Hilaire narrows her almond shaped eyes. “You give me permission to do what I am already able to do, whenever I wish.” But she then turns her head, lowers her voice, and confers with the other judges.
“Fine.” Hilaire says. “We will take a ten minute break. You can use that time to mend the dress, and afterwards, your model will walk down the runway again.”
“Thank you,” I say, doing my best to sound reticent. I grab Zelda’s hand and pull her to the workroom. Within an instant I am assessing the damage, sticking pins in my mouth and then into Zelda.
“Okay, take this off,” I tell her. “I need to use a machine.”
“I really am sorry,” Zelda murmurs.
I shake my head and the words just fall out. “This morning my brother was like, ‘call me after you get kicked off.’ He was trying to be nice, but after I thought about it, I’m annoyed that he thinks so little of my chances.” I lower the dress straps from her shoulders and then I’m tugging it all the way off her. Zelda crosses her arms over her chest in modesty. “And I almost didn’t come at all, because my life is like a Lifetime movie lately, and my fiancé is all, ‘you’d be pissed if I told you to stay,’ so of course I came even though I’m paranoid that a dead woman is following me. And now Hilaire hates me and I postponed my wedding. So I can’t get kicked off first. I just can’t.”
“I get it.” Zelda says. I take my eyes off the stitching for a second and look at her face instead. “I mean,” she wavers, “I get what it’s like to feel pressure, to not know if you’re making the right choice, like everyone is judging you and everything is at stake. So I won’t mess up again. I promise I’ll make your dress float down the runway exactly how it’s supposed to.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, but I’m more grateful that she listened to my tirade than I am for her promise. “Come on, let’s put this back on you. There’s not much time left.”
I refit Zelda into the dress and practically push her back onto the runway. She makes it down and back, and both my dress and my model survive without falling apart.
After every designer’s piece has been seen, Hilaire and the judges tally the scores. Then they call all the models onto the stage, turn up the house lights, and tell the designers to stand next to their models.
“You did great,” I say to Zelda, patting her hand.
“If I call your name, please step forward,” Hilaire says. “Amos. Simon. Casey. Nadia. Elliot. Tara.” Half of the designers have now stepped forward, and the other half, including me, are still in the back. Hilaire pauses and suspense drips from the air. “If I called your name, congratulations. Your score was high enough to qualify you to be a contestant on this season of The Standout.”
The chosen six let out a whoosh of relief and they are excused back to the workroom.
Once they’re gone, Hilaire addresses those who are left. “The rest of you represent the highest and the lowest scores. One of you will win this challenge, and two of you will be out.”
Chapter 19
Standing up there, waiting for Hilaire to declare my fate, is like ingesting an acid that eats away at my soul. I can speak from experience on this, because once I had food poisoning, and the stomach cramps that followed made me want to die.
But anyway, I don’t get kicked out.
Only because the judges decided that two other designers were more of a disaster than me. One couldn’t seem to muster the enthusiasm required for the show. He shrugged when Hilaire asked him why he made a shapeless sundress as his signature look, and his garment swathed him in defeat. The other designer had “taste issues.” Her ensemble barely covered her model’s crotch and she had actually tie dyed her muslin. Hilaire said it was part Grateful Dead, part “I Wish I Was Dead.”
So, hooray, I’m officially on the show! But I sort of wish I could go home, curl up into a ball, and mumble all my woes into the curve of Nick’s neck. I’d tell him that I was put on the bottom, because the “crafting” of my dress was “poor”, how Thomas Craig, one of the judges, joked that my dress looked like the apron for a sexy maid costume, and the other judge, Evie Messina, said the execution was stiff. Meanwhile, Hilaire questioned my vision, implying that I don’t have one.
And I wasn’t allowed to defend myself or tell them my dress looked a million times better before it was ripped, because that would be making excuses while I’m supposed to be grateful for their critique.
Now I’m in the apartment that I share with three other contestants: Nadia, Casey, and Tara. Everything is shiny, like living in an Ikea showroom, with white walls and furniture and red accents. There are no televisions or computers allowed, and the bedrooms have two single beds each. I’m bunking with Casey, who is twenty-five and from LA. She strikes me as the bohemian, granola type.
Casey unpacks her bag, which is full of soft, flowing blouses with cords that have little bells tied at the end, and skirts that will touch the floor when she wears them, because they’re long and her legs are short. “Where did you go to design school?” she asks in a husky, musical sort of voice that reminds me of an oboe.
I try to make myself comfortable and recline on the bed but the mattress is stiff, and there’s only one thin pillow. “I went to Hoyt College, in Iowa, where I majored in theater. I worked in the costume shop all through school. But basically, when it comes to design, I’m self-taught.”
“Ahh, that’s awesome.” Casey hangs a paisley blouse in her closet. “Good for you.”
Gabe, the cameraman, is in the corner of our small little bedroom, probably looking for some conflict that can be blown out of proportion through clever editing. I smile. “What about you, Casey? Where did you study?”
“California College of Arts, in San Francisco.”
“Wow, I bet that was great.”
“Yeah, you know.” The musicality of her voice turns nasally. “It was the right move for me, learning design theory. I want my work to have a strong foundation before I venture off into my own style.” She’s done unpacking, so she sits on the bed and a smile teases the corners of her mouth. “I know that’s not for everyone. Some people are better off, just doing their own thing. But we can’t all be celebrities, right?”
It takes me a moment to catch her drift. I’m the celebrity here, which supposedly affords me the option of ignoring fashion fundamentals. And while my first instinct is to get annoyed, Casey has a point.
I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my reality-show past.
“Well, I almost got kicked off today, and I’m really not much of a celebrity, so I wouldn’t worry about me having any sort of advantage.”
“Oh! No, I wasn’t.” She laughs.
Should I turn snarky? My reality-show past tells me no. No snarkiness allowed.
I get up to use the bathroom. After I splash my face with cold water and rub some of Casey’s stress-relieving essential oil on my temples, I come back out. Gabe has lowered his camera and he and Casey are laughing about something. They turn and their faces fall when they hear me enter the room.
Clearly their joke isn’t intended for me. I’m only surprised at how quickly and completely I feel like an outsider.
The next morning our call is at 6:30 AM. Jim and Hilaire meet us at the Metropolitan Ballet, where there is a special, ten minute performance for us of Swan Lake.
A beautiful ballerina in a white tutu dances mournfully while a misty background hangs behind her. She twirls and stretches, defying normal human movement, and a guy in black tights and a white satin tunic comes out and joins her. He lifts her over his shoulder, so her back is pressed against him and her arms are toward the ceiling. They spin like figure skaters, only the ice is merely in our imagination. But the longing they communicate is also icy, like they want each other but know it’s impossible.
Or at least, I think that’s it. I could really use some coffee.
The whole thing is being filmed of course, but the cameras are focused as much on us, sitting in the audience, as they are on the dancer
s. When the pas de deux is over, the prima ballerina curtsies and we jump to our feet in a standing ovation. Then Jim Giles, who is dressed in an impeccably tailored light grey suit, and Hilaire, who is wearing a black tutu dress (which she can totally pull off) enter the stage.
“Bonjour à tous!” she cries, “Good morning, designers! And congratulations! You have all survived the initial challenge and we officially welcome you to the show.” She gestures toward Jim. “Jim, would you like to tell them why this will be such a special season?”
“Thank you, Hilaire. I would love to." When he speaks I’m reminded of my middle school science teacher, Mr. Monroe, who was known for his ability to say Uranus, patiently and repeatedly, without ever cracking a smile. “This season, The Standout is doing something special. Every challenge will be centered on a famous ballet, like Giselle, Swan Lake, or The Firebird, just to name a few.”
“Hold on!” Hilaire shouts to the cameramen and they all poke their heads out from behind their heavy equipment. “I don’t think the designers look amazed enough.” Now her focus plows into us. “Designers! This is incredible news. Respond to it! Ah! D’accord! Okay!”
We’re all packed into the first two rows of the audience, and Gabe the cameraman comes and shoves his lens within spitting distance of my mouth. But I don’t spit; I smile like I’ve just been told that we’re skipping winter this year.
“All of the garments you construct must be practical for a dancer to move in,” Jim says. “Your model should be able to stretch, or even fall, and the garment will withstand it.” He looks over at me and I laugh as if we’re sharing an inside joke.
But on the inside, I’m breathing fire.
“Your first challenge will have a Sleeping Beauty theme,” Jim continues. “We don’t mean the Disney version, but the classical ballet. You all have your Samsung tablets, and we’re giving you thirty minutes to research and sketch. Then we will go fabric shopping at Metaphor. Any questions?”
“Jim?” Casey raises her hand. “So we’re supposed to pick a character from Sleeping Beauty and design a gown they can dance in? I’m not sure I understand.”
Jim weaves his fingers together, unflinching in his absolute composure, just like Droopy Dog. “You are letting yourself be inspired by the ballet.”
Casey cocks her head in question. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, we can’t spell it out for you Casey.” Hilaire’s tone is not as patient as Jim’s. “You must think abstractly, comprendre?”
“Umm, I guess?” Casey’s voice lilts and I’m guessing she doesn’t understand.
But I do. And I can’t wait to get to work.
Chapter 20
It’s late in the evening and I feel like the exclamation point at the end of a panicked sentence. It’s just a dress, I tell myself. It’s not your future; it’s just a dress.
“Robin, how are you?” Jim approaches my work station. His salt-n-pepper hair is slicked back and today’s suit is navy pinstripes with wide lapels and a dark purple tie. I wish I’d designed his outfit instead of this garment, which is half nightgown, half cocktail dress.
“I’m okay,” I answer.
“What have we got going on here?” Jim points to the dress dummy that is wearing my Sleeping Beauty look.
“Well,” I say, projecting false confidence, “I was thinking about how Aurora is woken up by the prince’s kiss, and that’s what I’m going for with this look: an awakening.”
“Uh huh.” Jim fingers the midnight blue satin that’s the base of the strapless bodice, but over it is a long-sleeved teal chiffon blouse, with wing-like draping. There’s also teal chiffon as the lower layer of the skirt. “I like the teal,” he says, “it’s very subtle. And the fit is lovely: the combination of tight and loose is a great aesthetic.” He looks up at me and tilts his chin. “Robin, I totally think this works.”
“Oh my God, thank you!” I’m so relieved that I almost start to cry. “I’ve been so scared, after the last challenge. . .”
Jim waves one hand dismissively. “Oh, please. That whole thing was ridiculous. Your dress was lovely. It’s not your fault your model tripped and fell. And what muslin dress is going to survive that?”
I feel like I’m swallowing air. “Really?”
Jim leans in and whispers in my ear. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Hilaire was against your being added to the show. She said she wants designers, not reality TV stars. I said you are a designer, but she can be. . . well. . .” Jim straightens up, steps away, and speaks at his normal, nasally pitch. “Well, hang in there, Robin. And good work with your dress! You can do this!” He pats me on the arm to be reassuring, but suddenly there’s a pound of gravel in my stomach and I don’t even know why.
I need a break.
I leave the workroom and go outside, to the rooftop terrace. The air is crisp and the evening skyscape is millions of tiny lights. Although I’m not up very high I still feel small and unsteady, and just gazing at the stars gives me the sensation that I could fall. But I imagine that Nick is standing in our backyard right now and he’s looking up at the same sky. I hope that he’s missing me and I hope that he isn’t. He should be both happy and miserable, just like me.
I think about how I was here in New York many years ago, with a different love, dreaming of a future with him in this very city. And for years I believed I would never recover from the loss of him or from the loss of that dream. But I did, and if I can do that, I can go a few weeks without Nick. I can trust that he’ll take care of my cyber-stalker for me while I’m gone, that I can focus on winning while I’m here, and that once I get back we’ll figure out everything else.
I go back inside, resolved to finish the straps of my dress before it’s time to go. But as I approach my work station I see that someone has been messing with my Samsung tablet, which all the contestants were provided with as a perk for doing the show. Mine had been put away in my desk drawer but now it’s sitting out and the power is on.
The internet has been accessed. That’s totally against the rules and I’m about to exit out before I get caught, but too soon I’m hit with a sickening realization: my tablet is on something called The Rotten Robin Website. There are multiple unflattering photos of me and my cheeks sting as I read the bullet points:
· Robin is an adulteress: She slept with a married man and now she’s cheating on her fiancé.
· Robin is a whore: Do you know how long her “list” is? It’s well into the double digits and I can give you the names to prove it!
· Robin is a cheater: She cheated on The Holdout and she’s cheating right now, while filming The Standout.
· Robin is a liar: She lied about her past, she’s lied about her present, and she’s lying about her future. Does this girl ever tell the truth?
Then there’s this tirade of made up accusations, but made up or not, shame blisters my lungs as I try to breathe.
And that’s not even the worst of it. At the bottom there’s some video footage.
I don’t want to press play but my finger acts independently of my brain, and it touches that little arrow. I see a montage of carefully selected moments: me on The Holdout, saying “I’ll do anything to get ahead.” Me, making out with Grant (who I actually trusted) on the beach. Me, on a talk show, saying, “I did what I had to do. Cheating and lying were just part of the game.”
After that there are clips from plays I’ve been in, some dating all the way back to college. Who had access to my computer so they could post these? There’s me as Karen in Speed the Plow, admitting I only had sex with a guy so he’d green-light a movie; me, taking off my blouse and making out with the guy; me in more clips from more plays.
I never realized how slutty my characters were.
But they were just roles I stepped into. Maybe it was typecasting, but I have been misrepresented and I don’t know who to blame. I could blame Clara, or Andrea—hell; I could blame Nick for not taking care of things like he said he would. I could even blame
the Internet or anyone who uses the Internet for more than reading NPR’s headlines or Skyping with their grandchildren.
That reminds me of my dad. God, what if he sees this?
The way it’s put together, it all looks real and I look like a terrible person. And then there’s the grand finale photo montage: me in a bathing suit, me in just a T-shirt, me with my hair all mussed and my lips pursed—a selfie that I sent to Nick one evening when I was anxious for him to get home.
“Robin, what are you watching?” Amos, the designer whose work station is next to mine, startles me out of my trance. I close out the screen and slap my tablet’s cover shut.
“Nothing!” I lean against the work table and pretend my insides don’t feel pulverized. “Hey, did you see anyone come over and mess with my tablet?”
He shakes his head no. “But you should be careful. If they catch you on the internet you could be in big trouble. I’m surprised you were even able to access it.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t. Somebody else did!” Amos flinches at my indignation but the smile never leaves his face. He gently tugs at the tape measure draped around his neck as he responds. “Okay. . . I swear I didn’t see anyone come over.”
Meanwhile, Gabe the cameraman has approached and now we’re being filmed.
I remember myself and paste on a smile. “Okay. I guess it’s just a mystery.”
I need to think this through. I need to come up with a plausible explanation for how someone who is neither Nick nor Andrea got access to these photos and videos. They’re the only two people who would be able to access them, but I can’t think that it’s Andrea. And it certainly can’t be Nick.
So until I have a workable theory, I can’t mention a word, not to anyone, not unless I want to walk away from the show right now.
With trembling hands, I get back to work. Even as images of Clara flash through my head I shake them off. Clara is dead, I tell myself. Some bully is trying to get to you. But that still doesn’t explain who, or why, or how.
The Standout Page 7