Progress
At lunch, there was a fair for all the school clubs to try to attract members; tables lined the walls in the hall leading to the cafeteria. We ate quickly, then joined the masses browsing the offerings. I joined the Red Cross club again, the environmental science club, the photography club (I was feeling a lot more confident about my abilities), math tutoring, and the tennis club. I didn't know we had one, but we did, and some of the people I recognized from meeting them at the tennis courts this summer at the club were in it. There were public courts on the other side of the football field, and the club met each day after school as long as the weather was decent so most kids could work in a game. The advisor was the gym teacher who coached the school's tennis team (didn't know we had one of those either) so we could work to improve our game if we wanted; they said that some kids just wanted to go out and volley, others were really serious players, and the rest of the members spanned the difference.
I was pleased to report my chosen activities that night at dinner, and these extracurriculars combined with rowing made my parents happy. I'd also gone over my images with my photography teacher, who was really pleased with what I'd done, very encouraging, talked with me about composition, and helped me cull the images to present to Uncle Steve. I'd gotten some really good images on film and had printed the best for him, wanting to keep the entire set for myself. I paid for the chemicals I'd used, feeling that it had been time very well spent, and planned to touch up the digital images, watermarking them later before putting them onto a chip for delivery to my uncle. I showed my family my curated images over coffee, and they seemed impressed; Deri had been upstairs studying when I'd gotten home the night before and hadn't seen them.
I stopped by the atelier on the way to work the next day and was going to leave the chip and the envelope of prints, but the directrice called down Uncle Steve, who was eager to see them. The projector ran through the images on the chip, and he looked through the entire stack of prints, passing each one to his directrice. There was silence, and I started to feel nervous. But that was silly, wasn't it? I knew it was good work, I'd seen worse, and my teacher had also praised me. He was always positive about our work, but he was also a pretty tough critic.
"These look tremendous, Lys," he said after a moment. "I didn't realize how getting ready for a small show looked."
"Dorian and Suzy would love some of these images," the directrice said. "And Liu Wen. Iman looks incredible in the Fire dress. Indira is looking to build her portfolio, Monsieur Steve... May I have them contact you, Miss Lys?"
"I can just print the best ones and leave them here for pickup--"
"Never give away your work, cherie," she said crisply. "They know what the minimum rates are for a photographer and can certainly pay for these."
"But they're going into my portfolio as well," I protested, and she shrugged.
"So? Nobody will take you seriously if your work is free," she said. "And these are wonderful photographs. Nostalgic, you can almost smell the face powder, very female and powerful as these women are getting ready to impress. And Monsieur Steve, directing the effort. You should put them on your website, Monsieur."
"Ok, Josee," Uncle Steve said, surrendering. "And Lys, I'll pay you--"
"I'm getting exposure from this and you did me a huge favor letting an amateur shoot your collection," I said immediately. "I'm still coming out better than you are." He cocked his head.
"Are you planning on exploring this for a career?" I nodded.
"I think so. Classes this summer were really eye-opening. And my photography teacher thinks I have a lot of promise, especially shooting people. My landscapes are good, but my portraits and candids are better. I need practice." He nodded, then smiled.
"Well, my next collection will be for Fashion Week, and you can shoot that too, I'll give you backstage access and a place at the front. And we'll negotiate a fee; I'm thinking now that I need to update my website and it would be interesting for people to see what happens behind the scenes as well as out on the runway."
"Wow," I said numbly. This was moving pretty fast. But the opportunity was presented and I'd be an idiot not to grab it. The old Lys would have been self-effacing and probably let somebody less connected have the chance, but the new me... Lys-Anna?... was more alert to chances. I had connections, I might as well use them. I had a degree of talent. "Thanks, Uncle Steve!"
"Honey, if you grow into your promise as a photographer, I'm going to be able to brag that I gave you one of your first opportunities," he said, putting his arm around me.
It was good that Bob was self-piloting, I was gobsmacked as I went to work. AI Tony was pleased to hear of my coup and urged me to take full advantage of my access to one of the world's top designers. Uncle Tony didn't have a great history of choices when his emotions were involved, but he knew business cold and I had no doubt that he'd second his artificial personality's advice.
It was good to be at work, grounding to put things away, play with fabric, and talk to the customers. I was able to look around for fabrics for Miles, too. I had the sheers from Iris' windows that she hadn't wanted, so I could modify them slightly as needed; the windows in Miles' new place were a little narrower. Absently, I wondered how the cleaning was going and what Alfred had said when he'd seen it. If I were Miles, I'd have put in some preliminary work first, take off the edge. I had the paint chips with me; every shift I carried them in my pocked so I could check. Today we had some new stuff and there was a nubby dark, almost midnight blue. It was darker than his choices, but I wanted to build the look of the rooms in from the walls, and this would provide a nice background as draperies, a clean contrast with the walls. I snapped some photos of possible choices and sent them, then I thought about it for awhile and called him on my break, asking how in love he was with his palette.
"They're the colors I liked best from the paint chips," he said. "I'm not in love with them, if that's what you're asking. As long as the main colors are true blue, maybe slightly blue-violet like those samples you showed, and white, that's what I want. Something interesting. And I found some photos of a furniture style I like, I'll forward them to you and we can go from there."
"How's the cleaning going?" His sigh was long and loud.
"Alfred's having me do the first pass," he said mournfully. "Gave me a bunch of cleaning products, told me how to use them, did everything but pat me on the head." I smirked. "It's nasty in there. But on the other hand, now I know where my hard line is and that I don't want to let it get that bad when I'm living there." No kidding, I almost said, but there wasn't any point to discouraging Miles. He'd never had to clean anything like that at home, after all. We hung up, and I decided to wait on getting the fabric until I'd seen the furniture.
It was good that I did. I stared, dumbfounded, at the Gothic Revival pieces in his email. The wood was so dark that it was almost black, lots of peaked arches and detail. The examples he had were beautiful examples of the style and I could see the appeal it had for him, but no way could the whole small apartment be done like that. That much detail would be overwhelming, and the pieces were big. I had to think about this. There wasn't going to be a lot of natural light in the apartment due to the positioning of buildings; there was the parking lot outside the north-facing windows, but behind that was a tall building that cast shade.
I let the situation ride until the weekend, when I had time to work on it. I worked my full shift on Sunday, so after rowing practice on Saturday, I poked around some antiques and second-hand stores. I found an old trunk made from dark wood with brass strapping and accents, cedar lined, that could act as a coffee table and provide much-needed storage. I could get a metal stamp and emboss a design onto the brass strapping for interest and to make it fit in better. In another store, there was a folding chair that they called a Savonarola chair. The removable back was carved ornately, and the arms ended in lions' heads. It was also dark. And the find I was really thrilled about was a Gothic Revival brass bed, with a headboard and footboard modeled on a bed made by Pugin, bands of small quatrefoils top and bottom, and between, elegant tracery with leaf-like trefoils. At the center of the the footboard and headboard was a circle; the headboard had an elaborate quatrefoil at the center, and the footboard had a lozenge shape, enameled blue and gold, with a red shield in the center. The uprights and legs were all elegantly twisted. I called my cousin and arranged for him to meet me.
"I was cleaning," he explained twenty minutes later, and indeed, a strong scent of Alfred's lemon cleaners hung about him like a pungent mantle. I showed him the pieces I wanted for him, and additionally a couple of octagonal end tables that had gothic arches placed between the legs beneath the tops.
"The problem is that it's a small apartment with dim lighting," I said. "So a few strategic pieces in the dark wood you like, but we can carry that Gothic Revival aesthetic with other pieces." We discussed and looked, and in the end he bought those pieces and arranged delivery to the house; his apartment wouldn't be ready for occupancy for a while yet. We listed the other pieces he'd need; bedside tables, a narrow dresser, some stools for the counter, and a sofa. He'd had some thoughts about the sofa, and took me to see a very structured sofa, comfortable but not overly padded, and I was fine with that; it wasn't my sofa. It came in a white and had aggressive stain and water resistance, the salesman told us, so he paid for that too. A good day's work, all in all. I had some ideas and could run with them.