Catwalk (8 page)

“I’m ruined,” Paige moans.

“I’m exhausted,” I say as I head back to my bed. I’m irked at my sister’s prima donna attitude. And I can’t believe I have thirteen more days to put up with her in New York. For this I should get battle pay!

We all sleep for a couple of hours until we wake
to the sound of someone at the door. It seems our lost luggage has finally found its way to our hotel. The bellboy rolls in a brass cart loaded with a small mountain of pink luggage, as well as a few other bags, and Paige breaks into her happy dance. I can’t help but smile as I see my sister’s eyes light up like Christmas as she embraces her cosmetic bag. But at least she’s in a better mood. In fact we all are, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s getting tweets and texts and emails and all kinds of encouragement from sympathetic fans.

“How about we clean up and go out for a late lunch,” Fran suggests. “And maybe do some shopping or see some sights.”

“Yes!” exclaims Paige. “I want to see Saks Fifth Avenue, Lord and Taylor, Bergdorf Goodman, Tiffany’s—”

“And I’d like to see the Museum of Modern Art,” I add.

“All very doable,” Fran assures us. “And tonight I have a surprise for you.”

“What kind of a surprise?” I ask.

“A surprise-surprise.” Fran has a mischievous grin.

Now this has me worried. What if she or Helen have arranged for us to do something with publicity? What if we’ll be on camera again? I feel like I need some space from the limelight, if only for a day.

“Don’t frown like that, Erin. It’ll be fun,” she assures me.

“Yeah,” calls Paige as she totes her bags off to the bathroom where I’m guessing she’ll spend at least an hour repairing her face and hair. “This is New York City—we’re supposed to have some fun.”

“Hey, I’m totally down with fun,” I tell them. “I just want to make sure it’s not work-related fun, you know?”

Fran laughs then lowers her voice. “Okay, I get you. Don’t tell Paige, but I happen to have three really good tickets to
Wicked.
”

“You’re kidding!” I nod eagerly. “
That
sounds like fun.”

Not surprisingly I’m dressed and ready to roll, but Paige is just emerging from the shower. And while I understand her need for a second shower with the right shampoos and things, I’m antsy to get out there and see some of the city.

“Why don’t you grab a taxi and head on over to MoMA,” Fran tells me when she finds me pacing in the living room.

“Momma?”

“M-o-M-A—Museum of Modern Art.”

“Oh, right.”

“It’s not too far from the shopping district, and we can meet up for lunch.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No. I’ll give you a call when I figure out where and when we can meet. You might want to grab a quick street snack in the meantime though.”

So just like that I am
free.
With my digital camera in
my backpack, I head down the elevator and the next thing I know I’m cruising through midtown Manhattan in the back of a yellow cab. And soon I’m looking up at the Museum of Modern Art and munching on a giant pretzel. Life is good. I start off with the photography section, trying to take it all in and feeling slightly overwhelmed…and inspired. Then I go up to look at paintings and sculptures. I’m amazed and impressed with the selection of artists—there’s Cézanne and Gauguin and Picasso and so many more that it too is almost overwhelming. But it’s Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
painting that captivates me and I stare at it for quite some time.

I’m just checking out the lineup of films and trailers offered at the museum when my phone rings and it’s time to meet Fran and Paige for a very late lunch. Fran tells me the name of the restaurant and I reluctantly leave MoMA with a promise to myself to come back here during my next “day off.” I really want to see the Mike Nichols exhibition if I get the chance.

“So what do you think of New York so far?” Fran asks after I join them in a small Italian restaurant near the shopping district.

“Very cool,” I tell her as I look over the menu. “I think I could spend several days at MoMA alone without getting even slightly bored.”

Paige holds up a Bergdorf Goodman bag and smirks. “And Fran practically dragged me away from the Bergdorf Goodman cosmetics counter.”

“Yes, after being without her makeup for twenty-four hours, you’d think the girl had died and gone to heaven.”

“Hey.” Paige shakes a finger at Fran. “Ask anyone in fashion about how they’d feel being forced onto national TV
without their own personal makeup and I’m sure they’d feel the same.”

“Not to mention that you were drugged up,” I add.

“And recovering from a security mugging.” Fran nods. “Okay, we’ll cut you some slack this time, Paige.”

“Thank you.”

Because we’re all starving and because this is an Italian restaurant, we have no problem figuring out what to eat. I go for their lasagna, Paige tries the chicken parmesan, and Fran goes all out with a small pizza.

“Tomorrow I go on a diet,” Paige announces after we’re done.

“Hey, this was our first real meal in two days,” I tell her.

“And we’ll have to call it an early dinner too,” Fran points out.

“Does Paige know where we’re going tonight?” I ask.

“You mean you know?” Paige puts on a pouty face.

“Okay, fine,” Fran tells her. “I’ve got tickets to
Wicked
!”

“Sweet!” Paige is all smiles now. “I’ve been dying to see that. I heard they were coming to LA, but this is way better.”

I’m not sure if it’s the lasagna or the lack of sleep last night or just plain jet lag, but I’m seriously sleepy now. “I don’t know about you guys,” I tell them. “But I want to be awake for the musical so maybe I’ll head back to the hotel for a nap.”

“Not me,” Paige announces. “I plan to shop for at least another hour or two.”

So, once again, we part ways. As I hop in a cab to return to the hotel, I’m thinking how great it is to have this unexpected little break today. It’s like a Paige break. As much as I love my sister, I needed it. Back at the hotel, it’s fun having the whole place to myself. I try to imagine what it would be like if
I
was the Prima Donna Princess instead of Paige. How would it feel to have everyone catering to me, ironing my clothes, ordering me strawberries, making me a bath? But then I’m sure I’d just feel silly. Really, I’d rather do it for myself. And so I make my own cup of green tea and I draw my own steaming bubble bath…and finally I snag the cashmere blanket and get into the neatly made bed (compliments of housekeeping) to settle down for a nice relaxing nap.

By the time I wake up it’s after six and Paige is coming into the room with a bunch of shopping bags, going on and on about how great the shopping in New York is and how it beats LA. And she’s trying on a new pair of lime green shoes and squirting herself with perfume.

“Prada Infusion d’Iris…sent here by Prada.” She sighs dreamily. “Along with a bunch of other Prada goodies too. Can you believe it, Erin? Prada knows my name.”

“Who exactly is Prada anyway?” I sit up in bed and watch her. “I mean, I know that Michael Kors is Michael Kors—at least I think he is.”

“Kors was actually born Karl Anderson Jr.,” Paige informs me.

“But he’s a real person, right?”

She’s removing something from a large bag. “Yes, a real person.” She holds up a pale green dress with a bold black stripe running diagonally through it and smiles.

“And Ralph Lauren is really Ralph Lauren and Liz Claiborne was really Liz Claiborne and Tommy Hilfiger is—”

“Erin?” Paige pulls her eyes away from the striking dress and stares at me like I’m nuts. “What exactly
is
your point?”

“Who is Prada?”

“Oh.” She laughs. “Well, Prada is the family name and the
name of the company. It was just leather back when it was started by Fratelli and Mario Prada, back in Milan, like about one hundred years ago.”

“Seriously?”

She nods then turns to look at herself in the mirror as she holds up the dress like she’s trying to see how it goes with the shoes—and I have to admit it actually looks really good. “And later on Mario’s daughter-in-law…or maybe it was his granddaughter—I can’t remember exactly—but Miuccia Prada came on board, like in the seventies, I think. Remember I told you about Miu Miu?”

I just nod.

“Well, Miu Miu is her line, which came later. So anyway, in the seventies, Miuccia began to modernize the House of Prada by producing things beyond luggage. She came out with the famous Prada handbag and then went on to belts and a pretty sleek line of clothes that was totally revolutionary to fashion in the eighties and then, of course, their shoes.” She holds out a foot. “They are rather famous for their shoes.”

“So is
Miuccia
Prada the Prada we’re talking about when we’re talking about Prada?”

Paige gives me a tolerant smile as she carefully removes the pale green dress from the padded hanger. “Yes, something like that…you’re learning.”

“And so Miuccia sent you the perfume?”

She laughs “Well, not personally. But someone in the House of Prada did. And that’s enough for me.”

As she slips on the dress, I decide maybe it’s time to get out of bed and think about getting dressed myself.

“How do I look?” she asks as she turns around to show me her outfit.

“Fantastic,” I tell her. “That color is really good on you.”

“Guess which designer?”

I go for the obvious. “Prada?”

“Close.” She chuckles. “
Miu Miu.
” And now she’s strutting back and forth between our bedroom and bathroom like she’s in a fashion show.

“Pretty funny,” I tell her. “You looked like something the cat dragged in this morning and tonight you look like you could do the Prada
cat
walk.”

She chuckles. “Well, thank you…I guess.” Her hair flips as she does a quick turn then stops suddenly, turning to me as if an idea has just occurred to her. “You know, Erin, Prada is one of the few designers who actually features new models at Fashion Week…” Her forehead creases as if she’s in deep thought, but then she shakes her head. “But, no, even if they asked, I think I’d have to decline. I need to keep my role in fashion clear. I am Paige Forrester, fashion expert for
On the Runway.
Not a model.”

“Seriously?” I study her closely. “Are you saying that if Miuccia Prada herself asked you to be in her big show next week, you would simply tell her to forget it?”

She shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know about that. But let’s just say that’s
not
going to happen.” Now she frowns at me. “Good grief, Erin, aren’t you going to get ready for the theater? We should be leaving in about thirty minutes.”

“I’m up already,” I tell her. “And, don’t worry, you know it never takes me as long as you.”

“Yes, and we won’t go into that right now since I still need to do my makeup and hair.”

I want to point out that her hair and makeup already look perfect, but I realize I might as well talk to the wall. Instead I
go to my bag, which I haven’t fully unpacked yet, and I begin pulling things out. I soon have a pile of clothes on the floor, but I quickly discover that I don’t have anything nearly as swanky as Paige’s outfit.

Now it’s not that I want to look like her, but I realize I might’ve blown it by not packing something more theater-friendly. And, although I know we have a bunch of great designer clothes—most of which I ironed last night—I also know they’re supposed to be for when we’re doing the show or publicity. Both Helen and Fran made that perfectly clear before we left LA. So I can’t go there. I finally decide on my black turtleneck sweater, denim skirt, leather jacket, and boots. I systematically lay them out on the bed and begin to dress.

“What are you doing?” Paige demands.

I’ve just pulled my sweater over my head and peer out the top hole of the turtleneck. “Huh?”

“What on earth are you putting on?”

“My clothes.”

“But we’re going to
the theater
, Erin. This is
New York.
We might even be
seen
tonight.”

I kind of laugh. “Yeah, unless we suddenly become invisible.”

She goes over and picks up my denim skirt, holding it like it’s a soured dishrag that’s been in the sink too long. “You are
so
not wearing this, Erin Forrester. Seriously. What’s wrong with you?”

“I didn’t pack anything very dressy,” I admit.

She frowns and stomps off to the living room, where I can hear her complaining to Fran. “Erin has totally lost it. I cannot believe she’s this hopelessly fashion-challenged.” Now I go out there, in just my turtleneck and underwear, and stand
behind her and listen as she goes on about how pathetic I am. “My very own sister and she has absolutely no sense of style—none whatsoever. And this is Manhattan and next week is Fashion Week and we’re supposed to be the stars of
On the Runway
and she’s putting on an outfit that totally—”

“Calm down,” Fran holds up her hands to stop her then looks at me curiously. “That what you’re wearing tonight, Erin?”

I look down at my bare legs. “Well, no…I planned to put on a skirt.”

To my surprise they both laugh at this. And I’m slightly relieved to have lightened the moment—albeit at my expense.

“I didn’t really pack anything formal,” I explain, apologizing.

“But this is Manhattan and you were supposed—”

“Paige,” Fran interrupts. “Chill out. And go finish your makeup or whatever you were doing. I’ll handle this.”

Paige groans and turns around, stomping back to the bathroom.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Fran. “I just packed things for what I figured I’d want to do during my spare time, like see the Statue of Liberty or MoMA or take in a film. No big deal, you know.”

“Yes. I understand, but Paige is making a good point too. And since she’s right—you girls could be seen tonight, you could even be photographed—we need to think of this as a publicity appearance and you need to look hot.”

“Fine.” I shrug. “I have no problem with that…if it’s even possible.”

Fran laughs then goes to the closet where she begins to peruse through the studio clothes and finally pulls out a charcoal gray dress. “It doesn’t look like much without the accessories,” she says as she hands it to me. “It’s Marc Jacobs. Go
ahead and put it on while I round up the belt and shoes.”

I slip the dress on and look at it in the mirror. It’s not terribly special looking, but I have to admit it looks much better than what I was about to wear. Very classic lines and elegant.