Catwalk (6 page)

“So what time do we get in to New York?” I ask Fran.

“We probably won’t get settled in our hotel until nearly midnight,” she says.

“Midnight?” Paige looks surprised. “And what time do we have to get up for
Good Morning America
?”

“They want us in the studio by six thirty.”

Paige does not look pleased. “So that’s like three in the morning West Coast time?”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t think about it like that,” Fran warns. “Set your clock on Eastern time and just forget—”

“So I’ll be getting a few hours’ sleep, if I’m lucky, and at three in the morning I have to show up at
Good Morning America
looking fresh and pretty and fashionable and chic?”

“Fashionable and chic, always.” Fran nods. “Fresh and pretty…? Well, let’s just settle for a worn-out sort of pretty. Everyone will know you’ve been through an ordeal.”

“Don’t worry,” I assure Paige. “By tomorrow, you’ll be looking gorgeous again.”
And
, I think to myself,
I’ll be looking for a camera to hide behind.

After a relatively pleasant and un-eventful
flight, it’s about eleven when we finally make our way to baggage claim in LaGuardia. Our internal clocks still seem to be on Pacific time, where it’s only eight, so we chatter amongst ourselves as we wait for the luggage near the airport office, where our bags would be stored because of the earlier flight. But then we wait and wait and wait…and you’d think that our luggage would be easy to find with all of Paige’s pink bags, but after about twenty minutes we realize we have a problem.

Fortunately, Fran is on top of it. She’s already notified a man who is trying to track down the whereabouts of our bags. “It sounds like they’re stowed somewhere else, and if we stick around we can just take them with us instead of waiting for someone from the airline to deliver them to the hotel.”

“I’ll feel better waiting,” Paige tells her. “Especially with
Good Morning America
in the morning. All my hair accessories and cosmetics are in a checked bag.”

But after nearly an hour, we are worried and antsy. “What
if they
really
lost our bags?” I ask Fran after she informs us that they weren’t on our original New York flight.

“They
have
lost our bags, Erin,” Paige says impatiently. “Aren’t you listening?”

“I mean lost them
for good.
”

Suddenly Paige looks like she’s about to cry or maybe just scream uncontrollably. And I realize I’d better not push this girl’s buttons.

“The bags have to be somewhere,” Fran reassures us. “And Paige’s pink luggage would be hard to misplace—for long anyway. I’m sure they’ll be at our hotel by morning.”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “So maybe that’s where we should be too.”

Fran points over to where our limo is still waiting. “Let’s blow this joint.”

“Watch what you say,” I tell her. “Security might be listening.”

Fran laughs as we hurry to the limo, but once we’re inside, it’s clear to see that Paige is not handling this well. In fact, she looks close to a meltdown.

“Are you okay?” I quietly ask.

Her lips are pressed tightly together, and it could be my imagination, but it looks like her nostrils are flared. “How do you think I am?”

I just shrug and glance nervously at Fran. I know my sister, and there are a few specific (seemingly minor) things that can totally unravel her otherwise unflappable personality. Things like: One, being humiliated in public; two, being observed by almost anyone when she’s not looking “picture perfect”; and three, losing her stuff. Right now I’m worried that we’re facing the triple threat.

“How do you think I am?” she repeats with a snarl.

“You’ve had a rough day. I know.”

“But you’re in New York City,” Fran says pleasantly as she points out the window of the limo. “Just look at those lights—this is the city that—”

“I am in the fashion capital of the United States,” Paige says in a monotone, “and my cosmetics and my hair products and even my clothes are all MIA. I am supposed to appear on national TV in—” she glances at her watch. “In about six hours. I will not be able to sleep. I have a bruised face. My hair is totally gross. My clothes are—”

“The clothes from the studio should be in our hotel,” Fran says quickly.

“Yes, that’s just fine,” Paige shoots back at her. “I’ll be dressed for the runway but I will look like I’ve been run over.” And then she starts crying.

I wish I could think of something to say, but I feel over my head.

“We’ll go to ABC early,” Fran tells her. “I’ll find you hair and makeup stylists and you’ll look fine.”

Paige blots her tears with a tissue. “Thanks. We’ll see what they can do with my puffy eyes,” she says with a sniff.

“You’ll look fine,” I assure her. “I’ve never seen anyone who can recover and pull herself together faster than you, Paige. And besides, you shouldn’t look too perfect tomorrow—”

“You mean today,” she corrects me.

“Yes. Today. You should look a little bedraggled. I mean, you’re going on their show to talk about the ordeal you went through with security. If you look perfect, they might not believe you.”

“That’s right,” Fran agrees. “You want to win the public’s
sympathy. Otherwise, you’ll look like a spoiled fashion princess who goes around complaining about everything.”

Paige seems to be considering this, and I think maybe we just averted a total meltdown. And yet I realize we’re not home free yet. As we get out of the limo and head into the hotel, I feel like I’m transporting volatile explosives, and like I should warn everyone (including helpful doormen) to just back off Paige so nobody gets hurt.

Fran gets us checked in, and then as Paige gazes at a window display of some elegant beauty products that are available at the spa/salon (when it’s open), Fran quietly gives me the key card and tells me to take my sister up to the suite. “Just get her to take a relaxing bath before bed.” Fran reaches into her bag now, pulling out a small pill bottle. “And, if you need to, give her one of these.”

“What is it?”

“Just a very mild sleeping pill. Right now, I think Paige could use one. In the meantime, I’ll check with the concierge about the clothes the studio shipped and I’ll see if he can send someone out to procure some beauty products—things Paige will need if her bag doesn’t make it. Why don’t you ask her what exactly she needs and call me back with a list?”

I’m not so sure about this plan, or whether or not Paige should take a sleeping pill, but I pocket the bottle and pry Paige away from the display case before she attempts to break in and snatch the beauty products.

Our two-bedroom suite turns out to be just that.
Sweet.
But Paige doesn’t seem to even notice the cool contemporary furnishings, big windows, or even the luxurious amenities, like a cashmere throw at the foot of the bed. Cashmere! But I have a feeling that nothing is going to impress this girl tonight.
“You get undressed,” I say as I hand her a fluffy white terry robe. “I’ll run you a bath.”

She just nods. “Thanks.”

I pour some fragrant-smelling bath product into the elegant tub and run the water, making sure that it’s nice and warm but not boiling hot. And before long Paige is settled down into the bubbles and giving me her wish list of hair and beauty products. While she’s soaking, I call Fran and relay this list to her.

“I just got a kit of basic personal products from the hotel,” Fran tells me. “I’ll give Paige’s list to the concierge and hope for the best. Is Paige in bed yet?”

“She’s just getting out of the tub,” I say, feeling more like a mommy than a younger sister. “I’m loaning her a T-shirt from my carry-on to use to sleep in.”

“Well, give her one of those pills and tuck her in and kiss her good night, Erin. That girl really needs some beauty sleep. And she’ll be lucky to get four hours at this rate.”

So I show Paige the bottle of sleep-aid pills. “Fran thinks you should take one of these,” I tell her.

“Good idea.” She reaches for the bottle and I retrieve an Evian from the mini bar and hand it to her. And before I can repeat “just one pill,” Paige pops two into her mouth and washes them down. “What’s wrong?” she asks me.

I just shrug and hope that two pills aren’t too much. Not that there’s anything I can do about that now. “You better get to bed,” I say as I take back the pill bottle. “Just try to relax and don’t worry about the morning. Fran and I will wake you up and you’ll be fine.”

She nods and then smiles. “Thanks, Erin. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“Just rest, okay?” Then I turn out the light and grab a quick shower. By the time I’m done, Fran is back.

“They’re sending the boxes from the studio up. I asked if they could have someone press them in time for morning, but that’s not going to happen this late at night.” She glances over to a closet. “Do you suppose there’s an ironing board in here?”

I hunt around until I find one in the bedroom closet. I make a fair amount of noise pulling it out, but Paige seems to be sound asleep. Then I remember the sleeping pills. After I’m back out into the main part of the suite, I tell Fran about Paige taking two pills.

“You let her take two?”

“I didn’t
let
her. I told her one and then she took two.”

Fran frowns.

“Is this going to be a problem?” I ask, anxious.

“Let’s hope not. But just in case, make sure that coffee pot is in the kitchen ready to go in the morning. I’ll set my alarm for five thirty.”

As I’m setting up the coffee pot, the boxes from the studio arrive and, while Fran’s taking a shower, I unpack the boxes and just start in on the ironing. Does it strike me as odd that my first night in the Big Apple is spent waiting on my sister and ironing clothes at three in the morning? Maybe. Or maybe some people are just designed to be caretakers…and others are just designed to need caretaking. Anyway, it doesn’t really bother me. Much. Mostly I just want Paige to be ready to pull off the morning show without any more unnecessary stress to her or to me.

It’s nearly four when I finish ironing. I pressed more clothes than needed, but I wasn’t sure what Paige would want
to wear and I was trying to cover my bases. I already told Fran to get some rest, and I’m just thinking about grabbing a nap too when I hear a quiet knock at the door. I look out the peephole to see it’s a bellboy holding a large Walgreens bag.

“Thanks,” I tell him as I take the bag. But he just stands there and I realize he wants a tip. “Just a sec.” I close the door and run for my purse, digging until I find a couple of rumpled ones and wonder if that’s enough. But I’m not about to give him a ten.

“Sorry, this is all I can spare right now,” I tell him. He just nods and mumbles “thanks” in a way that suggests he’s as uncomfortable with this little setup as I am. And I wish I’d had a five—or perhaps been generous enough to give him the ten. Maybe next time.

I open the bag and am surprised to see that he’s managed to get a number of the items on Paige’s list. I’m thinking she should be relatively pleased. Of course, some of the products are obviously substitutions and I’m sure she’ll consider them substandard. But you never know. Even in the area of beauty, I suppose that desperate times might call for desperate measures.

I arrange these things in the bathroom. Finally, I’m ready to get a little sleep, but I am not sleepy. After tossing and turning for half an hour, I get out of bed and go to the living room to watch TV. In less than an hour it’ll be time to get up anyway.

I’m just finishing up
M*A*S*H
when I hear an alarm ringing in Fran’s room. And just when I was getting sleepy too. But I get up and turn on the coffee pot, then go to wake up Paige.

“Time to get up, Sleeping Beauty,” I tell her.

But she’s totally out, flopped over on one side and snoring.
I gently shake her shoulder, but it’s no use. “Paige,” I urge, “you need to wake up for
Good Morning America.
Remember?”

“She’s not up yet?” Fran asks sleepily as she walks in the room.

“Those two sleeping pills must’ve worked.”

“They can’t have worked this well. You pour her some coffee and I’ll get a cold washcloth.”

By the time I get back with the coffee, Paige is sitting on the edge of her bed with a frown. My T-shirt is all rumpled and twisted and her face has the creases of sleep marks on it, probably wrinkles from the pillowcase. To make matters worse, her swollen cheek is now starting to darken with a bruise. Lovely. I control the urge to run and cover the mirrors with sheets. “Here, Paige,” I tell her as I hand her the coffee. “Careful, it’s hot.”

She nods and takes the cup but doesn’t drink.

“Come on,” Fran urges her, “just drink a little.”

Paige sleepily lifts the cup to her mouth, but she’s not very focused and before it gets to her lips, she tips it and the next thing I know scalding hot coffee is pouring down her neck and chin and she jumps up screaming and swearing and tearing off the wet T-shirt.

“That’s one way to wake her up,” Fran tells me with a hint of a smile.

I grab up the wet washcloth and hand it to Paige. “Here, put this on your chin and then jump into the shower.”

I run ahead and turn the shower on, adjusting it to a cool (not cold) temperature, and I practically shove Paige in. Again she screams and I wonder if hotel security is on its way up to see if we’re murdering someone.

“It’s freezing,” she cries.

“That’s okay,” I yell back. “It’ll help the burn. Just run it cool for a bit and then you can wash your hair.”

“I’m going to put together an outfit for her,” Fran calls out.

I run to get the shampoo and conditioner—Paige’s favorite brand—and run back and hand them to her. “Look,” I say triumphantly. “The bellboy brought these up last night. I think he raided the hotel’s salon.”

She grumbles thank you and I hang a couple of towels as well as her bathrobe within easy reach. Then I rush out and grab up the telephone and call for room service. “Can we get yogurt and pastries and some orange juice and maybe some kind of fresh berries up here…really fast?” I ask the woman. “It’s kind of an emergency.”

“Emergency?” the woman questions.

“Yes,” I say urgently. “Low blood sugar.” Okay, this isn’t completely true.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” she says quickly. “We’ll get that to you right away.”

I thank her and hang up.

“Paige has low blood sugar?” Fran asks with concern.

I make a sheepish smile. “Not exactly. But Mom and I have this theory about her. Ever since she was a little girl, we noticed that she can be seriously cantankerous when she’s hungry. Unfortunately, she doesn’t always realize it until it’s too late. And sometimes she skips meals because she gets the crazy idea that she’s fat. Anyway, I figured I’d better plan ahead. Just in case.”

“Smart thinking.” Fran winks at me. “I can see more and more why Helen had the foresight to put you on the team.”

I want to say something snarky like “you must mean the B string.” And yet, I’m not sure I really care so much anymore.
I used to care. It used to hurt that Paige was in the limelight while I was stuck in the back, making sure the generator was still running. Now I’m not so sure. It seems that being the front-runner comes with its own set of pressures and stress. I feel thankful not to have to deal with that.