The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Fabulous and The Forsaken

A/N: Hello, everyone! Hope your holidays were a blast! I had time to write some more so here's another chapter for you. There's a small surprise in this chapter (which, if you follow the TMMM Facebook Page, you would've already figured out by now). Hope you have fun reading!

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To call the week that came next crazy busy was a bit of an understatement.

For many years, those who were sartorially stylish came in droves to Fashion Week, mainly in the top four fashion capitals of the world: New York, London, Milan and Paris.

It was an annual tradition—which happened twice in a year—for the rich and fabulous to sit in rows, previewing dozens of designer collections, showing off their own stylish ensembles, and getting their pictures taken with a ton of big names from designers to models to celebrities.

This flock of plump-pocketed fashion birds was too good an opportunity to pass up for the Championettes so five years ago, they started the tradition of hosting what had now been nicknamed as the Teaser even though it was formally called Haute Couture for Hope. 

For a weekend, just before the Spring/Summer Fashion Week stormed through its four destinations at the start of September, participating designers would showcase a few creations from their spring and summer collections which would then be auctioned off to the highest bidder, a big chunk of that bid money going to the Championettes’ charity fund. In the last couple of years though, designers started creating specific pieces just for the auction alone while still hinting at the theme of their upcoming collection. They were beautiful, one-of-a-kind pieces that were to be never reproduced once sold, driving the bids up to more sky-rocketing figures. 

The clothes were fabulous and for a good cause—it was too much good publicity material to pass up, especially for society big wigs.

It didn’t hurt that it put people in mind of the work that the Society was doing, and that their generosity would be greatly appreciated when the time came to write out the checks. 

The Teaser unofficially kicked off the Championettes’ fund-raising events for the rest of the year. While the event was mainly organized by the local association of fashion designers, the Championettes were tasked to do a lot of the marketing, inviting some of the biggest and brightest names in the fashion industry to participate. 

When I came into the Society, the designers and guests lists had already been completed, which was a bit of relief, since I personally didn’t know any big fashion leaders to talk into joining. I couldn’t even afford a designer label before I became Mrs. Maxfield a month and a half ago. 

But apparently, being a patron/patroness of a designer wasn’t required when you were an overly sensationalized society persona because Felicity showed me no less than five personally handwritten invitations from some major names who wanted me to walk one of their creations.

When Felicity told me the news with all her sunny eagerness, I half-choked on the cup of tea I was in the middle of sipping, and looked at her, feeling quite stupefied I couldn’t manage a sound for a moment.

“They want me to go out on the catwalk?” I asked her incredulously. “Even though I’m way too short to be a model, or that I’m clumsy in heels, or that I barely know more than half a dozen designers, much less know how to pronounce their names correctly?”

Felicity shook her head dismissively, as if my objections were no big deal. Armina and Clyde, who also joined our little afternoon coffee meeting, expressed similar sentiments.

“You’re unique—a breath of fresh air. And most of all, you don’t care,” Felicity said with a shrug.

I arched a brow at her. “Is my not caring supposed to be a good thing?”