ladyfairs:
It was a testament to the individual reputations of a designer and an actress that one of the most infamous diamonds in the glove was allowed into their suite without an accompanying guard five metres away — albeit it had been handed to them through the door, where two broad-shouldered men waited now.
But the more miraculous thing in this room — and a testament to Fabian alone — was that he could put a terribly sad woman into a collection of fabric and stitching and make her feel alive again. No matter the objective beauty of a woman or thing (as these two terms are often conflated), rejection was a hot poker down the throat, and it left the victim in a state of pain and silence until it healed.
But here Olivia was, stood upright with her shoulders back and looking face-on to the mirror, like a game of chicken with her reflection. Which woman would ruin the happiness first?
“Do I?” Such a simple question. It could have come from any girl longing to be what she once was. Olivia looks down, smoothing her hands over the fabric of her hips before returning to look at Fabian in the mirror.
“It is, without question, among your best work.” She pivots to the side, looking back over one shoulder at the new angle. There’s a smile. “It’s just what I imagined, Fab. Even more. You’re still my miracle-maker.” Her spin finishes in total now, facing perhaps the only man in her life who let her return the way she had left. “Thank-you.” She leans off the makeshift podium into a hug, pulling away only when the comfort of a warm-bodied, well-intentioned friend begins to prick at her eyes. “— Goodness. Bold lettering is what got me into this mess in the first place though, isn’t it? If only’d I’d paid attention to the subtext and not the headlines on that man… might have discovered he was a git before I married him.”
“The most beautiful frame is lost without a worthy painting,” Fabian tells Olivia, his eyes pivoting from the mirror and to real life, Olivia’s sky-blues staring up at him from her podium. “You do half the work.” The hug is unexpected — though perhaps it shouldn’t be. While his mind spins repeatedly around the words, no wrinkles no wrinkles no wrinkles, the warmth of her does well to melt him, so effortlessly it feels like a betrayal of his own senses. His shoulders relax under the tuxedo jacket, his hands giving her waist a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, darling.”
He takes a step back and offers her a hand in aid to step off the podium, the other holding up the skirt of her dress in prevention of a fall. “From what I hear, that is the only time one discovers anything. After the paperwork is signed and the curtains close. People turn into all sorts of things, some of them monsters.” The party awaits outside, but Fabian could indulge in familiarity for a moment longer. “Tell me. Are you thinking of the next, or are you done? Has the magic faded?”
