CHAPTER 4— THE KNOCK

The knock came again, louder, hard, boom boom boom.

Rhys put his hand in front of me, like he would fight.

Who is it, he shouted.

Open, Mrs Patel shouted, rent, three weeks rent, I know you are inside, I saw light.

I breathed, it was not Lorenzo people, it was landlord.

Rhys opened door, Mrs Patel stood with paper, angry face.

three weeks, she said, you said you will pay, where is my money.

I picked up ultrasound photo from floor, my hand still shaking.

Next week, I said, I promise, next week.

Next week every time, she said, she looked at my cheap suitcase, you came from America, you have money now, pay now.

I have nothing, I said, nothing, please, one week.

She made a sound and left, banging door.

My phone was still hot in my hand, Julian still on line, whispering.

Madam, are you there, he said, did you hear me, her report is fake, I have paper.

Keep it, I said, keep paper safe, hide it, I will need it one day, hide it Julian, please.

And sir, Julian said, he married her one hour ago, small wedding, no guests, he looked dead inside, like ghost.

My chest hurt, but I did not cry this time, no tears left.

Thank you Julian, I said, and cut.

Rhys looked at me, what did he say, what fake.

She is not dying, I said, she is not dying, all fake, and he married her already, today.

Rhys sat on floor, head in hands.

That bastard, he said, he threw you away for a lie, for a fake report.

No, I said, he threw me away because he never saw me, lie or no lie, he never saw me.

We sat quiet, rain outside, cold inside, ultrasound photo on floor.

Then Rhys stood up, fast.

No more crying, he said, you said call Vogue, so I call now.

He called, speaker on, my heart beating fast.

Vogue London, woman said.

Atelier S, Rhys said, S wants slot, Fashion Week, small slot okay.

Pause, long pause.

S, woman said, the ghost of Blackwood, the one who made Blackwood Paris win, is that S.

Yes, Rhys said, same S, but now she has name, she has face.

Send look book tomorrow nine AM, woman said, and cut.

We had no look book, we had bedsheets, we had dust.

Rhys looked at me. I looked at him.

How long, I said.

Twelve hours, he said. Nine AM.

We had no fabric. No model. No money.

I ripped the white bedsheet from the bed. It was thin, cheap, but clean.

Cut, I said.

Rhys did not ask. He picked up scissors. We cut on the floor, knees on dust.

My hands were shaking, but not from crying. From sewing. From memory.

At 3 AM, my back hurt. At 4 AM, my eyes burned. At 5 AM, we had three dresses. No, not dresses. Ghosts. White, sharp, like armor for broken women.

I put one on. Rhys took photo with my old phone, flash on, wall with crack behind.

No filter, I said. Let them see dust. Let them see we have nothing but hands.

At 8:55 AM, we sent. Three photos. One line: Atelier S is back. No more hiding.

Then we sat on floor, waiting, holding cheap tea, hand on my small belly.

"Outside, London rain kept falling "