Free The Cherry Blossoms by Denise Irwin Page B

she looked in the mirror, the reflection showed a woman with makeup smeared across her face.  Her red curly hair was a chaos of tangles.   It was likely that the morning editions were sold out, but if there was even one left, she wanted to see it.
    After a shower, Daniella pulled on her jeans, a cotton blouse, and a pair of sneakers.  She grabbed a hat from the closet to cover her hair and face.  She rushed down the three flights of stairs and out the apartment house door.  There was a newsstand at the end of the block.  She grabbed the last morning edition written in English, and then dashed back to her apartment clinging to the folded paper.
    She laid the paper on the kitchen table while she perked a strong pot of coffee.  When it was ready, Daniella sat at her table to read the reviews of the Spring Fashion Show.  Her hands shook at she turned the pages, but she had to know what the reviewers had written.
    The House of Margueite achieved the highest award of first place. The House of Geneviève took second, and the House of Jocelyn took third.  The writer had verbiage on each House.  She ran her finger through the other houses.  When she found the commentary on the House of Daniella, she wept openly, as if she were crying out in pain.
    “It is hard for this reviewer to believe that the House of Daniella earned the opportunity to participate in the Spring Fashion Show.”
    She wadded the paper into a ball, tossed it into the sink and burned it.  After throwing her coffee cup at the wall, she went back to bed.  She pulled the covers over her head as if she could ward off the Fashion Show Monsters.  Daniella heard the phone ring several times and someone knocked on her door twice.  She remained in bed wrapped in her cocoon.  In her comatose state she still heard the reviewers chanting at her, “Fat Fanny Danny”.
    The room was dark and gloomy when she pushed herself out of bed.  Trudging into the kitchen, she stepped over the broken coffee cup to pour a glass of wine.  Daniella turned the television on.  She sat on the small sofa and watched some late night talk show.  She stared at the screen as if she understood what they were talking about.  When she heard one of the commentators say something about the House of Daniella, she leaned forward, and tried to pick up what they were saying.
    “Quel dommage est que la maison de Daniella effectuée, si mal.”
    “Je suis d'accord avec vous.  Il s'agissait de son premier spectacle, elle peut revenir l'année prochaine et faire mieux.”
    “J'ai lu dans l'édition du matin que l'examinateur trouvé difficile de croire qu'elle s'était qualifié de montrer ses créations.”
    What little Daniella gleaned from that televised conversation, the announcers said it was a sinful shame that she even qualified for the biggest show in Paris.  She’d told her staff to hold their heads high last night, while she ran off to hold a pity party.  Hiding in her bed with the covers over her head contradicted what she’d told them.  She turned the television off, cleaned the shattered coffee cup on the kitchen floor, and then she poured another glass of wine. 
    Daniella took her seat on the sofa where she held her own commentary, “What the fuck do I care what they said.  We did our best.  I am blessed with a wonderful staff.  Our models performed well.  The truth of the matter is that I’m not French, and that’s the bottom line.  They can all screw themselves.”
    Fortified with new self confidence, she listened to her phone messages.  The first was from Michal wanting to know if she wanted to join him in Cannes for a week.  The second was from Grant asking if she were okay.  The last two were Michal.
    It was late, but what the hell, he’d left at least seven messages, so she called Michal.  His voice was groggy with sleep when he answered the phone, “Qui est cet appel si tard ?”
    “C'est moi, Daniella, vos appels de retour.”
    “You are