Magdalena's Shadow, page 25
Later that day Coco met Paolo for lunch at a European style cafe that Paolo swore served the best food in Chicago, but as he later lamented, couldn’t hold a candle to the worst dive in Rome. Afterward they returned to his room. No part of Coco was ready to see Paolo as the monster Tia painted him to be.
“So, you have five hundred grand, a Chicago penthouse, a beach house, and La Sangre?” Paolo slipped her out of her dress and kissed her shoulder.
“And her perfume line,” Coco added, unbuttoning his shirt. “That’s got to bring in some revenue?”
Paolo shrugged. “Maybe. It will certainly need work. Magdalena never took care of her projects. She started things and then left them to other people to manage. If the people were competent then things went well – if not, disaster.”
Coco closed her eyes and remembered the Keeper. “That’s what happened to me. Magdalena hired people to raise me, and then never checked to see if they were doing a good job.”
Paolo nodded sadly. “Suffering makes us stronger.” He leaned in and kissed her.
“What do you know about Mama’s La Sangre label?” They slipped lazily into bed.
“I know Delilah Ramirez runs it. She’s a very hard working woman and cheap. She buys poor grade material at huge discounts. She uses Chinese labor from unmonitored factories. All her designers are contractual; if she likes their work she buys the rights to the single item. If not, they worked for nothing on an item they will have to hawk to someone else. She keeps no staff, no office; everything is done through her computer.”
“Sweat shops?” Coco’s mind stuck on the one key point. Paolo had been kissing her throat, his hand sliding down her hip, but he stopped to look at her.
“Don’t sound surprised, Coco. Half the clothes in your closet where sewn in substandard conditions by adults and children who were paid next to nothing. I use Italian workers, but my clothing is very expensive – too expensive for your large American department stores. Also, my designers are salaried; they’re free to be creative without worrying about starving to death.”
“Do you make a large profit?”
“For now, but as things change it’s harder to see the future. We do more online sales, but people want everything cheap. It’s good, it’s bad, and it is business.” He smiled, suddenly bored with the topic. “Let’s not think about it.” He rolled Coco onto her side, his hips pressed against her bottom. “Let’s just think about how well we fit together.” He ran a finger down her spine to the tip of her tailbone. “Let the rest of the world fall apart. All my factories can burn, China can rise up, and fashion can go to hell.” He sighed with deep satisfaction before rolling her onto her back.
“I told you no!” Coco swatted at his head when he kissed her panties, sliding them slowly off her hips.
“And I say yes,” he grinned, pinning her hand to her hip.
“Paolo!” Coco felt his kiss enter her body. “You know why I don’t like it!”
“You do like it. I know you do, but it makes you think of him….” His voice faded, his mouth playing over her core. She felt her eyes slide closed and remembered cold granite and a black dress, violently shredded.
The sex that followed contained its own violence, the emotions so intense that when it was over Coco lay next to Paolo and quietly cried. She thought of Rob. She thought of Tia and her thirty years of hell, and felt herself degraded.
“Why?” she implored after a prolonged silence.
“How could I leave his memory on your body? Now when we make love you’ll think only of me.” His answer brimmed with self-satisfaction. Brushing back her hair, he lifted her chin in his hands to look in her eyes. “He is your son’s father, but I am your lover. I am glad he was such a fool as to lose you. You are better off without him.”
“He wasn’t a fool,” Coco sobbed.
“Yes, he was, my love.”
“No, he was a good man. He was my friend.”
“And he left you alone and pregnant. You said so yourself. He left you alone with no one to care for you. You should wish him to hell. I would never have hurt you the way he did. Never.”
The words gutted Coco. She began to cry harder when she recalled Tia’s words from the night before. Even with Tia’s warning in her ear, she had fallen into Paolo’s bed again. When he attacked Rob without ever having known him, he inadvertently weakened her trust in him.
“It hurts me, Paolo, when you talk like that about someone I loved. You seem to forget that you are still married. What can you offer me but sex and empty promises?”
“You know what my wife is.”
“Yes… I do,” Coco answered through bitter tears. “She is a good Catholic woman who loved you and you broke her heart, just as Rob was a good man I lied to.”
Paolo lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes, letting the truth of Coco’s words wash over him. She felt an almost instant regret for the way she had spoken to him, and yet she was right to hurt him. He needed to be hurt. He had hurt her with his play at ownership. He had attempted to prejudice her memories while he conquered her body. He had done something she had told him never to do, and he had done it smiling.
“What then? Are we too bad to ever again be happy? Have I nothing to offer you if I cannot offer marriage?”
“I don’t know.” Coco pushed him away, leaving the bed to find her clothes. “What I do know is that no one will have any peace until we make things right. James needs a father, Paolo. His father. Rob needs to know he has a son, and Cristina deserves a husband she can trust. I shouldn’t have done this again. I told you before, go home and ask your wife to forgive you. Go on your knees if you have to. God knows some humility would do you good.”
Chapter Forty
The three weeks that followed passed in a haze of frustration and uncertainty. Coco felt lost between what felt right and what felt wrong, what she could accomplish, and what seemed too terrifying even to contemplate. How could she ever find an easy way to tell Rob about James? Hiring someone else to tell him would be cruel and writing to him felt the same, but telling him in person was more than she could cope with. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eye and tell him he had a son. Nor could she bear to witness the pain she knew he would feel.
Her one consolation was that Paolo was back in Italy, and Tia had chosen to stick to subjects pertaining to the kids and #2. She no longer mentioned Paolo or Rob or how far Coco had sunk into sin. Coco considered all of these things and more when she stepped into the hall she shared with #1 to collect the mail.
To her horror, the door to Rob’s apartment was wide open, voices rising and falling musically as several people spoke in turn.
“And it comes fully furnished?” a man’s voice rang loudly. Coco remembered the decidedly male decor, its dark rich colors a perfect backdrop for everything masculine.
“But we can redecorate,” a woman’s voice chimed in hopefully, the long silence that followed indicating a coming storm.
“The penthouse is well below market value,” a second woman added breaking the silence, “a steal even in this market, and I’ll be more than happy to connect you with a decorator here in the area, someone who can work with both your needs….”
Coco grabbed the mail, her heart in her throat. He can’t sell #1, she thought, before bolting into her own apartment. She slammed the door bringing Tia from the kitchen to see what was wrong.
“Are you okay?” Tia was surprised by how pale Coco looked.
“Rob’s selling his apartment,” Coco gasped. “Why would he do that?”
“Because he doesn’t live there,” Tia stated flatly. “Did you honestly think he would come back?”
“Of course I did.” Coco sank to the couch with her mail forgotten in her hand. In Coco’s mind he was always coming back. All her fantasies depended upon him coming back: back home, back to her, back to everything. When he returned there would be explanations, apologies, forgiveness, and he would hold her and life would return to the normal state of happiness it had been. Mila and Bebe would once more live like sisters and she and Rob would talk quietly with James sleeping in his crib nearby. But Rob was selling #1which meant he would never come back, not to her, not to James, and not to his home.
“N.V., you must know that La Sangre was always meant to be yours someday; that’s why your mother chose the name. It means The Blood, the tie between mother and daughter,” Delilah Ramirez smiled a hard-chiseled smile as she spoke. “I’m so pleased to have a chance to meet you in person.” The look on her face reflected the opposite. “This is exactly what Magdalena envisioned: a family-run company. I hope you will see me as a sort of auntie, someone you can trust to run everything for you.”
“Thank you.” Coco tried not to dwell on the reality that Delilah had tried to inherit Magdalena’s estate or be distracted by the noise and bustle of the busy restaurant where they met. La Sangre was a floating company with no offices, no employees, and no meeting rooms where they could talk quietly.
“I would like to begin by discussing production. I’m concerned with the price you’re paying for labor.” Coco indicated the spreadsheet that lay neatly before her in a prettily bound pink folder.
“I’m renegotiating the labor contract right now. La Sangre will have better labor and lower prices than any other U.S. fashion house. I don’t want you to worry; my connections with the Chinese labor markets are second to none.”
“That’s not what Coco means,” Carmen countered. “Coco wants her workers paid well. Chinese labor is fine. It’s these unregulated, substandard factories they work in that we object to. These are slave labor prices you’re paying. Furthermore, I’ve gone over your garments, Miss Ramirez. Your cloth is very poor; in fact, all your materials are substandard. We worked with better material in design school than those you use. Nothing is well made. The seams are weak and the clothing practically self-destructs.”
“Who are you, may I ask? And who’s this Coco you refer to?” Delilah turned a vicious look on Carmen.
“N.V. goes by Coco.” Carmen indicated Coco where she sat at the table. “N.V. is her modeling name. I’m Carmen, your new head of design. Coco and I don’t want slave labor associated with La Sangre or the Rodriguez name and we don’t want to be associated with clothing so poorly made that the discount stores don’t want it. Magdalena’s name shouldn’t be the only thing selling the La Sangre line. The clothes should sell themselves in quality, cut, and style. It’s time La Sangre stood for something other than cheaply made crap.”
Coco glanced between the two women. Confrontation always made her uncomfortable. Everything Carmen said was true, but she spoke in such an offensive way that any chance of negotiation or compromise was quickly becoming impossible.
“Well, Madam Design Head, please tell me, if my life’s work is all cheap knockoffs and poorly made crap, where do I fit into this new vision for La Sangre?” Delilah’s sharp retort matched Carmen’s insolence. “I’ll remind you that I’m under contract to lead this company for another three years.”
“We hope you’ll want to stay on with the label. It’s our hope that you will embrace the changes we are attempting,” Coco spoke softly, doing her best to save the moment. Delilah looked from one face to the other. Around them people chattered, kids laughed, and food was delivered; yet at their little table a mini-empire was being fought over.
“Neither of you have any real-world experience, do you? You’re straight out of fashion school and ready to take on the industry?”
“We have a thorough understanding of design and construction. We’re counting on you to help us learn the business side of the industry.” Coco smiled warmly while Carmen continued to look on Delilah with contempt.
“Well, I’m the last person to leave a sinking ship.” Delilah’s smile turned vicious. “I’m going to enjoy watching you run this small label without cheap labor, using expensive material, and a dead spokesmodel. I’m going to relish every moment of this while I collect my annual three hundred grand salary. And please don’t think for one moment I’ll renegotiate my contract to aid this little endeavor of yours.” She leaned back in her chair looking from one to the other. “What fun,” she added after the pause. “This is going to be as entertaining as a hanging.”
“I hate meeting at restaurants,” Carmen complained while they walked to her car. “No swearing and sure as hell no ass kicking allowed. What’re we going to do with her?”
“Pull a Tom.”
“What’s that?” Carmen glanced up at Coco when they reached the car.
“Work her half to death and then sell her ass the moment she’s too tired to notice.”
Carmen burst out laughing. “That’s a rocking plan, and just another reason why you’re my favorite little ho.”
“Thank you.” Coco slid into Carmen’s car, her bitter smile fading in light of the fact that Delilah was right: they didn’t have a hope in hell, not with the cost of labor, materials, and everything else. They would have to change everything about La Sangre in order to save it. Go smaller, pricier, and forget the mass market. Coco recalled Delilah’s comment about sinking ships. Yet it was their ship to sink, and they would go down with style.
“So, what’s next?” Carmen paged through the little pink folder Delilah had given them at the lunch meeting. It outlined La Sangre’s inventory and retailers. Jack sat beside Carmen on the plush couch inside #2.
“First,” Coco began, “I think we should design an entirely fresh new line. Then we need to find textile houses that sell quality cloth at a price we can afford. After that we line up a fair-trade manufacturer. Then we find stores that will sell the line at a price that keeps us from going bankrupt or we contemplate bringing in investors and opening up our own boutiques.” Coco looked at Jack who nodded slowly.
“Okay,” Carmen looked up from the folder, “do we know anyone who knows how to network with textile mills and manufacturers?”
“Just Jack, and he’ll have to learn as he goes. We’re stuck with Delilah so he’ll need to work hand in hand with her on the purchasing and manufacturing. You and I’ll do the design, cut the patterns, create the mockups, and make the lookbook.”
“Well, Asshole is used to dealing with difficult women,” Carmen said seriously. Jack only smiled. “He’ll work well with Delilah. You should meet some of his aunts. They make Delilah look like a fluffy little kitten.”
“Have you been permanently demoted to Asshole?” Coco looked at Jack sympathetically.
“I get my name back when my dirty clothes make it to the hamper for one month straight,” Jack replied. “The nickname is Carmen’s charming little way of training me to be more helpful at home.”
“Cleanliness is a virtue and only the virtues get to keep their names.” Carmen patted his knee. “Besides it’s better I swear at him than flush his dirty undies down the toilet again.”
Coco tried to fathom a man like Jack. He was always so easygoing that not even Carmen’s vengeful and controlling nature seemed to ruffle him.
“It’s a good thing you’re used to dealing with difficult women.” Coco turned an accusing look on Carmen who pretended not to notice.
The business of running La Sangre began with a budget, followed by a representative series of drawings created to outline La Sangre’s newly redeveloped line. When this was accomplished Carmen began sampling fabric at the best prices she could find. In the meantime, Coco met with Magdalena’s perfume people, praying that the product would bring in enough revenue to cover the expenses they would incur while improving the clothing line.
“Will you want to keep Magdalena as your spokesmodel?” Rolf Van Clisen, the perfume’s marketing director, asked from where he sat across from Coco in the firm’s lavish conference hall.
“Yes, of course.” Coco felt surprised that he would even ask such a question. “She’s why they buy the perfume. It’s her scent.”
“The firm believes that with her passing it might be appropriate to infuse the campaign with a new element.”
“Like what?”
“Like you.” Van Clisen gestured casually toward Coco. “We have hundreds of stock photographs of Magdalena, enough to take us into the next century, but icons fade. It’s desirable to create a bridge between the past and the present. By incorporating your image with hers, we’ll have a campaign that both new and returning customers can identify with.”
“That’s fine as long as Magdalena is included; I don’t want my mother cut from the campaign, not ever. It’s her perfume.” Coco felt surprised by how much this one point mattered to her.
“No, of course not. This new direction we’re proposing would place more emphasis on the Rodriguez name while still maintaining Magdalena as the founding icon. Incorporating you into the campaign, N.V., would only serve to help her image live on. Your image in the marketing will add a youthful vitality that will attract a broader range of customers. Perhaps when she’s older, Bebe will also be interested in representing the fragrance?”
Coco felt instantly protective; there was no way she ever wanted Bebe objectified before a camera, subjected to little French photographers or men like Tom and Blackwell. As the thought washed over her it turned from anger to sadness. Coco suddenly knew how Tia felt. In the end, Bebe would be free to live and do as she chose. If Coco ever asked her not to model, she would probably use Coco’s own words against her, saying, “I’ll do as I please.”
“Yes, she probably will,” Coco admitted. “Let’s work on branding the Rodriguez name. Schedule a shoot soon and I’ll be there. I’m flying to New York on the thirty-first.” Coco rose quickly. She grabbed her bag and left the conference room, horrified by the idea that Bebe might someday walk in her shoes.
Only days before Coco was to fly to New York, Rolf Van Clisen and his staff sat at a large table opposite Coco, the proofs taken at the shoot spread out before them. During the initial shoot Coco had wondered at the many ways they made her stand and move. Each pose had seemed bizarre. Now that she saw the result it all made perfect sense. The first photo sent a stab of grief through her heart. Coco stood facing Magdalena. Her right arm embraced Magdalena’s shoulder, holding her so close that their foreheads touched. With chins tilted in and eyes downcast, mother and daughter stood locked in a loving embrace that never occurred in real life.
