On and on she went, trying to make me believe she was taking my designs out of pity, 'They really won't sell here'. But she took them anyway. Two weeks later I dropped in to see if she'd put them out. I hated walking in to her Main St. shop with its stained carpet and stench of cheap incense, mildew and pot - even worse was her cackling about color and texture to every
Panicked, I left the shop. Calling up the minion a few hours later he told me that my things had sold out and there would be a cheque for me the following week. Onwards to the next week. I went in to pick up my cheque first thing in the morning, wanting to make the whole ordeal as quick and painless as possible. Liberace-cum-Rasputin was cawing on the phone. It was just her and I in the shop. She gave me a snide, 'How are yooouuuuu...' and thank god she didn't try to touch me. I told her I was there to pick up my cheque. She went to the black binder and looked up my account - not opening the book in its entirety. 'Oh, didn't we call you last week?' she miffed. No, I called you and spoke to a guy that said my cheque would be ready today. 'Oh dahhhlliinnng, I'm sooooo sorrrry but your things were stolen.' WTF?
Onward two weeks.
I had been invited to one of Vancouver's most highly respected vintage clothing collector's home for a private sale. His private sales were noted as the end all be all and to be personally invited meant he thought you were worthy to view, and shop, his private collection. I was nervous to go, and almost didn't, but grabbed a hold of my gumption and my bff and off we went. Once we arrived my jitters passed and I was in all my glory. Encompassing my thoughts was one thing, how I wanted to roll, naked like a dog in grass, amongst the mountains of vintage silk, velvet, and chiffon that lay strewn around his old Victorian home. And then there she was, carelessly planted, like an invasive species, on the pink velveteen sofa, cackling, as a not so stellar jay - decked head to toe in my 86'd designs.