Chapter Sixteen

Hans called Ornette back to his building two days before their episode was set to be filmed. He had a collection of prototypes ready and he wanted to try them on her, as well as the dress he’d chosen for her to wear to the episode recording.

When she got there, Ornette was in a dressing room while a seamstress pieced the dress on her body. Ornette usually used a mannequin for such things when she sewed, but the seamstress in question did not believe in them. Model number twelve had to stand still while the dress was pieced and pinned.

Hans leaned against the wall in the corner and observed. He held a pocket watch which he snapped open and closed at the same pace the clock inside it ticked.

He was quiet for the first ten minutes or so, but when the seamstress grew quiet as she pinned the hem, he started asking Ornette questions. They started out harmless.

“What’s your favorite color of metal?”

“Tungsten,” she replied. She didn’t love tungsten particularly. It was a dark metal like tarnished silver. She chose it because it was a heavy metal with a hardness of 8, like a sapphire, and thus was harder to work with than softer metals. If he was asking her because he was going to make her something, she wanted to make it as annoying as possible.

Hans touched his collar like something about what she said had suddenly made him hot. His next question was, “Have you ever worn a piece of clothing made of chainmail?”

She had. It was horrible if it was against bare skin because the metal was cold. If there was something between her and the chainmail, it was fine. Otherwise, no. How should she answer him? It didn’t matter. Both answers were bad. If she lied and said that she had never worn it, it would excite him to imagine being the person who introduced it to her first. If she told the truth, she would appear more experienced to him and a man his age did not always have patience for little girls who hadn’t done anything.

“I have,” she said, choosing not to elaborate.

“What pieces have you worn?” he asked, his voice drawn and creaking like a door that needed oil.

“Everything,” she admitted. “Necklaces, tops, bottoms, dresses, gloves, and hoods. You name it, I’ve worn it.”

“Panties?”

“Of course,” she said somberly, looking down at the seamstress as if to remind him that they were not alone.

“Did you like wearing chainmail panties?” he pressed.

Ornette felt like clocking him (no pun intended). He sounded like a perverted little boy asking questions his mother would highly disapprove of. The fact that the seamstress was there and couldn’t protest probably made the exchange more enjoyable for him.

Ornette glared at him momentarily with her cold eye color doing the heavy lifting for her. “If you’re asking me if having metal between my legs turns me on… That’s a secret between me and my panties.”

He left the room.

Ornette glanced down at the seamstress on her knees, still pinning the hem. She did not look up at Ornette. She continued making the adjustments to the dress and when she was finished, she sent a message down to the design floor that it was a good time to try the jewelry on Ornette. She was wearing what she would be wearing for the show the next day.

However, it was a solid half an hour before Hans and a member of his design team joined them in the dressing room. Ornette was left to stand in her pieced together dress with ten thousand pins threatening to pierce her if she moved.

While they waited, Ornette tried something she thought might be helpful to Desmond. “Do you think long gloves would look good with this dress?” she asked inconspicuously.

The dress was charcoal gray and the company-brand red. There were watch cogs on the shoulder that had not been added yet that were going to be placed on massive ruffles of fabric. The cogs and ruffles covered a strap that was desperately needed considering the sheer weight of the gown. The boning in the corset was going to be exposed metal with the company name etched in over and over.

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“What kind of glove?” the seamstress asked because she was interested in design.

Ornette described a charcoal glove that would be worn on her left hand. It would need to come up to the elbow or over the elbow.

“The point of it,” Ornette explained slowly, “is to allow my arm and wrist to be photographed and filmed with the bracelet and ring on it without losing any attention to my skin.”

“If that were necessary,” the seamstress replied, “then wouldn’t it make more sense to have you wear a high-necked gown instead of showing off your collarbone and your cleavage?”

“Agreed,” Ornette said with a smile. “But my collarbone and cleavage aren’t dripping in foundation.”

“And your hand is?” the seamstress questioned doubtfully, but no sooner had the words escaped her lips than she understood what Ornette was saying.

“Just think of the glove as the satin lining inside the jewelry box,” Ornette suggested.

The seamstress did not wait any longer, but immediately started taking the necessary measurements in order to make a glove for Ornette’s left hand. “Should I make two sets of gloves or just one?” she asked just as Hans returned with the jewelry.

“Gloves?” he said upon entry. “Ornette doesn’t need gloves. She has beautiful hands.”

The seamstress was about to pipe up with the reason Ornette had given her. She had opened her mouth and was about to spill it all over the place like a glass of black wine that slipped when it was supposed to be sipped.

Ornette stopped her as cleverly as if it had always been her plan. “The gloves are not about me. The display of jewelry is not about me. It’s about your red. What if we made a glove out of your red and then when the crews film me and my wrist and my fingers with your beautiful ring on it? They'll see your red like the inside of one of your jewelry boxes. They’ll be taught about the beauty of your brand through the beauty of the shape of my wrist. I’m here to represent your brand, not for your brand to represent me.”

“The jewelry is already red,” he pointed out.

“Your charcoal then?” she suggested.

He took a step away from her in quiet contemplation before turning to the man behind him and clicking open the wide, flat box that contained the necklace. His movements as he removed the metal chain from the container were fluid and practiced, confident and polished. His movements alone would tell a customer, ‘I have the best merchandise in the universe. Do not waste my time. Pay full price and thank me for letting you wear my design.’

He turned to put the necklace on Ornette, but when he saw the ruffle and cogs at her shoulder, he turned again and returned the necklace to the box. Then he closed the box like he did not want the necklace to see what he was about to do.

“The design of the necklace does not match the design of the dress. She has this huge ruffle here. Are we selling ruffles? It needs to be removed at once. The dress should be strapless.”

“I’ll unpin it,” the seamstress agreed, stepping forward.

“No need. I’ll do it.”

Ornette stood as still as a memorial statue on the headstone of a grave while Hans unpinned the ruffle and changed the shape of the dress with pins and shears. Ornette was then touched professionally and unprofessionally. The jewelry designer Hans brought with him stood still and watched while the seamstress watched his hands without judgment.

“We can’t let her breasts touch each other. I want each to appear separate and rather out of the way. I want the bones over her heart to show so that her heart appears completely open,” he explained as he changed the pin formations.

When he was quite finished, he turned again to the box that contained the necklace.

Hans didn’t own her look until he placed a necklace of his own creation around her neck.

It was a more solid feeling of ownership than Ornette had ever felt before and she had been owned by many owners. The feeling of his metal creation around her neck was as real as if his hand were around her throat, threatening to choke her at any moment. The glittering of red blooming at her throat and spilling down her chest made the threat so much more real.

When he placed the bracelet and the ring on her, he glanced up at her with eyes that understood. The makeup was good, but not good enough to fool someone whose whole life revolved around the watches people wore on their wrists.

“We’ll go with a pair of charcoal gloves, but if you have extra time, whip up a pair of red gloves. That might be more stunning than I’m able to see with these old eyes,” he instructed the dressmaker without taking his eyes off Ornette. “Get her out of that frock. We’re finished.”

“Should I send her home?” the seamstress asked.

“Put her in brown paper and send her to my house. I’ve been asked to give her a tour of my home for the show. They’re sending a special camera crew. She’ll be spending the night, so make her up an overnight bag.”

Ornette was horrified to hear of that development, but she kept her disappointment off her face.

When she thought about it, it utterly thrilled her that Desmond could come and go from her room in the studio dorms without anyone noticing. Now, instead of her being back in dorms wondering if he would make an appearance, she had to spend the night at Hans’ stuffy old mansion. Boring and bony. He would probably grab her with his bony fingers when he thought everyone was looking.