Preview of The Hidden Life of Aster Kelly by Katherine A. Sherbrooke

Preview of The Hidden Life of Aster Kelly by Katherine A. Sherbrooke

CHAPTER ONE

Standing outside Fernando’s Boutique on Wilshire Boulevard, Aster took a moment to compose herself before adjusting her glasses and opening the door. A saleswoman, wearing a luxurious silk and organza dress with pumps so pointy they pinched Aster’s feet with the thought of them, glanced up hopefully and then with confusion when she noticed the worn suitcase Aster carried.

“I’m here to see Fernando Tivoli?” Aster clutched her purse, the train ticket inside a niggling reminder of just how far she’d come and how little she had to show for it.

“I’m not sure he’s available.” The woman eyed Aster with suspicion.

“He’s expecting me. Aster Kelly.”

The woman told her to wait and disappeared behind a long panel of green velvet.

Aster tucked her suitcase out of the way and surveyed the limited yet stunning selection of gowns for women and dinner jackets for men on display. To the uninitiated, Fernando’s looked like any other small boutique, but Fernando was a couturier, and Aster knew well how the system worked. Anyone who lingered after taking in the jaw-dropping prices, inquired about different sizes, or asked to try something on, would be whisked away to a back room—likely behind that green curtain—offered a glass of champagne, and seated around a runway. There, models would take turns walking, turning, and twirling various dresses down the runway, hoping the customer would find something to her liking and place an order. Fernando was one of the youngest designers in Beverly Hills but was already a darling among LA fashion critics. He was also Aster’s last chance to break into the world of design. If she didn’t land an apprenticeship with him, she’d be forced to make the long trip back to New York, the first Fashion Guild Contest winner not to secure a promising position in the industry.

The velvet shimmered as the woman stepped back into the room.

“He’ll see you, but he has a client coming at three o’clock.”

Aster glanced at her watch, which said 2:50 p.m., certain her appointment had been scheduled for three. She’d arrived early and yet would have less than fifteen minutes with him. She told herself to stay positive and calm, then followed the woman behind the green curtain. Fernando’s back room was a smaller space for couturier shows than Aster was accustomed to in New York, but careful attention had been paid to every detail. Instead of musty wall-to-wall carpet, colorful area rugs suggested a living room. Similarly, the couch and two chairs arranged for customers were upholstered in fine linen, not the scratchy wool herringbone that generated static in every New York season. And the runway, usually black with scuff marks, gleamed with a polish that somehow hid the well-trodden path of the models.

On the far side of the room, a man squatted over photographs strewn across the floor, his back to Aster. He cut a slim figure in gabardine trousers, his Oxford sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A pencil rested on his ear and disappeared into a thick mane of jet-black hair. Aster could tell he wasn’t particularly tall, but he carried himself with the strength of a dancer, his back muscles flexing as he reached for various photos, flipping them over to examine the backs before returning them to the pile.

“I’m sorry to be rushed,” he said, without turning around. “I’m on a tight deadline. I see that you were in the book, but remind me why you’re here?” He took the pencil from his ear and jotted something in a notebook.

Aster tightened her grip on her suitcase. She’d spent the previous two days sketching more dresses, rethinking the order of the samples she’d show and perfecting the stories to go with each one. He was her last hope, and he didn’t even remember why she was there?

“The Fashion Guild Contest?”

He gave an almost inaudible grunt, a dismissive “hmm” suggesting the award didn’t mean anything to him.

“You signed up looking for an apprentice?” she added.

“Oh, Greta convinced me to do that. She’s a doll.” Warmth infused his voice, which had the lovely baritone vibration of a piano. “It’s always worth meeting anyone Greta sends.”

He stood and swiveled toward Aster with his hand outstretched, all in one grand movement. When he finally looked at her, he stopped midmotion.

“Wait, I thought . . . are you one of Greta’s models?”

Aster swallowed, trying to tamp down her dismay at the question and the flush rising in her cheeks. How to explain that yes, but no, not anymore. Yes, she’d suffered through the humiliation of walking the runway, the steady ache of starvation, the constant cornering in a back room by some client’s husband who wanted a “closer look” at what his wife wanted to buy, the smells of cigarette smoke and bourbon the only relief from the stink of his sweat, desperate for one of the seamstresses on hand to come swat him away. Only Greta could be counted on for a brisk interruption. Greta had saved her in so many ways, first allowing her to take home abandoned samples because she couldn’t afford any decent clothes of her own, then helping Aster when she wanted to disassemble them and rearrange the parts into new garments that would communicate more power, less sex appeal. It was Greta who’d spliced together the new creations for her. And Greta who’d convinced Aster to enter her best pieces into the design contest, to show the world what she could do.

“I used to work with her,” Aster said. “I’m here to show you my designs.”

He studied her for a moment, looked at his watch, and said, “Well, you’ve come all the way out here. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Aster hitched in her breath as a rush of adrenaline surged. She clicked open her suitcase and felt her way through the silk and cashmere to the garment on the bottom. She’d intended to show it to him last—it was nothing like his designs—but it was her favorite, and she didn’t have much time. She pulled out the black velvet tunic with sable fur sleeves cropped to three-quarter length. He reached out to touch it.

“The cut of these sleeves looks almost like Dior,” he said.

“They were . . . once.”

He laughed. “Really? And the tunic?”

“Off the rack, but I added the edging at the neckline from the piping of a Turkish pillow.”

“Interesting. I hate to ask, but do you mind putting it on for me so I can see its hang? I gave all the girls the afternoon off.”

“What about your three o’clock?” she asked tentatively, worried there wouldn’t be time to show him anything else.

He smiled apologetically. “There is no three o’clock, but I am under a different sort of deadline, so that parts true. Anyway, I’m intrigued. I’d like to see your work in motion.”

Aster’s heart ricocheted in her chest like the little orb in a pinball machine. She coaxed her shoulders to relax.

He showed her into the dressing room, a familiar place with a rack of heels in different sizes, hooks with backless bras, strapless bras, girdles and slips, and a robe for cover between changes. Aster took off her prim silk blouse and pulled the tunic over her head. She wished she was wearing something other than a brown pencil skirt—it didn’t exactly work with the tunic—but she’d been determined to dress as demurely as possible for her interviews. She appraised herself in the narrow mirror and decided she needed a little more flair to show off the piece. She released the twist of her bun, letting soft ringlets fall to her shoulders, and took off the thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. They were purely for effect and weren’t right for the outfit. Finally, she switched her flats for a pair of black patent leather heels. She thought their shine would contrast nicely with the soft fur of the sleeves.

When she came out of the dressing room, she found Fernando sitting on the couch sketching in his notebook. She took it as a cue to step up on the runway and give her creation a proper viewing. Before she thought better of it, old habits kicked in and she strutted away from him, turned slowly, and walked back on a tightrope, each step exactly in line with the one before.

“So you are one of Greta’s girls,” he said, smiling.

She wanted to curl inward, furious at herself for veering from her plan, but saw only kindness in his eyes. And she did adore him for calling the models “Greta’s.” Like so many women in fashion, Greta was the power behind several great designers but never got any of the credit. She’d been summarily demoted to seamstress on her sixtieth birthday and sent back to the dressing room to await tailoring assignments.

“I knew her from my time in New York. Another lifetime ago,” Fernando said.

He looked too young to have had another lifetime—was he even thirty? Aster reminded herself of her mission and stepped off the runway.

“I have other things to show you.” She took a step toward the suitcase.

He caught her arm and gestured for her to sit.

“Miss. . . . ? I’m sorry, your name again?”

“Aster Kelly. Please call me Aster.”

“I have to be honest with you, Aster. I have no money for an apprentice right now, and even less time, but I see you’ve got some talent. Tell me why you’re here.”

Hadn’t she made it perfectly plain? Her brow reflexively furrowed, all while her mother’s admonishment rang in her ear. Don’t snarl your face like that. No one’s interested in what goes on inside a woman’s head.

“What I mean is,” Fernando continued, “I get the gist—design contest, see the country, meet with designers along the way, questo e quello. But you’re a long way from home. Tell me. Why are you here?”

The question unmoored her. Her mind went blank, or rather was crowded with all the things she shouldn’t say: that she wanted to prove her mother wrong, to show her that people did want to know what she thought; that winning the design competition had given her such a false sense of prowess she’d been sure she’d be offered at least one job before the trip was half-over, and the idea of going back home having failed turned her insides sour; that she’d stupidly broken the heart of a man she loved because she needed to be free to take one of the opportunities that would surely be coming her way, no matter which city she might have to call home; that she would happily move clear across the country if that’s what it took to get away from scouring bars late at night in search of her mother, finding her courting a circle of liquored men, her father’s head hung low in the car; that she was here, in Fernando’s studio specifically, because the other eight designers who had interviewed her dismissed her after only a cursory glance at her designs; that if he didn’t give her a chance, she would have no professional prospects beyond secretarial school.

“I want to do something that matters.” She barely kept her voice from quavering.

“Okay then. Maybe you can help me with something.”

He moved to the arm of the sofa closest to her, suddenly animated. “I have the opportunity of a lifetime. I wasn’t kidding about having no money to hire you, but all that could change later this month. Sid Sawyer himself—do you know who that is?—he has invited me to audition, if you will, for an exclusive contract with Galaxy Studios to outfit his most important actors when they’re off-screen. As he sees it, how his stars look moseying about town is just as important as how they look on the big screen. He’s looking for a designer to run a regular series of private runway shows on the lot to pick out the right getups for their biggest stars. And I’ve got the first shot at it!” Fernando leapt up and clapped his hands together.

Aster quickly absorbed the enormity of the opportunity. Galaxy had one of the largest stables of stars under contract in Hollywood. Outfitting them for key off-set moments would be a boon to any shop. That kind of opportunity, plus all the press sure to come with it, could turn Fernando’s into an empire overnight.

“The challenge,” Fernando said, pacing now, gesticulating, “is that they want me to tailor for each actor in advance. The publicity people apparently have very little time and even less imagination, and this way they can see each selection on a model who is the same build as the actor and the outfit will be ready in no time. This whole thing is the kid’s idea. Sid Sawyer may control the money, but Sam definitely has the brains.”

Aster understood the challenge. Most designers in couturier worked with one “fit model,” making all samples to that one size. Pieces were custom-made for each client’s specific measurements after they’d placed an order and paid for it, not before.

“There are four actors I know I need to prepare for: Gary Cooper, Rita Hayworth, Bogey, and Bacall.”

Just hearing those names made Aster dizzy. This man, standing in front of her, might become the personal couturier for all of them? The whole idea of it boggled the mind. But why was he telling her all this?

“The men are easy enough. I’ve just got to get the build right. The women are the bigger challenge. I feel sure the girls I pick for this need to not only have the right figure, but the right attitude. They need to mimic the demeanor of the actress in question, or the publicity people won’t be able to imagine them in my clothes. One of my models is a dead ringer for Hayworth—sassy, buxom, a natural ginger to boot. But Bacall is a challenge. Come over here and tell me what you think.” He waved her toward the river of photos he’d been looking at when she arrived. “Here’s what I have to choose from. You know this business. Who would you pick?”

Aster relished the chance to show him her instincts, demonstrate her awareness that fashion went far beyond the clothes. It was a tool to amplify an attitude already resident, enhance an image without trying to manufacture it. You couldn’t be a top-notch designer without first understanding the kind of person who wanted to don a particular look. And you couldn’t be a first-rate model without acting the part. Walk the walk, as Greta would say.

She knelt in front of the photos. It was a difficult task given that she had never met any of these girls. Personality played a critical role, and all she had to go by for each woman was one photograph with a name and measurements scribbled on the back. 

“How tall is Bacall?” she asked. 

“Five nine.” 

Common enough among models, but Bacall was unique. She was lean yet had curves in the right places, radiated elegance yet moved with a certain determination, as if she thought a few steps ahead of everyone else. And even though her cheeks and chin line were soft, her eyes smoldered. Aster considered her both feminine and strong, the kind of gal who wowed in a pantsuit just as easily as in a bathing suit. 

Aster put aside two girls who were too petite, a few who were too buxom, one whose hair was too dark. She felt Fernando watching her every move, gauging her aptitude.

“This one . . .” Aster flipped over the photo. “Jenny has the right figure.” She tentatively raised the photo, but sensed something about her wasn’t quite right. “Christine here, though, has better coloring, and I get the sense she’s got more confidence.” She cocked her head to the side to consider Christine’s full stature more carefully. “Yes. It should be Christine.” She held the photo out to Fernando, hoping she had chosen wisely.

“Definitely not.”

Aster’s heart plummeted. She’d blown it.

Fernando crouched in front of her and waited until she met his gaze.

Something crystallized in his eyes.

“You’re the one,” he said.

“Me?” Her lungs seized with a familiar constriction of air. “No. I’m done with all that.”

Tears welled up, and she cursed herself for thinking he’d actually wanted her opinion. She was wrung out by the roller coaster of misplaced hope and abject failure she’d been on for weeks—four cities, nine interviews, more than enough opportunity to impress, to earn a chance. But no one had cared much for what she had to offer, most of them barely paying attention. And now Fernando only wanted to use her body.

“I need this, Aster.” He sat down on the edge of the runway. “This place could be the next Balenciaga, the future Jaques Fath with an opportunity like this. You could be part of that. Help me win Galaxy, and I’ll help you. I promise.”

He looked ready to kneel at her feet. He needed her. But he wanted her to do the one thing she swore never to do again. And if he won the contract—which she had no idea if he could—she would surely be expected to continue as the fit and display model for Lauren Bacall. But might she find a real mentor in Fernando? Could this stranger be taken at his word?

Or should she pack it up and head home? She was being asked to stay in this strange town—for how long did he say? A month?—with no guarantees. After the last three months of disappointment, the idea of running back into Graham’s arms, if he would still have her, was tempting. Although, if she went home now, she could picture her life exactly, and it would include a secretarial pool and too many nights searching the streets for her mother. If she stayed, maybe realizing her dreams was still possible. But could she trust Fernando?

As if reading her mind, he said, “Let’s call Greta. She’ll tell you all about me.”

Greta again. Just her name spread warmth through Aster, a rush of maternal comfort and protection she’d never gotten from her own mother. Greta was the one who’d protected her during those horrible years on the runway in New York, had for some reason adopted Aster as her own. If Greta trusted this man, surely Aster could too.

Years later, Aster would picture this scene in her mind and think of it as the moment before: before she met the man she would marry, before the fangs of fame dug into her, before her life became defined by lies.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

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Excerpted from The Hidden Life of Aster Kelly by Katherine A. Sherbrook. Published by Pegasus Books, 2023.

Preview of The Hidden Life of Aster Kelly by Katherine A. Sherbrooke