Common sense seeps out of my pores as soon as I step into 'libro che si divora', impatiently making my way to the regular shelf of favourites—the meeting with my clubmates long forgotten.
The bookstore is not quite aesthetically pleasing with all the mould splattering across the teal walls and cracks here and there—but still an absolute steal for saving up a penny or two.
The stale air is particularly apparent but the smell of old books overpowers the foul mustiness.
"Macché!" I roar in annoyance as I rummage through the wide selection of books — not finding anything that catches my eye.
The echoing tick-tock only increases my blood pressure as I look behind me and see the hour hand right over 10 am. I peel my gaze from the rustic clock and focus back on my search- Wait...10 am?!
I let go of the book with a heavy thud and check the time again while clutching the hem of my top. 10:01 am...shit.
I bolt for the café. I check my logs. A long string of missed calls—all from Mercella. Well, of course. At least she's present in her clubmates' lives. I roll my eyes while taking the claw clip out of my hair.
My steps pound on the pavé stones of Milan as I make my way through the busy streets, bustling with tourists and the smell of pizza.
I lose count of the number of people I say sorry to as I pass through the packed streets in my platform heels.
Normally, the smell of pizza would make me wanna sit down and enjoy a slice or two, but I was already behind the clock! Mercella was one of the worries, sure...but that guy wouldn't let an opportunity to point out exactly how unfit I am as a member of their "Prestigious club", solely made of sedate people, go unremarked.
I suppress the urge to scoff at the sheer absurdity of it all as I finally make my way to the café entrance.
I pause to catch my breath from running at my full speed and from the numerous bumps I had to endure to come here.
My wristwatch reads it's 10:15 am. Safe or not? Oh, I'll find out in due time, alright.
I brace myself for Mercella as I look around for a woman with dyed cherry red curls. As I scan the café, my nostrils are hit with a strong aroma of herbs and roasted olives.
I groan in frustration. Focus Viola. Observe, learn and practice—that is all you have to do. And moreover, this kind of opportunity doesn't come easily. At least not in this industry.
I finally spot the only cherry-haired woman sitting in the corner with four others on the iron bistro chairs with cracked enamel. Classic Mercella move. And of course they're all present and—pissed.
I quietly approach them, plastering a charming smile in hopes of getting out of what's to come, unscathed.
"The traffic was absolutely horren-" Before I get to finish my revised and planned apology masterplan, I'm interrupted by an infuriated man.
"You're sweating," he exclaims with a condescending look in his amber eyes. Alfons.
"...and smelling like you skipped scrubbing yourself altogether." He inspects my sweaty forehead with scornful eyes and continues, "As for the traffic?" I hold myself back from sighing after being late by twenty minutes, already exhausted by his degrading remarks. "I can count the number of cars with one hand—just like your awards. Three in total with painfully unknown value with no prestigious factor, made of cheap glass and smudged print on top of it to hide their imperfections." Fuck.
I stand there with parted lips and eyes as big as a saucer as his words make their way into my ears.
"I do not smell." I snap back, frowning.
"And I won't be hearing from a klutz who's obsessed with wearing the same black hoodie daily-" My verbal decree is cut off by Mercella, and I happen to catch sight of Alfons showing me a middle finger as he takes off his AirPods, looking mildly irritated. Jackass.
"Maybe consider...reforming that lazy attitude of yours?" She snaps back in displeasure while tapping her perfectly manicured fingers on the white pedestal table by her side.
"You're lazy. Tactless. And beyond ordinary, Viola. Try making flower crowns from the ones growing on top of your head. Maybe the act will help you clear your head?" She snarls while fingering the pearls around her neck as her grey eyes pierce through my hazel ones.
Oh, I know. I try not to flinch as her words cut deep enough to leave permanent marks as usual.
I nod, not knowing how else to respond as I take my seat with shaky hands at the table full of fashion journals, swatches of fabric cuts and magazines.
An astonishing number of illustrations sit on top of the table splattered all over, along with a few empty mugs of cappuccino.
I missed so much... And the sheer thought of possibly missing important information and transitions feels like a huge loss to me.
My brain works overtime, making up possible scenarios of what might've happened when I was busy flipping through Vogue and books on fashion history. It feels like I missed a whole week of weekly assessment for important projects. Not 15 minutes. A whole ass week. And it was simply jarring.
"Can I get a quick summary of what I missed?" I ask, hopeful as I skim each face. No one except Joseph looks willing to help.
"Of course, darling~" Joseph gushes as he grins like a Cheshire cat.
"So...our lovely Mercella decided we would be participating in the year-round competition." He pauses for a moment and lifts his head to look me straight in the eyes and continues. "A la moda." He leans back into his chair and resumes.
"A plausible date for the competition is five months from now. I simply can not wait! Can you, Viola?" He asks in a joyful tone and a suave million-dollar smile—his yellowish-green eyes distant as he looks over to Alfons.
Silence follows through as I soak in "A la moda" like a sponge and ultimately end up choking on my cappuccino.
"THE 'A la moda'...?" Mercella smirks as she rests her left cheek on her hand supported by her elbow on the table. I frown and upon seeing my frown, her lips curl into a full-fledged grin. Alfons is just...Alfons, with his easily distinguishable scowl— looking displeased and unmotivated to join in the conversation.
Emma fumbles with her lip gloss, looking distraught, and Hwan manipulates the complicated dials of his DSLR camera with practised hands, razor-focused.
I sigh heavily as I run a hand through my messy dark hair, thinking of possible scenarios ending with a horrible cliffhanger that almost feels illegal and totally uncalled for. Though not fully surprising as one might think with the level of expertise in this corner.
Participating in a locally hosted small competition? Easy.
Writing hundreds of columns for a well-regarded magazine? Manageable.
But participating in "A la moda" with only one proper designer? Outrageous. Absolutely so.
"Is this ok...? It's a highly competitive competition and we're barely-" Mercella cuts in before Emma could finish her words while running her fingers through the rim of her cup with an alarmed look, avoiding my eyes. How very peculiar.
I grab a pencil from the table and begin doodling with occasional glances at my wristwatch.
"Mother's order." She casually
remarks, forgetting to hide her grimace—possibly cursing her mother in her head.
I pocket a half-torn page from the table with geometric patterns and dressmaking elements in rough lines, close enough for me to discreetly take it while making sure no one's looking after pondering for a moment.
My eyes trail through the crooked high-necked blouse. And I mechanically begin noting which parts need fixing while rearranging the patterns and placements of the lace details.
And while doing so I end up catching sight of Joseph giving me a knowing smile while mouthing something and putting mustard on a spoon.
I cringe—crumpling the paper and shoving it inside my bag from beneath the table.
"I like your illustrations better than Alfons's." He mouths as he twirls his straw slowly, diluting the mustard into his drink with a self-indulgent smile before focusing back on Mercella's words. Fucking sleaze ball.
"She clearly has high expectations for us and we're going to serve.That much is clear." She announces nonchalantly, not bothering to look up from her phone. She arches an eyebrow as she takes in the state of Joseph's drink, full of mustard and lemon slices.
Gross. Gross. Gross. Gross. Gross.
I scoot closer to a similarly grossed-out Emma in an attempt to put distance despite being seated opposite Joseph.
Mercella scrunches her nose with a disapproving look and snatches the experimental drink from his clutches.
Joseph lets her do so without a fight.
Despite the big windows surrounding the café, the air feels stuffy as I recall the way Miss Darci looked at each and every one of the members with a scornful look while handing down the code of conduct for the club, the time she burned hundreds of portfolios in a workshop right in front of recruiters and students with a bored look.
I pick at the threads of my sleeves—braiding into small sections.
One particular point was written in bold cursive in the handbook.
"Fashion is the shiniest and most glamorous armour you could own—possibly the strongest as well. And to craft one is to seek the very core of one's essence."
I suck in a sharp breath as I lean back into my chair as Mercella fills us in with the rules and regulations of entering the competition—over explaining more than necessary.
"And failure upon placing in the top ten?" A devilish smile creeps its way onto her lips.
"Public disgrace and blacklisted from the leading events in addition to being scorned by the very people who run the industry." Joseph sneers, throwing a hand over a frowning Hwan's slouched shoulders.
He opens his mouth to possibly retort but decides against it right after and resumes snapping shots of the rustic pillars with hand-painted motifs, supporting the ceiling.
"So basically the death of essence in the sense of one's whole being dedicated to perfection and dreams." Alfons comments with a fiery look in his amber eyes.
Uh oh. I hate gambling. And even more so if the stakes are higher in addition to the potential risk factor.
I press my pencil too hard onto the paper and it snaps. Hwan's pencil. Oh well...
I instinctively glance towards him and find him staring at the pencil in my hand.
And upon spotting the broken graphite, he throws a nasty look my way before resuming his focus on his own agenda. Ok deserved. But come on!
It doesn't take me long to physically regain my position, and the reality of my millions of dollars scholarship at stake weighs on me as Mercella's words echo through my head. "Overstep your position and I'll personally burn your scholarship letter."
I choke down the bitter smile clawing at my lips. I'd rather let my pile of fabrics drown than let anyone here know exactly how terrified I am thinking about the arrangements.