As Isabella closed the heavy wooden door shut on the end of a hectic, stressful day, she kicked off her simple work heels and slid down the hard surface until she was slumped on the floor of her apartment in Paris.
Despite having been based here for ten years, work here was still so different to the 'casual' work that they did in Parakiss. Heavens, to even believe that they had complained about deadlines before, was atrocious.
She sighed and ran her manicured hand through her hair. The day had started off on a wrong note with the power going off in the night and her alarm clock resetting itself. That started off a whole chain of events that completely ruined her entire day. She missed her usual bus and had to be quite rude to a couple of people in order to get a taxi to the work complex. She burst through the doors five minutes late, which simply didn't happen in this industry unless, of course, you owned the industry. As punishment she was given coffee duty and had to find a way to juggle six cups of the hot liquid back to their respective desks, only to get back to her own and realise her neck scarf was in her cup, soaking up her wake up latte. After spending the next five minutes in the bathroom, trying to get the scarf back to normal and failing, she plunked herself in a rather unladylike way into her wheelie chair, getting glares from everyone as the wheels squeaked loudly in protest. She was so very tempted to thunk her head onto the desk in defeat but decided she didn't really want a headache on top of everything else.
Despite her wishes she ended up with one anyway. She had been trying to replace some of the patterns she had been browsing through to help her with an upcoming project on a high shelf. The shelf must have been a little too high for her as the box came tumbling down on top of her head, the corner hitting her right on target. Papers and bits of material went everywhere and, as she sat on the floor surrounded by chaos, she moaned, rubbing her forehead and wondering what she had done to deserve this.
Isabella turned on the lights, realising how dark it had gotten whilst she rested on the floor. She slumped her way to the bathroom to clean up before having a light meal and going to bed early. As she ran herself a bath filled with lavender scented bubbles she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over her sink. She looked a state, not just because she had to get ready in a hurry but because the hard day had taken a toll on her. Nearly all of her long hair had come out of the quick bun she had put it in this morning. Her frilly white shirt had come half untucked from her long gypsy skirt (lilac of course) and what little make up she had managed to put on this morning had smudged. She sighed as she started to step out of her clothes. Her morning had been hard enough without George making her afternoon a living hell.
She had been working really hard for the past week trying to bring one of George's designs to life. It was a complex piece with a lot of beadwork and accessories to match. She had unveiled her creation to George, only for him to eye it off like it was… well, Isabella didn't know. All she knew was that he wasn't happy.
"This isn't the design I gave you." George stated, stalking around the dress clad mannequin like a hawk, plucking at the cloth with his fingertips as if it were disgusting.
"What are you talking about George? I have the design for this piece right here." Isabella said calmly. He often got side tracked, but deep down she felt a sense of hurt that her efforts hadn't been congratulated. She handed over the paper and waited, finding it hard to be patient with George clicking his tongue as he was.
"No no, this fabric is nothing like the designs, it's far too drab." He pointed to the paper and then looked at Isabella like this should have been totally obvious.
"It is like the design, George. We ended up choosing this fabric; it had more stretch and is more practical than your original choice"
"Well then, why are there so many beads- I would never have such a plain dress covered in such precious things." There was a stab of emotional pain in her chest. Plain? That was a straight-out insult.
"You told me it had to have a feature, something to make up for its casual appearance. I assure you George; I have followed every step precisely. This is the dress you wanted."
"Well I don't want it anymore. This is not me. Put it in a box and start over. I'll send you something else to work on, something easier for you." George sniffed, turned on his heel and flourished out of the door, leaving Isabella in a state of near misery. She had worked so hard to finish it on time and to make it perfect. She had been quite proud of herself. Had been. Now she just felt pathetic and useless. It was like George didn't even realise who he was talking to. For sure, this wasn't the first time that this had happened, but it was usually only ever a couple of things out of place or to be improved. A hem change or an extra bow. Over the ten years that she had been working for George in France, it had gradually gotten a lot worse. Isabella thought that maybe it was her. She hadn't been hanging out with him much lately, not for lack of trying. She made constant efforts to spend time with him but he refused her company, saying that he was busy. Isabella knew that he was out with 1-3 girls at a time and, if he wasn't with them, he was trying to make his way up the social ladder. It hurt the most when he did finally agree, but ended up calling her mobile half an hour late of the agreed meeting time, saying 'change of plans, something came up'. She always found it so hard not to cry with everyone in the restaurant watching her, but most of the time she couldnt help it. She simply wasn't on his wavelength anymore.
Thinking back on it now brought those tears back to her eyes. She sobbed, sinking lower into the hot, soapy water. She had spent her whole life devoted to George, only to find after years of trying to deny it; the he neither wanted nor needed her.
She sobbed harder, choking on her tears. She had to force herself to get herself clean and to carry on with the night's routine. As she slipped into one of her nighties, she bypassed the kitchen (she felt too ill to eat) and went straight to bed.
The only thing that helped her to sleep that night was knowing what she had to do tomorrow. She simply couldn't avoid this any longer. Her passion was George, but George had let her down. Even though she loved fashion and sewing, it wasn't worth this. In the morning she would hand in her resignation and then make arrangements to leave Paris…and George.