by Jan Moran
“Fianna, I’d like you to meet some of my long-time friends,” Davina said, introducing her to the fashion editors of Vogue, Women’s Wear Daily, and Harper’s Bazaar, as well as the buyer for Harrods in London. The attendance by media was even better than Fianna could have hoped for.
A photographer she’d hired for the event snapped photos while she spoke with the group.
The buyer from Harrods asked, “What’s your point of view for this collection?”
“Modern luxury with an emphasis on casual elegance. Luxury is inherent in the materials and finishing employed,” Fianna replied. She fielded other questions about plans for her next collection, where her line was sold, and which celebrities had worn her designs.
After excusing herself, Fianna hurried backstage. Makeup artists were busy with models contouring and applying false eyelashes for dramatic effect, while manicurists were dabbing on color. The hair stylists were giving the models sumptuous, flowing hair styles, and one was adding a hair piece to Penelope’s cropped auburn hair. Some were working simultaneously on the models.
“We’re looking good, ladies,” Fianna said, clapping. She switched on music backstage to put everyone in the mood. It was Niall’s music, and as soon as she heard his voice, her heartstrings cracked. She’d give anything to have him here, but he was thousands of miles away in Hawaii. Which, she had to admit, sounded awfully enticing.
A seamstress was making last minute adjustments, while other models were listening to music, taking photos, texting, or playing solitaire and waiting their turn at the makeup station. Others lounged in dressing robes, or grazed at the refreshment table, which was loaded with fruit, yogurt, and vegetables, and plenty of coffee, tea, and bottled water. The scene might appear chaotic to the uninitiated, but to Fianna’s eye, everything was under control.
Fianna had made photo boards for each outfit, just to make sure that the models didn’t grab the wrong pair of shoes with an outfit. She also had a board of all the models with their names. The show would go fast, and there was no time for mistakes.
The models began to change into their first outfits, and Fianna checked every article of clothing, making minor adjustments as needed.
Fianna peeked out across the audience. She spied André Leon Talley, a legend of the fashion industry, towering above the crowd. At the table next to Davina she saw her sisters, Lizzie and Emily, and her mother and father. This was the first time they would really see the breadth of her work, and she was glad they were here. She caught a glimpse of Doyle with the woman in tweed from the bar in the back, and briefly wondered why he’d come. A moment later the lights were lowered, and the announcements began.
She turned back, and saw Penelope perched on a stool near the exit. “Penelope, I’d like you to lead off again.”
“I’m ready, boss.” Penelope swayed to the music. She was already in her Zen mood—cool and calm, unaffected by the commotion around her. She had a look that was both unique and chameleon-like; furthermore, she could always be counted on, which was why she was in such demand.
After the speeches concluded, the lights were lowered again, and Niall’s music blared across the ballroom.
It was time.
Other models had taken their places behind Penelope. Everyone’s adrenaline was surging. Some of the long-legged beauties jiggled a leg, while others tapped a shoe, or snapped their fingers.
Fianna drew a breath and waited for a beat in the music. “And…go,” she said to Penelope, who stepped out into the spotlights, attitude in place, and pranced across the runway.
“Next,” Fianna said. A floor manager sent the models out in measured paces.
The first round of applause filled the air, and Fianna breathed a sigh of relief. She saw the editors and buyers nodding and making notes.
One after another the models went out, and the applause grew. Fianna felt the show take on a life of its own as the returning models hurried to change into the next outfits. They were thrilled with the response they were getting from the crowd.
“Okay, next segment,” Fianna said, and a new group of models stepped up in line. Everything was going according to plan. It was absolute perfection.
An elegant model from London stepped out and glided down the runway. Fianna was watching, pleased with her performance.
Then the model turned, and in a flash, Fianna saw her stumble. A gasp of concern rippled across the room. Fianna’s heart nearly stopped, but she knew this model was a pro, and she’d recover. It wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Models often tripped, or even fell, but they’d pick themselves up and the show would go on.
The model regained her balance and took another step, and then… it happened again. This time she fell to her knees, and Fianna saw the heel separate from the shank of the shoe. The model calmly picked up the shoe and the heel. She walked on with a shoe on one foot, tiptoeing on the other. The crowd applauded her cool and bravery.
But the applause was short-lived. Another model went down and fell into the willowy woman who was passing her on a turn. Both tumbled onto the runway. A third model approaching them also stumbled, and Fianna could see that her shoe seemed to have malfunctioned, too.
“It’s the shoes,” she said, her heart racing. “Check the shoes, all of them, right now!”
As she was speaking, another model fell and slid off the runway. Several men leapt up to help her.
Fianna was mortified. “Someone find a doctor.” She feared the model might have been injured, and she wanted to get help right away.
A model limped backstage, cursing under her breath. “These damn shoes. My ankle is toast, I can’t walk.”
“Fianna, the shoes have been tampered with.” Her assistant held up a mangled shoe. The heel was separated from the main body of the shoes and rigged with a small piece of tape and a tack. It was clearly designed to give way under force of walking.
“Inspect all the shoes. Don’t wear any that haven’t already been worn.” She stopped the next model poised to go out. “Take those off. Here, put these on instead.”
Fianna turned to her assistant. “This is serious. Put in a call to the police. Someone has intentionally tried to cause these models harm.”
Another model returned backstage barefoot, holding a broken shoe. “What’s happened? We’re all going down out there. It’s a disaster.”
Fianna ran a hand over her face. She felt like crying or screaming, but she couldn’t do either one. She had to put the show back on track and do it fast. “We’ve been sabotaged. But we have some shoes that are okay. Find the shoes from the first segment and check them.”
Her floor manager stood next to her. “Fianna, we’re short three models now. Should we cut some outfits?”
“No. I’ll help.”
Fianna whirled around. “Davina, am I glad to see you.”
Her aunt was already removing her hat and clothes. “Give me something spectacular to wear. André Leon Talley is out there, and I want to knock off his fancy socks. Let’s get this show back on.”
Fianna could have kissed Davina, but instead she snatched a diaphanous, plum-colored dress that was sure to garner applause. And Davina was making a comeback. The crowd would go wild. “Put this on,” she said.
“My own shoes will go with this,” Davina said, shimmying into the dress. “Close me up, there’s no time to waste.” A hair stylist hovered with a brush and hairspray, while a makeup artist hurried to refresh Davina’s lipstick and blush.
Penelope rushed into place behind Davina. “I’ll follow her in case anything happens.”
“Okay, on the beat,” Fianna said to Davina.
Her aunt raised her chin, tossed her hair back, and straightened her frame.
“Now go.”
Davina stepped onto the runway, stopped, and raised her arms, commanding attention. The diaphanous sleeves and gown undulated around her. Spotlights danced on the iridescent fabric and her platinum hair.
The noisy chatter that had been ro
lling across the ballroom in waves died. A silence fell across the room.
The announcer said, “Today we give you the one and only Davina, returning to the runway for the first time since her retirement. She is here for her niece, Fianna Fitzgerald.”
Cheers rose and applause thundered through the room. Davina milked it for a moment, and then she began her famous prance down the runway. Photographers snapped wildly as their digital cameras whirred hundreds of shots.
Tall and confident, Davina strode to the end of the runway, paused, executed her turns, and started back.
Fianna had never thought she could love her aunt more than she already did, but at that moment she was overcome with adoration for Davina. Her aunt had put aside her desires to come to Fianna’s aid. Her eyes welled as she watched Davina. She hadn’t seen her aunt on the runway in years. Davina was as marvelous as she’d always been.
“You were smashing,” Fianna said when Davina arrived backstage.
“Looked like you needed a miracle, sweetie. We’ll talk later. We have a show to finish now.” She hurried to change into another outfit.
Penelope was carrying on the enthusiasm, and Fianna readied the next model. “Go, be confident and shine.”
The rest of the show was a blur to Fianna, as model after model walked the runway without incident. Penelope, and then Davina, wore the last two magnificent outfits, the stars of the show.
All the models returned to the runway for a final walk. At the end of it, the applause rose, and Fianna knew that was her queue. She stepped onto the stage, blew kisses, and pressed her hands together in appreciation to the models and the audience.
Davina took one hand and Penelope the other, and then the three women raised their clasped hands in victory to the audience. They’d suffered a major catastrophe, but had rallied together to overcome it. Some media would undoubtedly publish photos of the models who’d fallen. Fianna felt bad for those models because it hadn’t been their fault.
But who was responsible?
14
AS SOON AS she woke, Fianna slipped into her robe and picked up the newspaper outside the hotel suite door. Utterly exhausted from the stress of the fashion show and the ensuing calamity, she’d slept late.
Before she read the news, she made a call to check on the model who’d been injured. The young girl sounded good, but Fianna knew she’d be out of commission for quite a while to heal from a broken ankle.
She sank onto the sofa and curled her legs under her, mentally steeling herself for the reviews of yesterday’s show. She opened the newspaper. There on an inside cover was a photo of her runway show with models stumbling and falling. The headline read: Fianna Fitzgerald Struggles. She went on to read a blow-by-blow account of the disaster. The anguish she’d felt yesterday returned with full force.
She pressed a hand to her head. She turned on her laptop to check other news outlets online, which she immediately regretted. One headline screamed: The Fitzgerald Flop. Fianna winced; that sounded like a bad dance routine from the 1920s.
Fianna clicked another link. Evidently she had already been fodder for late night talk shows, with Conan O’Brien staging a stumble as he walked out. Jimmy Fallon had guest models who tried to teach him how to walk in high heels, and then they re-enacted her runway show. She’d never been so embarrassed. This was far, far worse than she could’ve imagined.
She corralled her nerves and kept reading: The Crash of the Giraffes read another headline. A knot tightened in her gut.
Davina Rescues Fashion Show. That wasn’t so bad. At least Davina received good press.
Unable to stomach any more, she flicked off her computer and checked her phone. She listened to several messages from tabloid reporters who wanted comments about the debacle. Who might’ve done it? Was this in retaliation for something she’d done? Did she have a jealous husband, or an angry ex-employee? Might it have been a sort of fashion terrorist? Fianna pressed her fingers to her throbbing temple. Delete, delete, delete.
The last one was from the Neiman Marcus buyer canceling their appointment.
Davina swept into the living room, dressed in a blue satin dressing gown that matched her eyes. “I can see from your face that you’ve seen the news. How bad is it?”
Fianna blinked back hot tears. It’s just business, she told herself. But it was her business, her baby that she’d given everything she had to. “The reviews are awful. People are calling it the Fitzgerald Flop.” She swallowed against a hard lump in her throat. “But I’m more concerned about the injured models.”
After the show, the police had arrived and questioned everyone backstage who had access to the shoes. The model who had fallen from the stage had broken an ankle, and Fianna had immediately arranged for her to be transported to the hospital for care.
The police confiscated the shoes as evidence—the Manolo Blahniks, the Jimmy Choos, the Pradas—and promised to look into the matter, but Fianna understood they had more pressing issues than malicious acts at a fashion show. Nevertheless, someone had tampered with the shoes and intended to cause harm. A six-foot tall model falling from a six-inch heel on a raised runway was a formula for disaster.
The model who’d fallen from the platform was fortunate she hadn’t been more seriously hurt. What if she’d hit her head? The fall might’ve killed her. As it was, the poor young girl had a compound fracture. She wouldn’t be able to work for some time, possibly a year. After all, a model’s job required the ability to strut with purpose in five or six-inch heels.
A tray of tea, yogurt, and fruit was delivered to the door. “I ordered breakfast. Figured you’d need a strong cup of tea as soon as you got out of bed.” Davina poured milk and tea into a china cup and handed it to Fianna. She settled on the sofa next to her. “About that model who slipped from the runway—you’ll probably hear from her attorney. She’s sure to suffer lost wages.”
“Undoubtedly.” Fianna had no idea how much that would be, but it was sure to be quite a bit. “I was awake half the night thinking about her. I feel awful about it, and I’m furious with whoever did this. They clearly wanted to inflict as much pain on the models as they could.” A mixture of emotions coursed through her—anger, worry, concern, embarrassment.
“Or on you. Can you think who might have wanted to sabotage your show?”
“The police asked the same question.” Fianna shook her head. “Maybe a competitor, but I can’t imagine who.” Whoever did this, she’d want punished to the full extent of the law. What they’d done was absolutely reprehensible.
“Do they have any leads?”
“None that I know of. The police collected data from security cameras in the hotel to review.” She’d given a statement to police. They’d told her to stay close. An investigator would be calling to follow up. She groaned. On top of everything else, she’d have to handle a police investigation.
“Let’s hope they find something.”
Fianna quirked a corner of her mouth. “Your quick thinking salvaged what was left of the show. The only good review I’ve seen was about you.” She was so grateful to Davina. The fiasco—the Fitzgerald Flop—would have been far worse if not for her aunt’s rapid action. At least the audience had been concerned and appreciated efforts to salvage the show.
“I’d never planned to go back to modeling, but I have to admit I enjoyed being back on the runway.” Davina cradled Fianna’s face in her hands. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, dear. You’ve always been like the daughter I never had. When I saw that you—and the show—were in trouble, I didn’t hesitate for an instant.”
“Everyone enjoyed seeing you again.” Davina had a fresh glow in her cheeks this morning, and her blue eyes were brighter than Fianna had seen in a long time. “Have you thought of having a second act to your career?”
“Not until yesterday. In this business, when you’re aging in front of the camera, people can be so cruel. Once you’ve been away for a while, I suppose they’re glad to see you again. With t
he aging demographics, there’s actually a need for older models.” Davina inclined her head. “You gave me the kick I needed—unintentionally, of course.”
“Have you missed working?” Fianna couldn’t imagine what she’d do with herself if she weren’t pursuing her dreams, but her aunt had already done that. What would she feel like at Davina’s age? Not that her aunt was old; Davina was still a stunning woman in her fifties. However, many women in the beauty industry found their careers stalled at her age.
“At first I didn’t. Retiring at forty is what many people aspire to, but the truth is, I loved what I did. Besides, there’s only so much traveling and volunteer work I can do.” Davina shook her thick silver hair back. “As long as I’m in a class of my own, and not competing against the twenty-year-old girls, then I’d like to work again.”
Fianna rubbed her fingers along the smooth skin on Davina’s hand. “Well then, as awful as the show was, I’m glad something good came out of it for you.”
“For both of us, dear.”
“What do you mean? The press has completely trashed the show.”
“The tabloid and entertainment media, perhaps. But now, everyone knows your name.”
Fianna shuddered. “I never thought I’d be known as the Fitzgerald Flop.”
“Now, now,” Davina said, holding up a manicured finger, “a wise publicist once told me there’s almost no such thing as bad press.” A slow smile crept onto her face. “What I haven’t had a chance to tell you is that I received calls this morning from my editor friends. They thought your collection shows a lot of promise.”
Fianna sat up so quickly she spilled tea on her robe. “Are they going to mention it in their magazines?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they did. And I doubt if they’ll use the unfortunate shots the tabloids chose, so you shouldn’t worry about that. They have a different audience. Their readers want to know about the clothes. In fact, they could spin the story to your advantage.”
“I can’t imagine that.” Fianna ran a hand across her forehead. How could they possibly find a positive side to such a travesty?