Бесплатный фрагмент - The Path to Yourself

Chapter 1

I should’ve washed my hair! Oh God, make me get up in time at least when I have to meet people! There’s no chance to leave work early. I could call in sick — Nah, Paul would give me away. The imbecile is a terrible liar! Rose contoured her lips with a pencil stub, slightly overlining them — just like the makeup artist in the yesterday’s reel.

When Rose got to the party carrying a lemon pie, all the other guests were already there. She entered the brand-new apartment of her rich and successful former classmate, but no one noticed her. Everyone’s attention was locked on one woman who was talking about behind-the-scene stuff of the Cannes Film Festival. The guests were eating up the latest celebrity gossip, including timelines of girlfriends and boyfriends. No one doubted a single word uttered by the storyteller, for she was none other than Dina, a fashion icon and famous blogger. Five million followers on Instagram, ten million on TikTok, an ambassador of the biggest brands… The very picture of perfection. Rose didn’t miss a single story, post, or live broadcast by her. She knew Dina’s favorite colors, restaurants, and resorts.

“And then there’s Sara Sampaio in the Zimmermann dress. The orange one, you might’ve seen.” Dina tossed back her black hair.

“The one with feathers? It was Zuhair Murad,” Rose said.

Everyone stared at her.

“Right! Naomi Campbell had a similar one. Was it Zuhair Murad too?”

“Naomi was wearing Valentino. A coral-red feathery dress.” Rose straightened her back.

All the women looked at her again.

“And I even told Leo, ‘They are like twins!’”

The guests laughed.

“Personally, I think that Naomi looked so much better in Chanel. She was a goddess!”

Rose felt the eyes of twenty women on her.

“Yes, she was.”

Rose forgot all about her unwashed hair, Paul, and the reprimand her boss had given her that morning. That was her moment of glory. All those days, weeks, months, and even years she had been scrolling the Instagram feed finally paid off. She and she alone was now talking with Dina herself.

The party was in full swing. The women and their champagne glasses moved to the freshly renovated walk-in. The dressing room with its custom-designed and hand-painted walls, white furniture, and a ridiculously expensive chandelier could justifiably claim to be one of the top pins on Pinterest, at the very least. Neatly organized bags, shoes, and flowy dresses. The proud owner of this paradise who had recently become a partner in a consulting firm humbly asked the guests to help her pick outfits for the new job. The honor to explore the depths of this treasury was quite obviously conferred on Dina. In just a few minutes, the model walked the improvised runway among the rows of severe critics with champagne glassed in their well-manicured hands. Slim pants and a fitted cardigan — the spitting image of Kate Moss in 1990s. But there was a silence instead of applause and looks of bewilderment instead of approving smiles.

“I love it!” Rose cried out. “It’s Jacquemus! Oh, the unbelievable tops and, sure enough, bags. Girls, who else is a fan of their bags? And what about The Row? You have so many pieces by the label! I’m just mad about it! Come on!” Rose was riding the turbulent waves of vanilla-perfect seas.

A black shirt, palazzo pants, gold earrings, hair gathered into a low bun. The outfit by Rose finally broke the silence. Then followed minimalist dresses, gray sweaters, Gucci loafers, and Gianvito Rossi stilettos. The hostess indulged the guests with some old-fashioned outfits to the accompaniment of Rose’s comments. You can find magic even in the most ordinary things: All it takes is making up a story for each outfit and pronouncing the names of famous brands correctly. The room was filled with joy and the air was thick with feminine energy. The failure of a celebrity was overshadowed by the triumph of a mediocre girl. The wine was followed by desserts, and the catwalk by endless girly chatting. At the end of the party, Dina got Rose’s phone number, as healthy pragmatism comes before any minor misunderstandings.

The next morning, Rose was sitting in the passenger seat of a car, going to an event dedicated to the company’s tenth anniversary. The long journey provided her with a ninety-minute engagement in the virtual vanity fair called Instagram. Rose could still vividly see the party of the previous day, and her imagination added details and hopes of her wildest dreams. She was hoping to find at least a hint of praise or even admiration, but the hope was in vain. The application froze and didn’t respond. Rose kept running her index finger on the touchscreen until a callus formed on the fingertip, but Instagram just wouldn’t refresh the feed. The cracked screen of her smartphone kept showing the ad of a sushi bar with heavenly sushi rolls (two for the price of one!). Every imaginable curse rained down on the invisible employees of the city administration who failed to provide the internet connection along the interurban road. At last, Rose threw the phone into the back seat and stared out of the window. Marylin Manson was shrieking at her from the car speakers.

“What if we listen to something else?!” Rose rummaged through transparent CD cases in the glove compartment.

“There’s nothing else there. Nothing much,” Paul said.

“There!” Rose inserted a CD, and the speakers coughed up the voice of 16-year-old Britney Spears.

Rose was barely able to hold back her laughter, but she did her best. She knew that otherwise, there was a great chance they’d be listening to Manson’s screams the rest of the way. Britney was singing non-stop, tirelessly and stubbornly. All the other CDs turned out to have Britney too: Britney feat. Madonna, Britney remixes, Britney Spears live from Las Vegas, and what not. By the end of their journey, Rose was just as sick of her as on her wedding day only a month ago. Back then, her colleagues, friends, and parents would hoot with laughter and proposed similar toasts, making sure to touch their plastic cups. By nightfall, each of the guests had finished eating their pieces of the wedding cake from disposable plates and toasted to the newlyweds’ health, happiness, and having many children… at least five times. As luck would have it, the bride had gotten sick to her stomach during the performance by her female friends who had been dancing to Britney’s songs. Too much excitement and fatty Napoleon cake in one day. Rose had tried to wash the stain off the purple dress (the cost of which had not been yet recouped by gift money) while the guests had been applauding the beautiful dancers. When you are almost thirty, logic prevails over emotions. So, you have a fashionably lilac dress instead of a crisp white one, and the wedding party is held in your apartment instead of a restaurant. That’s what Paul thought. He was happy his girlfriend was on board with him and had no idea what things were really like.

For two weeks, his bride-to-be had been wandering through bridal salons and bashfully peering in the windows. Young XS girls would confidently try on all kinds of dresses while their mothers and saleswomen would gasp in amazed delight. Rose was built differently. Her size varied between XL and XXL depending on the sizing chart of a certain brand.

“We don’t have your size!”

“Well, you could preorder a dress, but is a two-month wait.”

“A pantsuit would suit you better!”

That’s what she would hear. Only one lady — in a wig and with bright red lips — managed to revive her dying hope. “There’s something for you. Just like Meghan Markle had!”

Finally, Rose had found herself in a spacious dressing room with a poster of two swans on the wall. It had taken the salon lady about fifteen minutes to fit the soft body of the unrecognized princess in the dress of the Duchess of Sussex. Just a few steps around the hall, and the dress had meanly come apart at the seams, and the beauty had been set free from the shackles.

“Now you must buy it!” the wigged lady had shouted.

“What? What would I do with it? It doesn’t fit and it costs a fortune!”

Rose had managed to get away from the frenzied woman and given up her dream, letting Paul proceed with the arrangement of the solemn occasion himself.

Chapter 2

The old hair curler hissed, singeing the heavy strands. Tight curls flowed over the freckled shoulders, warm against the cool, soft skin. Rose stood in front of her wish visualization map — a bright spot dividing the wallpaper into two parts. Every year, Rose cut out pictures from fashion magazines and adhered them onto a white sheet of paper. They were to give her hope and inspire positive changes for the next twelve months. This time, the paper held pictures of Sofia Richie on her wedding day. The youngest daughter of the famous American singer smiled at her from the photograph. She was the supreme manifestation of everything Rose had ever wanted or dreamed of. And yet, Rose avoided to look at her creation, for fear of facing the promises she had made to herself: To stop being lazy and waste time, to save money on travel, to lose weight. And what is the most important, to find herself. To forge her own path.

The pride-to-be was drawing arrows on her eyes when the morning silence was broken with a distant scream. Her mother burst into the room, and in a matter of seconds, the air rang with her yelling.

“I’m not going anywhere! You call it a wedding?! What am I supposed to say to the kin? To neighbors and other people? What kind of photos am I supposed to show them? Couldn’t you find a better man? This one is a broke-ass, good-for-nothing mouth breather! And you are a fool of a woman!”

For the whole year before that, the very same mother had been demanding that her daughter get married as soon as possible (the biological clock was ticking!). She’d kept saying that she was desperately in need of grandchildren and repeated dozens of similar nonsensical things. The freshly drawn arrows ran down Rose’s face. The preparations were accompanied by the mother’s reproaches that stopped only at the entrance to the registry office where the unsuspecting groom was waiting with a bouquet of lilies in his hands. He was surrounded by friends and their mutual coworkers, equipped with cameras, flowers, and balloons. A pathetic speech by the registrar, and the newly wedded couple went down the state-property stairs and into a big life.

Another mother was waiting for them at home, having missed her son’s marriage registration for a very good reason. Pies. A lot of pies — with meat and vegetables, sweet and spicy, big and small, with and without braided crusts. The heavenly-smelling, melt-in-the-mouth culinary masterpieces crowded the entire apartment, taking up all the dishes, all the tables, and a single windowsill. The baking had been underway since last night and the pies had taken half the morning to decorate. The rest of the day had been dedicated to chicken and fish dishes, all kinds of salads, and pickled mushrooms. Oh, especially the mushrooms! Everything was handmade, not a single appetizer bought. That would be a shame! What would the guests say?!

In charge of the speeches was the head of the sales department who had actually rented out this very apartment to the couple only a couple of weeks ago. Before that, it had been rented by an office manager who managed to run away from a sixth-month debt, taking with her the TV set and the landlord’s faith in women.

“I still remember, as if it was yesterday, the day eight years ago when a young university graduate answered our job advertisement,” the chief accountant began. Just a casual mention: She had been working in the company for only six years. “I took her under my wing straight away! Today this little bird is getting married! And who is she getting married to? Another fully-fledged specialist of our company. Good for you! Our small but close-knit team has become even stronger! Be happy!” With the last words, tears welled up in her eyes, smudging the heavy mascara.

Paul and Rose had been indeed working together in a nuts-and-chips distribution company for eight years. Over this time, the office had expended by two more rooms, one warehouse, and six employees. The team members loved to say, “We are a family”. They also loved to poke their noses into personal, sometimes even intimate details of their colleagues’ lives. Frequent tea parties in the kitchen, Labor Day celebrations, and visits to local pubs somehow deepened the concept of family. In a family, there should be no secrets. Each piece of news was laid open for everyone’s inspection to meet with universal approval or condemnation. A gentle affection that had developed between the IT administrator and the delivery service operator quickly dominated all the informal conversations in the office. The women demanded that Paul marry Rose immediately and threatened him with all kinds of negative consequences. The men held the fort, silently. The defenses were broken in the spring. After another get-together in a pub, where everyone was teasing them and calling them lovebirds, Paul finally proposed. The proposal sounded somewhat like this: “Maybe we should marry after all. Why not?”

Rose was relieved. At last, they wouldn’t bother her anymore.

Chapter 3

“Hi there. Starbucks at the Gallery, tomorrow 10 a.m. Does it work for you? Dina.”

Rose read the message again. Then again. And again. Restarted the phone, but the message was still there. She thumbed, her hands shaking:

“I am so pleased to get a message from you! Of course, I’ll come.” Erased.

“You must have called the wrong number.” Erased.

“I can’t, I have work to do.” Erased.

“Maybe later, in the evening?” Erased.

“Yes, it does!” Sent.

The next morning, Rose was fifteen minutes late. She walked sideways into the coffee shop, picking at a hangnail on her thumb.

“Are you always late?” Dina asked without greeting her.

“I’m not. I’m sorry, the taxi got stuck in traffic and then the engine gave out. And besides — » Rose said even though it was a lie. She was about to burst into tears.

“I got you a latte. It was a wild guess.” Dina smiled, scanning her.

“Thanks. I love lattes.” Rose sat down on the edge of the chair and grabbed the paper cup with both hands.

“I shall be honest with you. I’m looking for someone nice. Loyal. Smart. Hardworking. Someone with an eye for all these fashion trends. Someone who can tell Balmain from Bottega Venetta. And a couple more things. I want you to become my assistant.” Dina fell silent.

Rose did not say a word.

“The pay is decent, no worries. Business trips at my expense. Milan, Paris, Tokyo. We — I have customers from all over the world. Benefits. Nice working hours. What else do they usually have in the package?”

What is she doing? Is she talking me into working for her? Rose stirred the tepid coffee with a stick, too afraid to look up. What if she does, and Dina is not here?

“So, what do you think?”

“Are you serious?”

“About the hours? I definitely am! Why?”

“No, about me. Me, Rose. Do you want to hire me?”

“I do”. Dina looked at her intently, as if trying to read her thoughts. “You will love it. You’ll meet so many celebs. Come on!”

“I don’t know, this is so unexpected — ”

“Well?!”

“I’m… Alright.” Rose did not take her eyes off the coffee, almost drowning in it.

“That’s great! See you tomorrow.” Dina disappeared, leaving behind a fragrance trail and an empty cup.

That night, Rose wandered about the apartment, devouring everything she could get her hands on. Some cheese, cookies, jam, leftover pizza. There was a repeating loop of thoughts in her mind: She would be laughed at, frowned upon, talked about. Leaving a stable job for an Instagram girl’s assistant. Had she lost her mind? She kept making excuses, trying to please everyone who’d be in doubt. Rose finished the last éclair in the fridge and did what she knew best. She called in sick so as not to appear in the office for a week.

She got out of the smoky taxi cab and pressed the bell push. The heavy door immediately opened. Déjà vu. A marble table, fashion magazines, flower vase, light-colored walls with abstract paintings on them. Rose had seen it all hundreds, if not thousands of times on her phone’s screen. Dina recorded Instagram stories every day, in this very interior. A familiar voice came from the kitchen. The woman that voice belonged to was rebuking her housemaid for something. Then she quickly walked into the living room, sat opposite Rose, and opened her daily planner. Unknown places, people, names. There was a flood of information, and Rose struggled to keep up with it and to maintain her composure.

“Any questions?”

“Yes!”

But Dina didn’t listen to her. She silently disappeared with a heap of papers in her hands.

Rose tried to decipher what she had just written, but her eyes were blurred with tears. With her body shaking, she slid onto the floor. She lay curled up in the fetal position and wept, ignoring the terrified housemaid who was buzzing about her with a towel. Someone made her drink an entire teapot of some herbal infusion, sweet and lukewarm; it had a soporific effect. And then, there was finally silence.

“Still breathing?” A woman’s voice echoed throughout the room.

Rose looked up and met someone’s intent gaze.

“Where am I?”

“At work, as far as I understand.”

The blue eyes moved away, and Rose was able to make out a young girl with a full head of blonde hair.

“I’m so sorry. I — I didn’t mean to — ”

“I bet. No one would want to screw up on the first day.” The girl was looking directly in Rose’s eyes.

Rose shivered. She got up from the sofa and headed towards the door. On her way out, she saw her planner lying on the stranger’s lap. The girl held her hand possessively on the open pages.

“The restroom is on your left!” the blonde girl shouted after her.

“Oh no, I just — ”

“Wanted to leave?”

“No, why would I?”

“Umph — ”

“Could I?”

“You can do anything.”

“I’d just like some water.”

“Aunt Sally, bring some water!”

“Thank you.”

“It’s Monday.”

“Pardon?”

“There are tons of tasks on Monday. I can help you. If you want, of course.”

The girl handed the planner over to its rightful owner.

Rose nodded and sat back down.

They spent the whole day driving around various joints, markets, and shabby offices. The glamorous star turned out to be the owner of a cheap restaurant chain and commodity stores. Poverty-stricken parts of the city, back-breaking labor, and unpresentable public provided money for the beautiful life everyone saw on Instagram. Behind every Chanel bag or Celine dress there was day-to-day work with suppliers, staff, and consumers. Dina worked like crazy. With her sleeves rolled up high, she had her finger on the pulse of a huge enterprise.

What she showed on social networks was another part of her personality. This life consisted of five-star hotels and fancy boutiques, endless shopping, impressive parties with expensive champagne and beautiful people. There was no room for any flaws, sadness, or failure. The two parallel realities were completely separate and could never intersect, but they both had the same goal — money. Dina used every opportunity to increase her income, tirelessly adapting to the demands of the great Kingdom of Consumption. Ella — that was the blonde girl’s name — had once been a part of both worlds, a faithful assistant, a companion, but something forced her to leave and fall off the radar for a long time. Today she returned, albeit secretly. No questions asked, Rose followed the girl everywhere and tried to retain at least something in her memory.

“Do you need a ride?” Ella was scribbling in Rose’s planner, adding new tasks and crossing out what had already been done.

“It would be nice, thank you! And thanks for the help!”

“Get enough sleep. There’ll be even more to do tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“Even more? Is it always like this?”

“What the hell did you expect? An endless extravaganza? You’d better get used to it, sis.”

That last block before her house, Rose decided to go on foot. She was rehearsing her speech for Paul, counting the pros on her fingers, finding excuses for cons. The air in the corridor was close and heavy with the smell of pizza and beer. The sofa creaked — must’ve been an old spring — and then came a lazy shuffle of footsteps. It was approaching the deceptress who was ready to come clean.

“Where have you been?” Paul was holding an unfinished beer can.

“I’ve got a new job.” Rose didn’t look him in the eyes and refused to approach him, as if he was no husband of hers but a scalding hot pan.

“Are you kidding?”

“No. They pay almost twice as much.” Rose pulled out her trump card which was the only trump card up her sleeve so far.

“What’s the company? And position?” A shadow passed over Paul’s face.

“I’ll be an assistant to a famous blogger. Her name’s Dina. You’ve probably heard of her.”

Pause.

“Are you mad? Running errands for an Internet whore?”

“She’s not… She owns a restaurant chain and a chain of stores, she’s a serious businesswoman. This is a great opportunity!”

“Why on Earth do you need it?”

“I can travel with her — to Europe, or Japan, or the US, anywhere! There’s insurance, social benefits, overtime paycheck… Everything is paid for. We do need some money, after all. That’s why.”

“You’ve never even left the city, and now you want to see half the world at once! Isn’t it a bit too much? Besides, what kind of fool would pay for all this? She’s lying!”

“How can you be so sure?”

“It’s just too good to be true. She’s gonna kick you out or set you up. And in the office, they’ll quickly find a replacement. You will lose your job, mind you.”

“Dina is a business owner. You should see the scale! Why would she want to set me up?”

“Why? Because there are no miracles! One cannot just get paid handsomely for nothing!”

For the second time that day, Rose cried on the cold bathroom floor. Alone, without any support or a cup of warm tea. Her inner voice got louder and louder until, by midnight, it burst into a scream. Torn into a thousand pieces, she made a choice.

Chapter 4

Rose grabbed some random clothes, put them on, and ran out on a crowded street, hungry but determined.

“Where to?” The taxi driver lit a cigarette and threw the lighter into an empty coffee cup.

“Here.”

The man entered Dina’s address into the navigator and a puff of cigarette smoke filled the interior of the car.

Holding her planner in her hands like a shield, Rose slipped through the unlocked door and sat down on the edge of the living room sofa.

The air was heavy and seemed to be crackling with electricity. Dina was pacing the room, making notes in the margins of her own planner, and giving assignments in a metallic voice. Rose sat motionless, while her left hand seemed to have a mind of its own and was automatically writing down the boss’s words. When she was done, Dina took her cup from the table and pressed it with her thin fingers. She cast a sidelong glance at the brown cup ring and, at last, looked at her assistant.

“We’re going to Paris.”

Rose left the apartment just as quietly as she had entered it, and ran down the stairs — Ella must have been waiting for her. However, when she got to a tiny coffee shop with only three tables, Rose didn’t see the girl. Tapping her foot nervously, Rose frantically dialed Ella’s number. Her heart sank into her boots.

She dumped me! Dumped me! But she’d promised — I should’ve gone to the office! I’m such an idiot! Swallowing her tears, Rose pressed the call button again and again.

“Stop calling me. I’m in the chamber of secrets.”

“Ella! Ella, hi! Where are you?”

“In the restroom. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Sorry, I just — » Rose forced a laugh in response to the short beeps.

“You alright?” Vintage jeans, Aquazzura heels, smile on her face — Ella plopped down opposite her.

Pablo Escobar, coffee beans, and Aquazzura — that’s all Rose knew about Colombia. She also had quite a vague notion of real friendship. All her relationships with people centered around mutually beneficial interactions or certain obligations. I give you cheat sheets, and you help me write a paper. I don’t mention your truancy, and you keep my report mistakes to yourself. Was Rose cold and calculating? Oh no. She was just a product of her world.

“Care for some champagne?” Ella waved at the waiter.

“It’s ten in the morning!”

“So what?”

“You’re driving!”

“So what?”

“There’s a lot of work!”

“So what?”

“Oh well, fair enough.”

“Wanna share?” Ella took a sip from the slim glass.

“Share what?”

“How did you end up in my… in this place?”

“Dina called me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go ahead.”

“I am quite versed in style and fashion.”

“Are you?!”

“I’m — I don’t know.” Rose turned uncomfortably red — as red as a lonely tomato slice on a huge pizza.

“Alright, Miss Fashion. Come on! I’m pretty sure you’ll like it there.”

Ella couldn’t find a parking space, so she parked the car on the lawn by a flower bed. She slammed the door shut and strode towards a strange-looking glass building: It had an irregular triangle shape. “Move it, Rose! We’re an hour late!”

“Are you kidding me?!”

“The fitting was scheduled for ten thirty.”

“No, I meant — Are you sure this is the place?”

“Oh, so you know what it is?” An ironic smile flickered across the girl’s face.”

Rose did know. Two years ago, she’d spent hours by the window of the new fashion house, her eyes glued to a single dress. Rose had googled its creator — an unheard-of designer — and scoured the few photographs. She was dying to get into the studio, see other masterpieces, and get to know the designers, but that wasn’t her world. It was a princess world — the place for the beautiful and confident. And now, as she stood by the entrance, shivers went down her spine.

“You look odd. Is everything alright?”

“I — I saw their profile on Instagram,” Rose lied.

Inside, there was a huge room with white sofas. Ella immediately sat down and began flipping through a magazine, feet up on a low coffee table with geometric legs. Rose wasted no time and explored the interior.

“So handsome! Ella, did you see him? The designer himself is in the picture. The 20s, flappers. Did you see?! He’s so good-looking! And this dress! I wonder if it has a name.”

“The name’s Zelda, in honor of Scott Fitzgerald’s wife. She was one of the most prominent figures of that time,” answered a male voice.

Poor Rose, her face flushed with embarrassment, turned around. She felt like moving in slow motion.

“I’m Ed.” Ed Mann, the designer, extended his hand for a handshake.

“Rose.”

“You are here to see me, aren’t you?”

“I’m here for the fitting on behalf of Dina.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, if it’s a scarf or a hat of some sort.” Rose gave a short laugh.

“Right. Where is Dina? Today is the last test.”

“She couldn’t come, but don’t you worry about Paris. Hi! By the way, this is Rose, the new assistant.” Ella came up to them just in time.

“But I told her!” A shadow ran across the designer’s face, making him look ten years older.

“I can make up for her absence. You know we have the same size!”

“Fine. But Dina should know when her turn is.” For the first time, Ed smiled.

Huge screens instead of walls — futuristic waves of colors to dazzle the audience. The show was opened by a model from as far away as Nairobi. She was wearing a dress in the colors of a summertime savannah. Then there was a live broadcast with girls from Australia, Fiji, and France. Ella in a sky-blue outfit closed the show. It was impressive how different continents were involved — a potpourri of emotion and reality. Rose stood in an unbreathing astonishment, afraid of disturbing the perfect harmony. She was the most grateful spectator, drowning in the master’s creation, noticing every single detail, following the great design.

The sun, exhausted, had already hidden behind skyscrapers when the tiny car with two women inside arrived at Dina’s house.

“How was your day?” Aunt Sally, puffing, poured them some tea.

“OK,” Ella said.

“It was fine,” Rose mumbled.

“How did everything go?” Aunt Sally kept trying to get the girls talking.

“We went to Ed Mann’s! The man’s a genius!” Rose began to liven up after dinner.

“Not much of a genius. I have to go.” Ella quickly got to her feet, ready to leave.

“What’s her problem?” Rose whispered, but Aunt Sally only shrugged. “You know Ed?”

“I do.”

And then, Aunt Sally told her a story.

One night Dina brought in a young boy with lackluster eyes. He had no money, no roof over his head. He took the guestroom and barely left it until Aunt Sally mustered up the nerve to knock on the door. She peeked into the room and asked for help in the kitchen. The boy blushed, but came over. He did not utter a word and carefully performed simple tasks: Hanged the clock on the wall (which had been removed from it only five minutes earlier), peeled some carrots, replaced nearly full batteries with even newer ones. Aunt Sally, who had two sons, could clearly see the boy was ashamed: A bloody nose, a night spent in a stranger’s house. She was casually talking to herself about all kinds of little things — a new TV series, a city festival… By the evening, her monologue turned into a real dialogue. Three days later, an impeccably-looking woman appeared on the doorstep. She didn’t bother to say hello. The only four words she uttered were, “Is my son here?”

Aunt Sally led her into the kitchen. There were tears, reproaches, threats, questions. The perfect woman kept asking her imperfect son when it all had started and why. How could the youngest son of a respectable family be gay? What if someone found out about this? How would this affect his father’s career? The mother cried, and begged her son to come to his senses, to have a heart, for her unhappy life had become even more unbearable. Her husband had put the blame on her: It was her fault. The stupid woman had failed to keep an eye on her child, to take care of him. Ed looked at his mother. She was so pathetic, so lonely, and confused. Her entire life, she had been playing roles. All people could see was a happy wife and loving mother. At home, she turned into a punching bag for her husband. Ed’s father would take out all his failures, problems, and annoyance on her. That was the mother Ed had ever known. When he had been ten, he’d tried to protect her. They both had ended up sitting in front of a trauma doctor, making up a story about falling off their bicycles. The doctor had put green bills into his pocket and had done his job without saying a word. Ed had been begging his mother to leave and be gone for good, but it would spell doom for her. What would she do alone with three kids? And most importantly, what would people say? It was much easier for her to tolerate beatings, unfaithfulness, and humiliation than to lose her status, public position, a good name, after all. She had tried to find a way as best she could. That’s when the series of her plastic surgeries had begun. She had had her nose, eyes, and breasts fixed, not to mention all kinds of face and body lifting. A lot of people believed her surgeries to be an attempt to keep her husband by looking younger, more attractive. It would never have occurred to anyone that this happy woman wished her husband dead. Every time there was a call from an unknown number, her hopes would rekindle for a brief moment of time: What if an unfamiliar voice would tell her that her husband had suddenly died — of a heart failure or in a car crash.

The youngest son had been sent to England, to a public school. There had been frequent brawls and beatings: The offsprings of English aristocrats picked fights just as often as kids of simple work-folks. While in England, far away from home, Ed had harbored more and more hatred towards his father and resentment towards his mother. Though he had never been able to play a nasty trick like his brother and sister could do. Oddly enough, the older siblings had been able to adjust to the toxic environment. They had gotten to the level of their parents, becoming just as deceitful, unscrupulous, and manipulative. His brother and sister had grown up to be idles and spenders, and yet it was Ed who had disgraced the family name. The black sheep of the family. An outcast.

Mother and son spent two hours in a stranger’s kitchen. They were strangers to each other. But they left together because the boy loved his mother. He was bound to take pity on her and save the family reputation. Ed disappeared for three years, but then returned to open the fashion house — a shopping gallery in the city center — and became an extremely popular designer. That was the award he got for keeping his mouth shut.

Chapter 5

Rose got home late. She crept along the corridor and tiptoed to the kitchen to brew some tea. She was wide awake and couldn’t get Ed’s story out of her head. For the first time in her life, Rose realized that money, status, and beauty do not guarantee happiness. But why? Why is it like this? After all, this is precisely what people strive for, sacrificing everything else. She was interrupted mid-thought by Paul who appeared in the doorway. He was shifting from one foot to the other and kept turning around to look into the empty corridor while pumping air into his lungs. He tried to bring himself to get out his canned speech, but it stuck in his throat. An awkward silence hung in the air, creating an invisible wall between two people. Rose didn’t know what to expect — yet another scandal or an apology. She cowered in her chair and kept silent, hoping to avoid the former and, strange as it may seem, the latter. Paul kept hovering there, but couldn’t force himself to talk. With a sigh, he turned around and left, ending the conversation that had never begun.

The next morning there was another smoky cab, followed by black coffee, a new to-do list, and traffic jams. The two assistants — one former, the other current — were getting ready for the trip to Paris. In the matter of just a few days, they became a team and had a tacit understanding with each other. One of them loved to chat, the other listened. They both did their best. And yet, while Rose’s motives were clear as day, Ella’s aspirations remained vague. Why would she help someone who had taken her place? This question kept popping up in Rose’s head, but in the bustle of their working days she couldn’t afford thinking about it for too long. She also didn’t dare to just ask it out lout, for fear of offending or pushing away her helper-outer. Little did she know that Ella would answer her readily, desperate to get this off her chest and share her story…

Little piece of shit. That’s what her alcoholic mother and older sisters would call her. As for the father, Ella didn’t even remember him. A problem child from a dysfunctional family. That’s what was written in her personal file kept in the police department of a godforsaken provincial town. Ella’s childhood was made up of an unremarkable succession of events: domestic violence, school fights, police records. At the age of sixteen, she ran away from home, or rather, fled the scene of the crime, boarding a train without buying a ticket. The young delinquent huddled herself up in the corner of a stinking carriage, like a wild beast, ready to get her claws into anyone who’d dare to approach her. She traveled a thousand kilometers and found herself in a big city. Hungry and scared, she wandered about the train station until stopping at a diner in the hope to get some food. “We need a dishwasher. Eat this and get to work.” Those were Dina’s first words to the girl who’d later become her friend.

The zest for life Ella had been cherishing for years finally found a way out. She worked in the diner all day long and stayed there at night because she had nowhere else to go. She did her best, knowing this was her only chance. Her coworkers, mostly students coming from more or less ordinary families, would not even consider to make a career in a station diner, but Ella dreamed of it. Dina was always able to read people’s minds (better than any X-ray machine could do!) and she was quick to notice Ella’s grip of steel and lively mind. She’d helped Ella ascend in her small business. Together, they would open new restaurants, expanding the chain and increasing their income.

It was Ella who scoped out the financial prospects and suggested that Dina start an Instagram blog. She was helping Dina with content and advertising clients. Their bond seemed unbreakable: The girls would grow and evolve together, soaring to new heights. When Ella came to Dina and said, self-consciously, that she wanted to open her own small coffee shop, Dina gave her the money, without thinking twice.

Then, at a party, Ella met a smart and handsome young man. As it often happens with young girls, she fell in love for the first time. Always bold and cheerful before, Ella suddenly turned timid and shy. A couple of months later, unable to take it any longer, she confessed her feelings for him, but the young man did not return her affection. Gentle and well-mannered, he tried to make it clear without hurting her that he did not and would never love her. To Ella, it felt like the end of the world. She sought revenge. It is commonly known that the most dangerous creature is a wounded one. She confronted his father — a high-ranking official — and Ed’s life was never the same. A well-placed shot to hit a bull’s eye.

Ella had been keeping this a secret for a long time and only told Dina all about it a few years later. That day, her friend was visited by a fit of gloom. As soon as Dina heard the news, she flew into a rage. “You little piece of shit,” Dina hissed. Ella felt a bolt of pain splitting open her old wounds. That was what they’d called her in her previous life. It brought scenes from the past back to her: her drunken mother, barking stray dogs, the train carriage permeated with the smell of urine. Three thousand days and the same number of attempts to prove the world wrong: She was not a little piece of shit. She was a good girl.

She wandered around the city, just like on the very first day of her arrival, lonely and miserable. Her bartender friend was pouring her the eighth shot of vodka when she dialed the number of Dina’s new good-for-nothing boyfriend. Two hours later they were lying on the sofa in the apartment that Dina had helped her buy just a month earlier. Having sobered up, Ella locked herself in the bathroom and cried her heart out. By the morning, she fell asleep on the rug.

She was awakened by someone’s steps in the kitchen: Someone must have been making coffee. A long chime of the doorbell. She ran out of the bathroom like an injured lion escaping the cage, but it was too late. Dina stared at her with her large dark eyes wide-open. Dina threw a brown paper bag to Ella’s feet and slammed the door shut. Puddles of juice on the floor, the smell of fresh croissants, and nervous male laughter. Ella drove like mad — or like an F1 driver — through red lights, without caring about pedestrians. When she found her friend in the office, she suddenly fell speechless, and only her eyes were filled with tears. But Dina flung mud at her, wildly and thoughtlessly, so Ella had to defend herself — the ancient life instinct talking. Everyone listened to them fight in utter disbelief. Their bond had always seemed so strong, unbreakable — tempered by time. Dina had once given Ella a helping hand, but then Ella had helped her out in return — more than once. And now, it was all over. Both girls went their own ways, trying to forget everything.

But one day, Dina’s number appeared on the screen of Ella’s smartphone. Ella took the call without hesitation. Half an hour later, she was already looking at a tear-stained girl called Rose.

Chapter 6

“Wanna go shopping? The flight’s tomorrow.” Ella was sipping her green smoothie, making weird noise.

“What for?”

“To dress you up.”

“No need.” Rose was checking the tasks off her long to-do list.

“Why is that?”

“Well — ”

“You don’t have money, do you? But Dina does.” Ella dangled a credit card in front of Rose’s face.

“I can’t see myself doing such a thing.” Rose blushed.

“And I can’t see you going abroad like this. This is Paris Fashion Week, and you look terrible.”

Rose didn’t say anything. She just sat there, staring at her planner, her shoulders even more hunched up.

“Hello? If you don’t know the first thing about it, I can help you, don’t worry.”

Rose got to her feet, put the planner into her handbag, and marched off to the door.

“Gee, what’s with the hard feelings?”

“I’m going shopping. And I know how to shop!” Rose marched back and took the credit card from the table.

“Alright. I’m going with you.”

They went to the largest shopping mall in the city. Sure enough, their first stop was the mass market shrine of the fashionable society — Zara. Rose immediately got into her snoop mode and began scouting the numerous stands for proper fits and colors. She completely ignored Ella who was muttering something to herself. A heap of clothes, a cramped fitting room, panting behind the curtain.

“How much longer?” Ella yawned, scrolling through Instagram feed.

A black silk dress, elegant open-toe heels, and a milky-white blazer casually thrown over the shoulders. The outfit was complemented by gold earrings and an updo with a few unruly strands hanging near Rose’s face. This girl knew very well how to highlight her looks. Beautiful decollete, slim ankles, and bright eyes.

“Are you kidding?! What the fuck?” Ella cried out.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why are you so freaking awesome? Now, I want to see it all!”

A training session for reigning beauties held by a Cinderella. You don’t see that every day! That evening, Rose taught Ella how to combine lace with motorcycle trousers, and wool with chiffon. Orange and blue? No sweat! Emerald-green and wine-red? A piece of cake! A genuine smile and elegant accessories. Who really was this woman? What was on her mind?

Ella was scanning Rose head to toe. She was starting to realize why Dina had chosen her. Dina was a shrewd judge of character and again, she had managed to find a diamond in the rough. All she had to do is to facet it, and then it would serve, faithfully and loyally, to its rightful owner. She had once found Ella and now she’d found Rose. Or, rather, found a replacement for the former.

Before saying goodbye, the girls hugged and wished good luck to each other. Each was pondering over something different: one over the past, the other over the future.

Then came the day of the flight to Paris. What could be better? Rose had spent hours scrolling through Instagram pages and had learned all the best angles for photographs. Me and the Eiffel Tower, me and the Louvre, me and a croissant, or colorful macarons on the Champs-Elysées… But everything turned out to be a bit more complicated.

For starters, Rose slept through her alarm. Then she ran around the house, a nervous wreck of a woman. “Suitcase, passport, handbag… Suitcase, passport, handbag,” Rose kept muttering under her breath, eyes wide-open. The taxi wouldn’t arrive. She kept calling and messaging the driver and kept receiving the same answer that was driving her crazy, “On my way.” Finally, the blue car appeared, and the bundle of nerves called Rose took the back seat. It was a slow go because of the traffic jams. Rose kept silent, trying to urge the car on by power of thought. When her agitation was at its zenith, the engine stopped.

“I’m gonna be late for my plane!” Rose yelled.

“You should’ve left home earlier, honey,” the driver replied.

Rose grabbed her suitcase, dashed off to the nearest bus stop, and caught a bus just in time. The bus was also moving slowly, with passengers embarking and disembarking, and arrived at the airport only an hour later. Rose showed her middle finger to the bus doors that had closed behind her, and the exhaust pipe coughed up black smoke in response.

Having surmounted other obstacles in the form of long lines and sleepy border guards behind their square windows, Rose was the last passenger to board the plane. As she walked through the business class cabin, she noticed Dina staring right at her. If one could kill with a glance, the flight attendants would already be wrapping Rose’s corpse in emergency paper bags.

On the plus side, we’re flying in separate cabins. Rose sighed and headed to the rear of the plane, unsuspicious of yet another ordeal. She had the most unfortunate seat neighbors: A man with aerophobia and a six-month-old baby with his exhausted mother. For the whole flight, the man on the right would moan and sweat, while the baby on the left would poop and cry. Rose felt nauseous and could well have joined their puke team, but by sheer force of will, she managed not to use the paper bag from her seat-back pocket.

She met up with Dina by the luggage belt. Dina was glued to her phone, while Rose tried to catch her breath and come to her senses. They were met by a Moroccan man — suit and tie. He drove a Mercedes-Maybach S-Class and took the metropolitan visitors to the hotel Rose immediately recognized. Naturally, where should a top Instagram star settle when in Paris? Of course, at Four Seasons Hotel George V.

Chapter 7

Rose took a quick shower to wash away the stress of the last few days, then slipped into her old sneakers, and went out onto the bustling streets of Paris. It was raining, and the Champs-Elysées were flooded with umbrellas that looked just like flowers. People were speaking all kinds of languages, as if the world had suddenly shrunk to a single small territory. Rose was longing to merge with the crowd. She opened her crimson umbrella and morphed into yet another flower in the city center.

People were swarming everywhere: by cafes, shops, and galleries. While scanning the shop windows and the faces of passers-by, Rose lost the track of time. The next thing she knew, she was at the Arc de Triomphe — a majestic monument that always tended to evoke a mixed emotion. Rose walked around it, looking at the sculptural groups at its base. She knew their names: The Triumph of 1810, Departure of the Volunteers of 1792 commonly called La Marseillaise, The Peace of 1815, The Resistance of 1814, The Battle of Austerlitz bas-relief. Terror in the eyes of the soldiers, frightened horses. Rose wondered what monsieur Gechter had been thinking about when creating his marble relief. Rose had loved history lessons at school, especially when they had covered the 19th and the 20th centuries — the time of rapid changes, incredible discoveries, and women’s fight for freedom.

Rose looked at the windows of various cafes and restaurants and finally chose a place with the sign that read: L’Alsace. A cozy room, warm light, fresh fish, and a glass of Alsatian Pinot Grigio. Rose ate slowly, with relish, enjoying the evening. She didn’t feel the urge to take thousands of pictures, upload them online, and get likes. After dinner, Rose walked aimlessly around the city and along the Seine River, and feasted her eyes upon the Eiffel Tower. The next day, the gallery of her old smartphone had lots of new photographs, after all. They quickly migrated to the Google cloud.

And then, there came the show day. Only a cup of coffee and a protein bar for breakfast to ensure a flat stomach and small waist. Dina kept silent, the porcelain coffee mug kept shaking in her pale fingers, clinking gleefully when being placed on the saucer. Rose tried not to look at her boss, skillfully wielding a knife and fork. An omelet, fresh orange juice, a piece of crispy baguette with butter, a croissant with jam, and coffee with milk. It was such a relief no one actually cared about your hip width! The now-familiar driver took them to a small gallery of modern art. Ed Mann, as stiff as a poker, was bossing around, raising and lowering his voice. He nodded to Dina and smiled at Rose.

A living antique statue and Alice from Wonderland went off stage and found themselves in a fairy tale. Powder, blush, eye shadows, giddy fragrances, and picture-perfect bodies. Dozens of celebrities from three different continents were surrounded by crowds of makeup artists and stylists and chirped in various languages. Assistants were running about the hall with Starbucks cups, mobile phones, and some kind of bags in their hands. They kept stumbling over the long legs of the models. The air was heavy with a pleasantly nervous anticipation.

Rose was running around among the other assistants. She was trying to be of use and was skillfully dodging hair tongs and curling irons that kept falling at her feet. Loud applause, flashes of hundreds of cameras, movie-star white smiles. The show gradually turned into a party with photoshoots and interviews. Champagne, appetizers, live music — the very feast of life. Rose shamelessly eyed the models and guests, happily munched on her croissant, and drank wine. Her joyful solitude was interrupted by a long-focus camera lens aggressively pointed at her. A petite journalist shot a series of rapid-fire images and said something in French, but the words got drowned out by the loud music. Rose failed to escape: The clingy reporter quickly cut her path of retreat. She shoved her microphone into Rose’s face and tried to shout the orchestra down. “How was the show?”

“It was fantastic!” Rose tried to hide an unchewed piece of croissant in her cheek.

“What grabbed your attention?”

“I feel like this is truly a collection for modern and free women.”

“And what is freedom for you?” The reporter kept pressing upon her.

“I believe that freedom is being able to make your own choices: How to live, what to eat, how to dress, which men to sleep with, what to listen to, what to read — regardless of trends.”

Rose had once read these words in a public page on Instagram. She had instantly forgot them back then, and yet now, for some reason, they bubbled to the surface.

“Beautifully said! And the last question: What brand are you wearing today?”

“The whole outfit is by Zara.”

The reporter thanked her for the talk and melted into the crowd. Dina was looking at Rose, a bright smile on her face. She raised her glass and nodded.

The next day, Rose woke up to the ruckus outside her window. Two pigeons were fighting desperately for a small piece of bread. Neither of them seemed willing to capitulate.

“Shoo! You’re huge, guys! I’d call you turkeys rather than pigeons!” Rose felt like pampering herself and staying in bed all morning, but she summoned her energy to get up and went downstairs.

Dina was already in the restaurant. Black coffee and a nut bar — that was the breakfast of a top model. Rose counted her blessings that she was neither a supermodel nor a pigeon and ordered eggs Benedict, slices of baguette, and a latte.

The traditional silence was broken by Dina. She held out her smartphone. It took Rose a few seconds to recognize the girl in the picture. It was her. A popular online community had published a post, covering the show of young designer Ed Mann. Half of the article was taken by Rose’s interview and her photographs.

“Congrats! Looking good.” Dina winked and took a bite of her bar.

Rose ran a rapid eye over the article, looked through the pictures and, just out of habit, moved to the comment section. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest and then gave a leap. Around a third of the audience labeled her as a self-centered, stupid and, of course, ugly woman.

“What’s wrong?”

“Have you seen the comments? They are horrible!”

“Come on, haters gonna hate. Welcome to the club. That’s what success involves. Even the smallest of your wins will make someone pour shit over you.”

Rose cried bitterly, reading the mean comments for the tenth time and choking with tears. Fancy that! Just a little while ago she was the one who had rattled sarcastic comments on stranger’s Instagram pages. And now it backfired, dealing a severe blow to the most vulnerable spot — Rose’s pride. “Have I deserved it? Oh, I certainly have!” Rose kept talking to herself.

Bathed in tears, Rose’s face immediately attracted the attention of the entire crew. Other models looked suspiciously at Dina: Did she make her assistant cry? Ed was the only one who dared to approach them. He asked gently if everything was alright.

“Rose became famous and got haters as a bonus.” Dina took out her phone and showed the disastrous article to Ed.

Women’s solidarity is a powerful weapon, comparable only to forces of nature. It can both destroy and heal. Sincere support without “buts” and “ifs” may give you unprecedented strength. And so, Rose dismissed somber thoughts and got to work. For good or for ill, she was the only assistant at the photoshoot.

She brought one cup of coffee after another, juggled with a steam generator and other devices, removed chewing gums from the bottom of shoes, held a reflector over the models, and helped the girls put on corsets and tighten the laces. By the end of the day, Rose’s whole body was aching, desperately in need of a hot bath. Where is the glitter and ease that we all see on the pages of beauty magazines? It turned out that photo shooting is a hard work. Just as modelling! Rose was especially impressed with the models. They walked an entire marathon distance in high heels without complaining even once. They didn’t eat, hardly drank any water and yet, they looked fresh and kept smiles of their faces. Their posh photographer from London grumbled and nagged at them all day long, but neither of the girls even bat an eyelid, showing impressive professionalism.

They were able to get off only after sunset. Rose entered her hotel room, collapsed on the bed, and fell asleep straight away, with her clothes and sneakers still on. In the middle of the night, she woke up to the sound of her phone ringing persistently. Rose fumbled in her pockets for the phone and reluctantly tapped the screen, bracing for yet another series of Dina’s gripes.

“Rose, could you come please? I need help. Dina needs help.” Ed’s voice sounded odd.

“What happened?”

“Everything is fine.”

The dawn was breaking when Rose passed through the heavy doors of the nightclub. Loud R&B beats almost knocked her off her feet — it was a stark contrast with the silence of sleeping streets outside. The air was tart and heavy with the scents of human bodies and tobacco. There wasn’t much oxygen left. Rose elbowed her way through the crowd, looking into the faces of music enthusiasts. It took her some time to find Ed who was sitting with his head low. Dina was lying next to him, on the sofa soiled with vomit. When Rose called him, Ed raised his head slowly, looking around vacantly. Rose helped Dina up, took her by the arm, and made her way towards the exit, jostling through the zombified crowd. She helped Dina in a taxi and went back for Ed. He was easier to deal with: at least, he could walk.

Half an hour later, the three of them found themselves in Dina’s hotel room. The lodger herself fell asleep on her bed. Rose desperately wanted to wash her face. She turned the faucet on and stood still, staring at the stream of water disappearing in the drain hole of the sink. When she got back to the main room, Ed wasn’t there. And then, of all times, Dina moaned. Rose hesitantly approached her and put her hand on the boss’s forehead. Suddenly, Dina foamed at the mouth, and convulsions shook her entire body. Rose grabbed her phone and reflexively dialed Ella’s number.

“What now?”

Rose sobbed.

“Calm down! What’s the matter?”

“Ella, Dina’s all shaking! And she’s foaming at her mouth!”

“Crap! Get her on the floor, unbutton her clothes. Then take a napkin and clean her mouth with it. Take her tongue out if it’s blocking the airway! I’ll call you back!”

“I didn’t get it! What should I do?”

“Rose, focus! Get Dina on the floor, take off her clothes, make sure her mouth is clear, and take her tongue out! I swear to God, I’ll kill you if you don’t do this right now! I’m calling for help!”