Catwalk (12 page)

“Stand up straight,” Paige commands me.

I comply, but I feel like screaming. “I don’t really like this dress,” I tell her. “I feel like I’m wearing a slip.”

“You said that already,” she tells me as she narrows her eyes, scrutinizing me from all angles.

“Yes, but you weren’t listening.”

“You’re right,” she concedes. “It does look like a slip.” She picks up another dress from the bed. “I know Dylan is a fan of Valentino. Try this.”

“Paige?” Luis is calling now. “Time to do your hair, sweetheart.”

“And put on those red Prada pumps with it. Then come and show me,” Paige calls as she hurries off to get her makeup done.

So I remove the slip-dress and put on the Valentino, which I don’t even think is going to fit me since, according to the tag, it’s one size too small. But it hugs me just right. I’m not sure if this line runs large or if I’ve lost some weight in our crazy run-around schedule, but when I look at it in the
mirror, I’m surprised to see that the dress actually looks pretty good. It’s mostly black, a heavy satin with red beaded trim. And it’s elegant, yet understated. I’m not so sure about the red pumps, but when I put them on, they’re obviously right. So I strut out to where Paige is getting her hair done and she lets out a happy squeal.

“Erin!” she cries. “You look awesome.”

“Ooh-la-la,” gushes Luis. “You look lovely.”

JJ, our camera guy for tonight’s suite shots, zooms in on me. And Fran comes over and nods with approval. “And you can be sure there will be press around tonight. You girls make sure to catch some of the action, okay?”

“I know just what to do with your hair,” Luis says as he holds up his thumbs and forefingers as if to frame my face. “An updo. Definitely.”

“Hey, Luis,” calls Paige. “Remember me?”

He laughs and returns to the hair station he’s set up in the living room. “Yes, my darling, you first.”

“And I’ll work on your makeup,” Shauna says to me. “I’m thinking
red
lips, Erin. And I know you like the natural look, but tonight you are going for full glam, understand? So get out of that dress for now.” And as if reading my mind, she adds, “And get over yourself.”

“I’ve got the perfect coat for you to wear,” Fran says as Shauna is working on my makeup. “It’s a sweet little Kate Spade swing coat that she sent over the other day. And it’ll be perfect with that dress and shoes.”

And so when it’s time to go, with JJ still shooting us, trying to get every angle, I feel almost as glamorous as Paige looks. Oh, I’m not delusional or anything. I know she looks absolutely fabulous. But I look pretty good too. Well, in a shorter,
more compact, and more sensible way.

Paige is wearing Chanel—a perfectly cut sleeveless pink dress, trimmed in faux leopard, and topped with a matching coat that fits like it was made for her. The look is classy but sexy and totally Paige. Her hair is in a sleek French twist, her accessories are also Chanel, and her heels are faux-leopard Christian Louboutin. All are perfect.

“Will Dylan mind that you’re not wearing his designs?” I ask as we go down the elevator. JJ has his camera down now so we can talk candidly.

“Of course not. Unless he’s some kind of obsessed egomaniac, and I really don’t think that’s the case.”

JJ’s camera comes back up as we walk through the lobby. But at least he’s being discreet, and it’s not like he’s the only one with a camera. The lobby is packed—and getting more packed—as fashion fanatics pour through loaded down with bags, bags, and more bags.

Somehow Paige moves gracefully and effortlessly through the crowd and I try to imitate her. And I totally forget about JJ. After all, he’s a pro; if he can’t manage this, then there’s no way I can help him. As we make our way outside to where our town car is supposed to be waiting, I can tell we’re getting more than our fair share of looks. And once we’re outside, we actually see some camera flashes. It’s obvious that someone either knows who we are or thinks we’re people he or she should know.

“Hold it,” JJ says as we’re about to enter the town car. “I want to get this shot.”

The sidewalk and street are just as busy and noisy as the lobby and, once we’re in the town car, it’s obvious that traffic is snarled for blocks. I consider suggesting we just get
out and walk, but these Pradas have very high heels and I’m worried I might trip and break something. Besides, we have plenty of time.

“This is kind of exciting,” I tell Paige.

She smiles and nods. “Our first show of Fashion Week. Sure, there have already been a few shows today, but there’s no way we can take them all in.” I can tell she’s talking for the sake of the camera now.

“It’s hard to believe that Fashion Week can go on like this for a full week,” I comment. “I mean, every day has around ten fashion shows, right?”

“By next Friday there will have been nearly a hundred shows.”

“Wow.” I shake my head. “I’m glad we’re not going to all of them. It sounds exhausting.”

“And if it makes you feel tired, think how the designers and their teams are feeling. Right now Dylan Marceau is probably on pins and needles.”

“Maybe even literally,” I add. “Those last-minute fixes and alterations.”

“But Fashion Week will be over for Dylan Marceau as well as some other designers after tonight,” Paige says. “Imagine what a relief it must be once your show is finished—and hopefully successful.”

“Then you can just kick back and relax,” I add, trying to play it up for the camera too.

“Of course, the price for this bit of relief is that designers like Dylan are the first ones out of the gates, while other designers still have up to eight days to see what the competition is like. And, you can bet that there’ll be a lot of last-minute changes being made in the next few days—once they see
what the other designers have done.”

“Really? Do they worry that much about what the others are doing?”

Paige laughs. “Count on it. Fashion is a tough world. Spies are crawling all over these shows.”

“With cameras?”

“Absolutely.” She points toward JJ now. “That’s why you need a press pass to be packing tonight.”

JJ grins.

“Packing?” I frown. “A camera’s not quite the same as a gun, Paige.”

“It might be like that for a fashion designer. Their signature designs are their livelihood. If someone steals a design or upstages a designer, they might as well be packing a gun.”

I kind of laugh. “That seems overly dramatic to me. But I do know it’s a serious business.”

“And an enormous industry.” Paige begins tossing out some shockingly large figures. “It’s not just the billions of dollars associated with the fashion industry—it represents a lot of jobs as well. Like you and me.” She smiles. “And we take that seriously.”

When we arrive at Bryant Park, it looks like a circus. The big tent is lit up and people and press are milling all over the place. JJ follows us with the camera as we make our way through the crowd. And when Paige spots someone with any kind of celebrity, she pauses to say hello—and if they’re willing, she does a quick chat as JJ films.

Finally we are seated inside the tent. Front row! JJ is in the back with the rest of the press. For once, I’m not longing to be back there with them. Tonight I’m enjoying this. Tonight I’m perfectly happy being a fashionista sitting front row on the
first night of Fashion Week.

Dylan’s show begins with Taylor Mitchell striding out in a brown velvet ensemble of fitted pants and a gorgeous jacket. At the end of the runway, she gracefully removes the flowing jacket to reveal a gold satin blouse beneath. The belt, accessories, boots—all is perfection. And the crowd shows their approval with applause. Model after model comes out, quickly making her way up and down the runway, never missing a beat. And each outfit is fantastic. Okay, maybe not clothes I’d be comfortable in, but not over-the-top either. And I’ve learned enough about design to know that runway fashion is not the same as off-the-rack fashion. These clothes are a dramatized exaggeration of what will be available to retailers soon, but even still, as I watch this show I’m thinking Dylan Marceau might be my favorite designer. Sure, some of his outfits, like the peacock cocktail dress with feathers everywhere, are a little weird, but a lot of them could be fun to wear. All in all, I can only assume that his show is a success. When he finally emerges, to thundering applause, walking the runway with Taylor at his side, it’s obvious that he’s pleased.

Paige manages to get some of the models, including Taylor, in front of the camera as she discusses their outfits. I mostly just watch, wondering how my sister manages to come up with so many questions and comments without ever sounding redundant.

“Okay,” she says to JJ. “I think we’ve got enough, don’t you?”

He nods and lowers his camera. “Unless you want me to come with you to the after party.”

Paige just laughs. “No, thank you.”

“Then I’ll head outside and see what kind of candid spots
I can catch.”

“Great idea.”

“And I told Fran I’d meet up with her at the salon,” he adds. “She thought she might be able to get a press pass.”

The after party is at a nearby hotel, but when I call for our town car, the driver tells me that traffic is too jammed to get through. “It’ll be at least an hour to get in,” he explains, “and it could be another hour to get you to the hotel.” I ask him to hold, then relay this to Paige.

“Two hours to go like eight blocks?”

I just nod.

She frowns. “I guess we’ll just have to hoof it.”

I look down at my red Pradas, which are already starting to make my feet ache. I cannot imagine walking eight New York blocks right now. “Are you sure?”

“What else can we do?”

“A cab?” I nod over to where a number of cabs are lined up.

“Those are either engaged or waiting. And even if we got one, they would be stuck in traffic too.”

I shake my head. “Next time I’m bringing some walking shoes to change into.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Well, unless a camera catches us. That wouldn’t be too pretty.” Paige points toward 42
^nd
Street. “That way.”

We’ve only gone a block and I know I won’t make it in these shoes. I’m about to beg Paige to call for our town car even if it does mean an hour-long wait, but then I see a street vendor who is selling, among other things, rubber flip-flops. I practically run to him, opening my purse and happily plunking down fifteen dollars for footwear that’s probably worth two bucks. Paige laughs at me as I do a quick shoe switch.
But she’s not laughing seven blocks later when she starts complaining that her feet are now screaming at her.

It’s nearly nine o’clock when we make it to the hotel, but Paige doesn’t want to go up to the party yet. “It’s probably barely even started,” she tells me.

“I don’t care,” I protest. “I just want to sit down and put my feet up.”

“Let’s go use the restroom, freshen up, and get a coffee first.” She frowns at my flip-flops. “And get rid of those things before someone sees us.”

So I comply with Paige’s wishes, but instead of dumping the flip-flops like Paige wants, I hide them behind the trash can just in case I need them later. We manage to kill more time drinking coffee and I even have the foresight to call and ask for the town car to pick us up at midnight, although Paige insists that’s too early.

Finally it’s 9:45 and Paige thinks it’s okay to go up. As it turns out, she was right. The party does seem to be just beginning as people are trickling in. But Paige immediately finds someone and starts chatting and schmoozing—almost as if she thinks she’s on camera still—while I try not to look too awkward as I stand beside her. We continue to move around, “working the room,” as she says. And, although I’m tired and just want to kick back a little, I soon realize there aren’t too many places left to sit. The few chairs available are near people significantly older than I am, so I know I’ll look like a serious party pooper if I join them.

It doesn’t take long to figure out that this party is mostly about being seen. I notice there are a few cameras here and I wonder why we didn’t have JJ come too. After an hour or so, Dylan spots us and waves. Then, to my surprise, he comes
right over. He takes Paige’s hands in his and they exchange air kisses as she congratulates him on his show. And then, to my huge relief, he invites us to join him at his table, where there are
chairs.

Champagne is flowing and I don’t throw a hissy fit when Paige accepts a glass. And to show I’m a good sport, I accept a glass too. But I mostly just pretend to sip it. I really don’t like the taste anyway.

“Hey, everyone,” says Taylor Mitchell as she and two other beautiful girls come to our table. “Room for more?”

“Always for you girls,” Dylan tells her. Then he waves to one of the waiters, asking him to round up three more chairs.

“This is my best friend, DJ,” Taylor says as they sit down with us. “Her grandmother is Katherine Carter—”

“You’re Katherine Carter’s granddaughter!” Paige exclaims as she shakes DJ’s hand. “You’re a professional model too, right?”

DJ kind of shrugs. “Not really. I mean, I’ve done some work, but I’m mostly a student now.”

“We’re trying to talk her into coming back to New York this summer,” Taylor says. “She has no problem finding work.”

“And you don’t want to do that?” Paige looks shocked.

DJ looks uncomfortable now, like this isn’t really her thing. I think maybe I can relate to this girl. Then Taylor introduces us to her roommate, Eliza Wilton.

“And you’re a model too.” Paige smiles at her.

“I am for now,” Eliza says lightly. “I hear you girls are going to stay with us for a day or two after Fashion Week.”

Paige talks a bit about our show now and what she’d like to accomplish when we’re at their apartment. “Kind of a day in the life of a model sort of thing,” she says finally. And then
they’re all talking about Dylan’s brilliant show tonight and congratulating him on his fall lineup. I realize that DJ, who’s sitting next to me, doesn’t seem to be fully engaged in this conversation. Of course, I’m not either.

“So, let me guess,” I say to her. “You’re not as into fashion as Taylor and Eliza?”