“In their defense, the shortest one is five-foot-ten and her legs are two-thirds of her body,” I said with a grin.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” the designer asked.
Well, it was.
“No. Just a simple observation. If you want, we can remove the heels and put the models in flats. That will give them the look of-”
“Flats? On a runway? No, no, no. Leave the designing to me, Ivy,” the designer said in an annoyed tone. “No, no. We need the choreography to be stronger. Fluid and graceful, but powerful as well.”
“Uh huh. Okay. Well, give me an hour to come up with something, I’ll run it by you, and if you approve we can get the models re-trained on the new choreography.”
“Excellent! Come find me when you’re done.”
The designer blew past me and I had half a mind to trip the son of a bitch. I loved my job, but re-choreographing two distinct numbers for the third time was going to be exhausting. I pulled out my phone and walked into the corner, then started playing the music in my ear. I closed my eyes and listened to the songs over and over again, then started to walk down my own little catwalk.
Turns and twists. Hip sways or none at all. I tried out seven different creative ideas before one came to me, and my eyes ripped open as I smiled. I looked at my reflection in the windows as I backed up, taking myself in as I hung my arms at my sides and puffed my chest out.
I ran through the choreography once before I went to go get the designer.
I showed her the choreography and she loved it. Thank fuck. I pulled the models aside that were walking through the two songs and took the time to help them relearn the new things they were supposed to be doing. No one was happy. Ever since the designer blasted onto the scene, her loud mouth had been picking apart, analyzing, and dictating everything. The catwalk wasn’t set up in the shape she wanted. The wrong models were wearing the wrong pieces of clothing. Shoes needed to be changed out. Makeup needed to be redone. Everyone was being given a run for their money, but we were all gritting our teeth and sticking it out.
“And five, six, seven, eight!”
I walked with the girls and ran them through the turns. I made sure their chests were puffed out and their eyes were a little wider than normal. No smoldering in these two songs. We weren’t being sexy. We were being strong, proud tigresses. Making our appearance known to those around us. It took me an hour with the models to get them to nail it, then the designer wanted them all dressed so she could see it put together.
The designer spent two hours picking apart hair and makeup before we got the girls set up for the runway.
I walked around the sides of the catwalk, watching the models walk out again and again. I analyzed their every movement until we could run through the two songs without any suggestions flying from my mouth.
“Shoulders back, Melanie!”
“Chest out, Luce.”
“Don’t lock your knees, Bernice! You’ll go down like a sack of-”
The model hit the floor and I hopped up onto the catwalk. I rushed to her as she tried to get up, her legs trembling with exhaustion. We’d been running the choreography for over thirty minutes, and that was with working through lunch and being there since six in the morning. I slid the heels off her feet and helped her up, watching as she heaved a heavy sigh.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Hopefully that won’t happen in the show,” the designer said.
“All right, everyone. Listen up! We’re taking an hour-long break. Get yourselves some food, some water, and some-”
“No, no. Wait. We can’t break now. We still-”
“We’re taking a break,” I said as I eyed the designer. “Now.”
I ushered the model off the stage and got her sat down with some water. The manager of the show came up to me and applauded me for stepping in. But I wanted to ask that same damn manager why he hadn’t stepped in earlier. I could hear the designer stomping around, making her way for the back of the stage.
I smoothed the model’s hair back before I turned around on my feet.
“Why are we taking a break after such a tremendous failure?” the designer asked.
“Because the failure happened out of exhaustion. It’s two in the afternoon and these models have been here since six in the morning. With no breaks. You might think you’re working with horses, but I know we’re working with people. They take a break, and then we work on something else. We’ll come back to the choreography before we all break to go home.”
“Where’s the manager?” the designer asked.
“We’re taking a break!” the manager yelled from a room down the hallway.
The designer huffed away and I shook my head. Every once in a while, they would get a stick up their asses and demand to have full access to their set. But it was for reasons like that one that they never had full control. Sometimes the designers could get so wrapped up in the perfection of their show that they failed to remember they were working with people and not work horses.
The last week before a fashion show always sucked, no matter how much I loved my job.
I sat down with all the models and we ordered from the cafe down the street. I wanted to make sure they ate. The models on my sets always ate. They didn’t have to eat junk, but they did have to eat. So I ordered a foray of foods. Spinach and nuts and dried fruits and thinly-sliced meats and cheeses. Some crackers and some hot and cold teas as well as coffee for those that needed a caffeine boost. I was the choreographer, sure. But I took it upon myself to make sure the models were looked after. They needed someone on set who always had their best interests in mind. Who could balance their need for work alongside their need to take care of themselves.
I made myself their champion because they usually didn’t have anyone else.
The small trays of food came in and we all ate together. In relative silence, of course. Because we’d all been up since five in the damn morning. But I could see that the more they ate, the more energy they had. Light returned to their eyes and some of their hands stopped shaking. Even I felt a lot better after my snack tray of foods. I made it a point to never eat what the models weren’t eating. If I ordered lunch for them, then I ate those same foods. I wasn’t going to munch on pizza or a hamburger in front of women who actively had to watch their weight for their jobs.
I wasn’t heartless.
After the hour was up, the girls got up and started getting dressed. Some of them had smiles on again, and that made me feel better about putting them back on the runway. I didn’t know where the designer was and I didn’t care. The show that weekend would be a success, whether or not the designer was there. I turned on the music for the entire show and we ran through it, removing the costume changes and sticking to one pair of heels. The hair and makeup and clothes could be dealt with later on in the week. What I needed to do was solidify this choreography so we could move past it and on to other things.
And the women walked it almost perfectly.
“Yes! Way to go!” I exclaimed.
The girls all clapped as I hopped up onto the catwalk.
“Just a few small notes and I think we can finally put this puppy to bed,” I said. “Luce, you still have a tendency to hunch a little. Keep repeating to yourself to keep those shoulders back. You’re a confident woman. Make sure it’s known.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Bee, I’ll work to smooth out that hiccup in the catwalk, because you find it every damn time.”
The girls laughed and Bee nodded her head.
“I do. Even when I tell myself where it is, I still gravitate towards it.”
“I’ll make sure to get it fixed,” I said. “And Lexi?”
“Yep?”
“Remember what I told you earlier. Take care of yourself,” I said.
“I will Ivy.”
“All right! I think it’s time for hair and makeup. Go sit in your chairs, girls. It’s time for someone else to get picked apart besides me.�
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The girls went and sat down in their chairs and I went to find the designer. They loved being chased down. Some of them, anyway. I found her sitting in a chair staring out the window, her hands threaded together in her lap and her head cocked off to the side.
“They’re ready for hair and makeup.”
But the designer didn’t say a word.
“They’ll need your approval before they can break for the day,” I said.
“I didn’t realize it was two o’clock,” the designer replied.
I sighed and rolled my eyes before I walked up to her side.
“Sets should have more people like you, Ivy.”
“I try to do the best I can,” I said.
“You’re more than just a choreographer,” the designer admitted. “You’re a… a voice for those models.”
“They don’t usually have one, so I take it upon myself to be one.”
“And that’s a good thing. Hair and makeup? They’re just glad to be there to flex their artistic muscles. And stage managers aren't hired by me. They come with the venues. The only person I have control over hiring is the choreographer.”
“And I’m honored that you chose me,” I said.
“Consider yourself my go-to choreographer from now on.”
“What?” I asked.
The designer finally turned her head up towards me before she stood from her seat. The woman was very petite. Four-foot-ten on a good day, but had a fire in her eyes that was unmistakable.
“I have multiple shows coming up over the next year for my new lines. I’m doing them seasonally, like fashion designers should. A couple of them will be back here in the city, and I’d like you to choreograph them.”
“I… would love that. Really,” I said.
“I’ve never met someone who stood up to me like that. High-end designers usually enjoy people who bend over backwards for them, but not me. I get so in my head creatively and I get so passionate that it sometimes overrides everything else around me. You stepped in when you needed to and didn’t back down. I need someone like that on a set.”
“Then you’re looking at the right person,” I said with a grin.
“Is that model okay?”
“Once she got some food in her, yes.”
“Good. I owe her an apology.”
“You do,” I said.
The designer let out a small laugh and shook her head before she put her hand on my back.
“Come. Let’s go take a look at the hair and makeup before we disperse for the day.”
Did I mention how much I loved the final week of fashion shows?
Chapter Four
Dean
“Mr. Alexander.”
“That’s me. How can I help you?” I asked.
“30UnderThirty is holding one of the most prestigious fashion shows of the summer downtown this evening. At The High Line. As one of the most influential people in the city, we’re inviting you to the event.”
“Well, I’m honored,” I said. “When will the event begin?”
“They’ll start seating at six, and once the show is over there will be light drinks and hors d'oeuvres to indulge in. The designer will be sticking around for questions and the models will be there entertaining. It’ll be a real spectacle.”
“Sounds like a wonderful night,” I said. “Count me in.”
My life came with a lot of perks. Being labeled this year as one of the most influential thirty people in the city under thirty years of age, it got me invited to a lot of events. Restaurants with Hollywood’s elite. Exclusive late-night parties with billionaires I could rub elbows with for the hospital’s sake. Movie premiers I could attend. But this one was new. I’d never been to a fashion show before, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.
But a night out was a night out, and I had the weekend free to do whatever I wanted.
I walked over to my closet and opened the door. The light flickered on and cast a warm hue over the three suits I owned. I didn’t like suits. I was more of a polo and trousers kind of guy. But when the event called for a suit, I knew how to deliver. I pulled out my navy blue pin-stripes along with a pale blue button down and golden cufflinks. I shined my shoes and readied myself for the evening, then I walked out to my car and headed downtown.
The High Line was one of my favorite places in all of downtown. It was an elevated garden of sorts with an attached enclosed space where a variety of parties were thrown. It was the perfect place to throw something like this, in my opinion, and I was excited to be attending. The views from the elevated top were outstanding, and being surrounded by all of the nature growing up from the floor of the rail lended a natural landscape to a city surrounded by concrete and brick. I drove to the parking deck about half a mile down the road and parked, relegating myself to a peaceful walk.
I didn’t get out into the city much. But when I did, I enjoyed walking around and taking everything in.
There were couples holding hands and parents pushing their children in strollers. People walking their dogs and friends laughing at jokes. Some people were using those selfie sticks to snapshot their memories and tourists were pointing at all the tall buildings. People of all shapes and sizes roamed the streets of downtown New York City, and each one of them had a story.
I learned that very quickly in my trade.
I made it a point to talk with all my patients. At least, as much as I could. And each of their stories was individual and unique. No one story was the same, and no one person reacted to the same trauma as the prior individual. As a doctor, diagnoses were always the same few things. But as someone who entertained the mind of their patient, that landscape was forever changing.
Like the foliage of The High Line.
I gave my name to the man at the front and he led me straight in. I recognized some of the other people there. They were people around the city who had been featured in the article alongside me. I held up my hand and walked over to them, then quickly plucked a flute of champagne off a passing tray. I caught up with some of them and they updated me on their lives. Filled me in on things that had happened between the time we all interviewed for that sprawling article and now.
“My wife and I finally got married.”
“We got approved for adoption. We fly out to China next weekend to meet with our soon-to-be son.”
“My boyfriend and I ended things, but it’s fine. The perk of being a psychiatrist is knowing how to get through the heartache better than most.”
“I got a dog. But that’s about it. The life of an advertising executive isn’t what most people think.”
I listened to them all talk about the developments in their lives, but a woman caught my eye. She was standing across the room talking with a very short woman, and she had me captivated. Maybe it was her hair. Blonde and long, but tinted with shades of green at the end. Light green and dark green and this medium sort of blend that coated the tips of her hair. Her skin was this light shade of tan. Almost pale, if you put her in the right light. She had this rosy tint to her cheeks that reminded me of a pale pink rose, and with the ends of her hair being green, it reminded me of a bush.
Or a vine.
“So what have you been up to, Dean?”
I cleared my throat and forced my eyes away from the woman.
“Relaxing this weekend. There was a massive pile-up of cars on the highway the day before last. The hospital was swamped.”
“Oh my gosh. Yes. The party bus, right?”
“They all went to your hospital?”
“Did everyone make it out all right?”
“How long did you have to work?”
“What was the worst injury you saw from that accident?”
Their questions flew by my head and I managed to answer them as best as I could. But my eyes wouldn't stop roaming over to that woman. She was tall. But then again, she was standing by a very short woman, so it could’ve only been perspective. But the curves on her body. Wow. They left me breathless. L
ong legs flexed in a soft pair of heels, but there was power to her movements. An unspoken grace as she walked alongside the person she was talking with.
Was she one of the models?
“Excuse me,” I said. “I think I see someone I know. It was a pleasure seeing all of you again.”
“We’re all going out for a late bite to eat after the fashion show, if you want to come, Dean.”
Alexa, the psychiatrist, batted her eyelashes at me. She was a pretty woman, but being a rebound wasn’t my thing. I didn’t date much, nor did I date to simply have company. I wanted a family. Children. A wife. A home. I only dated women I could see myself having that sort of life with.
And while Alexa was incredibly intelligent, the two of us didn’t click.
“Thanks for the invitation. If I’m feeling up for it, I’ll definitely tag along,” I said.
I threw back the rest of my champagne before putting my empty drink on a passing tray. I was approaching this woman at just the right time. The shorter woman walked away, leaving this beautiful angel all alone.
So I swooped in to see if I could get her name.
“Dean Alexander,” I said.
I held out my hand and she took it willingly. Such soft skin. Warm to the touch. I smoothed my thumb over her knuckles before I dropped it and flashed her a kind smile.
“Ivy Breckenridge,” she said.
“Your name is Ivy,” I said.
“It is. I’m the choreographer for the show tonight.”
“I was just standing over there thinking to myself how the color of your hair and the tint of your cheeks reminded me of a rose bush. Or a dew-coated vine of some sort.”
“Glad I could live up to my name,” she said with a smile.
Such a soft smile. Calm. Delicate. Her lips were full, with a hint of gloss that sparkled on top of her skin. And her eyes. A calm, delicate brown, with flakes of yellow that glistened wildly underneath the illumination of the room we were standing in.
Falling Into You: The Complete Naughty Tales Series Page 36