”
Mother wipes her mouth with the edge of her napkin. “You’ll outgrow this phase soon enough. Then you’ll want something real.”
I want to tell her that what I want is more than real, that it’s raw and messy and beautiful, but I nod and watch the droplets gather at the base of her glass, colored by the sunlight.
It takes me half a subway ride and a brisk walk through the East Village to shake off the lunch—the taste of motherly censure still clinging to my tongue—and by the time I reach the studio, I’m in a mood. The door buzzes me in, and Vittoria is already perched behind the cutting table, surrounded by a fortress of muslin-swathed mannequins and pattern pieces. She looks up, one brow cocked, razor blade held between her teeth like a pirate.
“Damn, Lucinda. Looking fresh,” she calls, voice spiked with sarcasm.
I drop my backpack on the floor, shucking off my coat and scarf. “Don’t judge. I survived brunch with my mother.”
Vittoria spits the blade into her palm. “You poor thing. Sit. I’ll get you caffeine and lies.” She gestures to the stool, where she’s laid out a foam cup and a set of new pens.
We’ve agreed never to talk about our families except as if they’re TV characters or cautionary tales. But she knows what I need: strong coffee and quiet support, broken only by the sound of the sewing machine.
We get to work, losing hours to needles, sketches, and color-matching. I work through my wedding board, looking at runway shows and tracing silhouettes, piecing together a mix of tulle and seed beads. Every so often, I remember how Alessio pulled apart my dress, the careful way he revealed my skin, the way he called me Lucia, and how my body responded to him.
Fuck.
I erase a line so hard the page tears. Vittoria glances over. “You good?”
I bite my lip. “No. Yes. Just…” I wave my pencil. “I made a mess Saturday night.”
She grins, sharp. “Did you finally let Paul Richmond inside? Please tell me it was terrible, for the sake of the narrative.”
I want to laugh, but I shake my head. “It wasn’t Paul. It was someone else. Just a one-night thing.” The words feel wrong, but the truth is even harder.
Vittoria’s eyes go wide. “Was it the meatpacking guy with the nose ring? Please. I need details. Don’t hold back.”
I look down at my sketchbook, tracing a sleeve to avoid her eyes. “It was just some guy at Basilio’s. No one special.”
Her mouth opens as if to probe, but something in my voice makes her close it. “Well, did he at least make you come?”
For a moment, I say nothing; then, “He broke the scale.”
“You’re blushing,” she accuses, delighted.
I am. I can’t help it. It’s not just the memory, but the certainty that if I called him, he would come back and do it all again. That’s what scares me—the way I want his intense attention.
I pretend to focus on the lace samples, but after a while, I notice I’m drawing his eyes in the margin. I close the sketchbook quickly.
“Can we please work on something else today?” I ask, voice too chipper even for me. “I’m going to drown if I look at any more wedding gowns.”
Vittoria grins but thankfully changes the subject, showing me her mood board for a Hepburn-inspired eveningwear collection. We spend two hours debating fabrics, hems, and whether tulle looks elegant or childish. It helps. The work feels real, and the world comes back—thread, grit, graphite, coffee. Sometimes, this city feels like a miracle. Other times, it just wears people like me down.
At six o’clock, I pack away my things, promise to see Vittoria bright and early, and trudge to the subway, aware of every tiny ache and pulse in my body as I descend the stairs.
I sleep badly. My dreams are full of hands—sometimes Alessio’s, sometimes a stranger’s, long and pale, reaching for me in a hallway that seems endless. I wake up at three, sweating despite the November cold, and stare at the ceiling.
If I close my eyes, I can still taste him.
I fight the urge to undress and touch myself, because I know it wouldn’t be for me anymore. It would be for him. Instead, I drift back into a light sleep until the alarm goes off at six-thirty.