Privileged (22 page)
I stood between the Baker twins backstage, where several big-screen monitors had been erected so that the models and show personnel could follow what was happening on the other side of the curtain. Right now the last of the plastic sheeting was being removed from the temporary catwalk.
There were only two rows of chairs ringing the T-walk of the stage, for those guests whose age or status merited sitting. Everyone else stood, movie stars shoulder to shoulder with athletes, entertainers, and trust-fund kids. One special seat—large, regal, and pink—had been reserved for Laurel, and the crowd applauded as she took her place. She was dressed in a white satin evening shirt with a portrait collar and a long black chiffon skirt. As I watched her on the monitor, her shoulders and head held high, the queen of everything, I wondered if she ever thought of the poor Parisian girl she once was.
All at once, the lights that had been set up around the property popped off, and spotlights hit the runway. Celestial instrumental music streamed from large speakers on either side of the stage. Two assistants opened the pink velvet curtains to reveal the first model. The crowd oohed and applauded when they saw who it was. Kate Bosworth began to strut down the catwalk.
“Our first gown is modeled by actress Kate Bosworth. It was designed by Vera Wang,” said the voiceover. “The sheer silk chiffon has horizontal pin tucks across the chest and skirt and raw chiffon ruffled shoulder seams.”
Kate stopped at the top of the T, one hand on her hip, then spun full circle and strutted back as if she’d been doing it all her life.
The numbness reached my wrists and ankles. This was insane! I was a writer, an
observer
, dammit! What the hell was I doing in a fucking fashion show? Models were about as observed as you could get.
“Our next gown was designed by Ralph Lauren, and it’s modeled by the new toast of New York theater, Miss Lily Langley.”
My sister hit her mark as the curtains parted, and the crowd applauded even louder than they had for Kate in an apparent effort to prove that they were in the New York know. Lily floated gracefully down the catwalk. Piece of cake.
One by one, names were called, and one by one, models paraded onto the catwalk. The ones who had just come offstage were hurriedly changed into their second gowns by a pit crew of assistants. The stage manager was waving three fingers over her head, which meant that all the models in group three had to get in line. That included the twins, Suzanne de Grouchy, Precious, and me.
I really, really,
really
had to pee.
“Next, the lovely young women of Palm Beach . . .”
Rose eased over next to me. “Megan?”
“Yeah?”
As discreetly as she could, she pressed something into my right hand. I looked down . . . and felt that familiar flush work its way up my neck to my jaw. She’d given me a pair of panties. They were utilitarian and flesh-colored—the opposite of the pink mesh La Perlas I was wearing.
“That gown is kind of sheer. Sage and I think it would be smart for you to wear these. You don’t want to draw attention to . . .”
I got it—I most certainly didn’t want to draw attention to that particular uncoiffed part of myself. I whipped on those panties in record time and thanked her profusely.
The pink curtains parted. Sage stepped forward, clearly in her element. Once she cleared the curtain, she thrust out a hip bone and threw one hand over her head as if to say:
Hello, world! Here I am!
“Modeling a Daniel Dennison for Chanel gown is the lovely Sage Baker. Sage’s gown is sheer lemon polka dot over aqua silk, shirred under the bust. The hem and bodice are raw-edged.”
Sage came off to huge applause. Rose was next. After her would be Suzanne and then me. I saw Suzanne adjust the cleavage of her electric-pink Betsy Johnson creation.
“I’m so nervous,” I whispered to her. “Any last-minute words of wisdom?”
Suzanne smiled. “When you hit a pose, do it at a slight angle, and put one hand
above
your hip bone with your palm open. It’ll take ten pounds off.”
Like
that
made me feel better.
Rose finished, Suzanne stepped out, and I was next. Oh God. I felt a warm hand on my forearm. It was Lily, already dressed in her next gown of copper sequins. “Break a leg,” she whispered.
Yeah, I know this is the way you’re supposed to wish someone luck before she goes onstage. But in my current state, I didn’t need the subliminal suggestion.
Suzanne came back through the exit curtains and placed her open palm just above her hip bone, reminding me about the look-ten-pounds-thinner thing. Way to screw with my already nonexistent self-confidence.
“And now please welcome someone new to our community, the lovely Megan Smith, in a gown by Daniel Dennison!”
The curtains parted. Bright klieg lights hit my face; I hadn’t been prepared for that. They made it difficult to see the audience at first, but maybe that was a blessing. I didn’t even attempt the walk-a-tightrope-strut that everyone else had made look so effortless. Instead, I just tried not to lose my balance in my three-inch Manolo heels.
It was only when I reached the T that I could see the people seated below. Laurel sat next to my favorite ex-president and his wife. All three of them smiled at me. Maybe models are supposed to look as if they’re floating in a sea of ennui, but seriously, how could I not smile back?
I turned—there was only eighty-five feet between me and backstage, also known as survival. Then, just beyond the seated dignitaries to my left, I spotted Will. Unlike the other encouraging expressions in front of me, his was icy.
That was all the distraction I needed. I felt my ankle start to turn, and I heard a gasp from the audience. It was sheer will that kept me from falling. It’s amazing what a great motivator fear of public humiliation can be.
“Are you okay?” Rose asked as I wobbled through the curtain. Sage was beside her, and if I hadn’t known better, I would have said she looked concerned, too. They’d already been zipped into their second outfits—teal-blue silk chiffon with a fitted bodice and a full flouncy skirt. Sage’s was covered in sparkly skulls; Rose’s was adorned with hearts and butterflies.
“I’m fine,” which was true, in that I was still mobile.
A dresser carefully unzipped my gown while another set black velvet Laboutin open-toed pumps at my feet.
Sage nudged me. “So it was fun, right?”
“Actually, it was terrifying.”
Sage sighed dramatically. “You cannot be a wuss your entire life, Megan. I mean, think about it. You just strutted your stuff with some of the most gorgeous and famous women in the world, including me.”
That made me laugh. A short, squat dresser held my hand as I slipped into the new heels.
“You know that bar in New York—what’s it called—where girls take off their bras and dance on the bar?” Sage asked.
“Hogs and Heifers,” the dresser filled in. “I left my bra there once.” She moved off to help another model.
“Right,” Sage agreed. “Well, see, even girls like her lose their inhibitions at that place.”
“Is there a point here?” I asked as I smoothed the skirt of my gown.
“Yeah.” Sage took me by the shoulders. “For the next ten minutes, stop worrying about whatever the hell it is you’re always worrying about, and go out there and be hot, you asshole! You’re a fucking supermodel now!”
The assistant stage manager was motioning frantically for us to get in line for our second runway walk. Right before Sage and Rose went out onstage—they would model their similar gowns at the same time, per Daniel’s instructions—the music changed to Justin Timberlake.
Rose and Sage made their entrance. I watched them strut to the music on the monitor, blowing kisses to the whooping audience at the end of the runway.
Then it hit me: I could go out there and do what I always did—watch myself rather than be in the moment. Or I could go out there and enjoy it.
The next thing I knew, I was out on the stage. The music was pulsing. I threw my shoulders back and thrust out my chest. I did the tightrope walk, one foot in front of the other, head held high. I threw my hair around as I did a turn, and let it brush over one eye sexily before I shook it off my face again.
For the next thirty seconds, I
was
a fucking supermodel. I didn’t even look for Will. I was too busy seducing the entire audience with my fabulousness. And Sage was right; it was unbelievably, fantastically, once-in-a-lifetime fun.
When I came off the stage, I felt euphoric. Rose threw her arms around me. “Oh my God, you were amazing!”
I hugged her back. “I was, wasn’t I?” I cried gleefully.
“Curtain call!” the stage manager shouted, making huge waving motions with his arms.
All the models were hustled out onstage first; the designers followed. The audience stood and applauded. I was between Sage and Rose. We put our arms around one another’s waists and started an impromptu cancan as the audience cheered.
“Remember, ladies and gentlemen, all these clothes can be viewed in the auction tent in twenty minutes. Happy New Year, everyone!”
Backstage, I carefully handed my gown to a dresser, who would take it to the auction tent. Still on a high, I changed back into the pale pink tea-length dress I’d been wearing before. I, Megan Smith, had modeled with the rich, famous, and infamous and lived to tell the tale.
Lily ran over to me. “How much fun was that?” she exclaimed happily.
“I
loved
it!” I said, hugging her. “Let’s go have some more fun.”
When we exited the tent, the first people I saw were the twins laughing with Will. His eyes met mine briefly, then went back to Sage and Rose. Well, I wasn’t going to let seeing him ruin my mood.
“Who’s that with the Baker twins?” Lily asked, taking my arm.
“Will Phillips. He lives next door.”
“Hot,” Lily decided. “Right?”
Ah, the irony.
“He’s okay.”
“Is he seeing anyone?” she asked.
And the irony just kept on coming.
“Not that I know of.”
“Great.” She tugged at my hand. “Introduce me.”
We joined the trio, and I quickly introduced Will to Lily Langley, who knew me from our
séjour linguistique
in Switzerland.
“You’re in New York now?” Will asked. “My mom lives in the city. Next time I’m up, maybe I can see your play.”
“If it hasn’t closed,” Lily quipped.
Damn. These two were chatting like the two confident, eleven-on-a-looks-scale-of-ten people they were.
“I saw the
Entertainment Tonight
thing about you,” Rose said to Lily. “You got cast in the movie version of your play, right?”
Lily smiled. “
Cast
might be too strong a word. But I know they’re going to look at me for the part. Then all I have to do is beat out Natalie Portman.” Lily rolled her eyes. “As if that’ll happen.”
Sage sniffed. “She’s totally overrated.”
“So you two know each other from way back,” Will remarked, looking from Lily to me. The mere idea of me made him sound stiff. “Small world.”
Lily gave him a flirtatious look. “You seem to know a lot more about me than I know about you. Megan said you live next door.”
“That’s all she said?” Rose asked, looking at me like I was crazy.
“And that we’re friends,” I added. My voice, I realized, sounded as strained as Will’s.
“Well, I hope we can be friends, too,” Lily told Will. “Maybe we’ll catch up later?”
“Sure,” he allowed, with another quick glance at me. “That sounds good.”
“Hot guy,” Lily observed as Will and the twins headed off toward the bar for refills.
The best I could muster was a very weak “Yeah.”
Veronica hooks up with a new guy every two months. Her younger sister, Alexandra, snags a new guy every five months. Assuming that Veronica and Alexandra get with guys at a steady rate, at the end of ten years, how many more guys will Veronica have kissed than Alexandra?
(a) 46
(b) 27
(c) 59
(d) 36
(e) Eat dirt and die, you jealous cow.
I
walked with Lily to the food tent, which had been divided into three different catering areas. There was French for the foodie types; organic vegetarian for the Hollywood types; and Brazilian churrasco for the Atkins types, with all manner of meat being roasted on an open pit. The aroma wafted to me like a come-hither signal. All at once, I was starving.
“You’re Lily Langley, right?” A sixtyish, stick-thin woman in candy-cane-striped silk grabbed Lily’s right hand as we stepped into the tent. “Darling, you are a gift to the American theater!”
“Thank you so much. This is my sis—friend Megan Smi—”
“Lovely to meet you,” the woman trilled, but she was already brushing past us, her gaze scanning the area for more important people.
“Pick a line,” Lily said. I pointed to the meat. As we were heading for it, one of Lily’s actress friends from New York ran over and grabbed her arm. “Lily, Dominick Dunne is holding court by the blind-auction tent. He wants to meet you.”
Lily looked at me, hesitating.
“Go,” I insisted. “You can eat later.”
She gave me a hug and whispered, “I’ll call you right after midnight, and we’ll meet on the beach.”
Frankly, it was easier this way. Pretending that my sister wasn’t my sister was a new low, even for me. I got some succulent-looking slices of grilled steak and ate them standing in a corner, watching the parade passing by. I saw a model from the fashion show with her boyfriend. He was gorgeous, but even in her velvet ballet flats, she had four inches on him. There was a ninety-something couple swaying to the big-band music coming from the speakers. The only person I really wanted to be with tonight—Will—didn’t want to be with me.
I passed dozens of people on the walkway from the tennis courts down to the ocean; I didn’t know most of them. I heard a couple “Lovely job in the fashion show” and “Fantastic dress!” comments, but already, the me who had flirted with an audience while strutting in a ten-thousand-dollar one-of-a-kind dress had crawled back into her shell.