“Mom’s got a news team here with her,” I continue telling Paige as Fran and I exit past security. I try not to glare at the guards as we pass, but they seem preoccupied anyway. Probably waiting to mug some little old lady.
“Anyway, your mom wants to make this a story,” Fran explains. “A big story! And that means free publicity for us.”
“I don’t know…” Paige’s eyes look frightened and her mascara has run clear down her cheeks. I’m sure she has no idea how bedraggled she looks.
“People need to hear about how you were treated,” I tell her. “Are you okay with that?”
Paige puts her hand to her left cheek. It’s dirty and swollen and has what looks like the beginning of a good-sized bruise, probably from when she was shoved to the floor. “I guess so…maybe I should go clean up first,” she says in a shaky voice.
“Just a little,” Fran exchanges a concerned glance with me then points toward a nearby restroom.
We go over to the sink area and Paige gasps to see herself. Using wet paper towels and tissues, combined with the limited beauty products Fran and I can come up with between us—a necessity since it seems security kept all that was in Paige’s Ziplock bag—we do our best to help Paige pull herself together. And even when she looks pretty good, she seems close to tears.
“Are you sure you can do this?” I ask her.
“Do what?” She gives me a blank look.
“The news story. Mom will understand if you’re too—”
“No.” Now Paige tosses a wadded paper towel into the trash and stands up straight. “I need to tell this story. People have a right to know.”
As we hurry back to the ticketing area, I silently pray for Paige. I ask God to help her to be strong. And I ask him to use this whole thing—what seems like a nightmare—and to bring something good from it.
Before long, we are set up and ready to shoot. A small crowd of onlookers is gathering and then cameras (including mine) are rolling. “I’m Susan Sanders from Channel Five News,” the reporter begins, “and we are live at Los Angeles International Airport, one of the busiest air terminals in the world, where just minutes ago, Paige Forrester, star of On the Runway, endured a horrifying experience with airport security. Can you tell us what happened?”
And so Paige begins to recount the story, how we were on our way to New York for Fashion Week, how we were running late and just going through security. “It didn’t seem like a big deal at first,” she says, “and I’ll admit that I was at fault for forgetting to remove a small bottle of perfume from my carry-on. I had stuck it in at the last minute and had meant to transfer it to a checked bag, but we were in a rush.” She goes on to tell about how she wanted to use up enough to make it less than three ounces and how she was tackled. “After that, I was kind of in shock. I mean, one minute you’re standing there just laughing and joking and the next thing you know two big guys have knocked you down and pinned you to the ground.” She touches her cheek where the swelling is still visible.
“So they actually tackled you?” Susan asks, “Just because you squirted perfume on yourself?”
Paige nods with sad eyes. “And it’s a nice fragrance too. Prada Infusion d’Iris, and not cheap either.”
Susan laughs. “Tell us what happened next.”
“They handcuffed my wrists behind my back, so tightly that my fingers got numb. And it seemed like they kept me pinned on the ground for a long time, and this guy had his knee in my back like I was going to get up and run. Finally, they took me to a security office.” Paige stops now.
“And what happened there?”
Paige takes in a slow breath. “I was totally humiliated in a strip search.”
“A strip search?” Susan’s eyes grow wide. “With the male security guards?”
“No, two women did that, actually. But the guys weren’t far away, and for all I know they might’ve been watching. It was horrid and humiliating and disgusting and no one should have to suffer like that. Not for squirting themselves with perfume anyway. I mean, I can admit that I wasn’t being too smart. But they took this too far. Way too far.”
“So what happened after they strip-searched you?”
“They made me wear this creepy paper robe thing, kind of like in the doctor’s office. And then they went through all my clothes, as if I had something hidden in there. And they went through my carry-on bag and my purse, just pulled everything apart. I never even got all my things back.”
“They kept some of your things?”
“I don’t know if was intentional or not. When they told me I could go, I just grabbed everything—as fast as I could—and ran out of there.”
“It sounds traumatizing.”
Paige nods. “I’ve never been through anything so dehumanizing before. And all because of some silly perfume.”
“That does seem very extreme.”
“And my sister was arrested and taken into custody too,” Paige continues. “And she didn’t do anything. She was just telling them to quit hurting me.”
So now I get pulled into this. But for Paige’s sake, I do my best. “That’s right,” I say when Susan holds a hand mic to my face. “I didn’t do anything wrong. And suddenly I was handcuffed.” I hold up my wrists, which are still red. “It hurts where they cut into my skin. Then I was questioned and my bags were thoroughly searched.”
“Were you strip-searched as well?”
“No. Thank goodness. I think I might’ve totally lost it if that had happened. I don’t know how Paige could’ve stood being treated like that.”
Susan asks Paige a few more questions then begins to recount other incidents of passengers who’ve been treated like this. “Fortunately, this hasn’t been a common experience at LAX. But it is happening more often than it should, and although few people can be prepared for this when it does happen, you need to know you have rights. A number of victims of security abuse are taking legal action. I have spoken to Paige and Erin’s mother, and she informed me that attorneys are already looking into this.”
She wraps the story up by asking about our plans for New York. Paige makes a magnificent recovery as she talks about our new show and how On the Runway will be covering a variety of fashion-related events in the Big Apple. She even manages to mention the day and time that our show airs.
“And hopefully, you won’t have anymore unfortunate incidents like you experienced here at LAX this morning. But travelers beware—the application of perfume in security could put a serious damper on your next vacation. This is Susan Sanders for Channel Five News.”
“This will run on Midday Report,” Mom assures us after the cameras shut down. “And again tonight.”
“Great,” Fran says. “And now if we hurry over to the ticket counter, we might be able to make the twelve fifteen direct flight to LaGuardia.”
Mom hugs us and tells us to be careful. “And our cameras are going to follow you right up to the security gates,” she says, “and they will be filming until you get through just in case something happens again.”
“I can’t imagine they’d dare anything like that,” Fran assures her.
Before long, we have direct first class tickets to New York. But as we—and our entourage—approach security, I can tell Paige is getting nervous. “Okay,” I tell her. “You don’t have any fluids on you, right?”
“Are you kidding?” She shakes her head. “They confiscated everything.”
“Now, you’ll just calmly remove your shoes and your jacket,” I remind her. Between Fran and me, we somehow coach Paige through security without any further ado. In fact, every single security person is polite and gracious and I have to wonder why it couldn’t have gone down like that the first time. Still, I’m thankful the grumpy female security guard is nowhere to be seen. I can only hope that she and the others are being repremanded.
We have an hour to wait at our gate, but we use this time to forage for food. All three of us are ravenous after our exhausting morning. And then I go with Paige to stock up o
n fashion magazines, and even pretend like I’m into it for once. Anything to cheer her up. Just as we’re being loaded in the first boarding group, Fran’s phone rings. As we’re getting into our seats, which are nice comfy leather recliners, we can hear Fran across the aisle talking. I’m guessing it’s Helen, and it must be something upbeat because Fran is grinning from ear to ear.
“Guess what, girls?” she asks after she hangs up.
“Those nasty airport security thugs are being strip-searched by gorillas?” I try.
Paige chuckles. “I wish.”
“This is almost as good,” Fran says quickly. “Helen says that she’s heard from a reliable source that your news story is likely to be picked up nationally, and she’s already contacted a producer friend at Good Morning America who would like you girls to be on their show tomorrow.”
“To talk about On the Runway?” Paige looks hopeful.
“No, to talk about the airport security incident. But I’m sure you can somehow get a few words in for our show as well. And it’s a great opportunity, don’t you think?”
It’s hard to read Paige’s face. I know the girl loves publicity, but I suspect she’s not overly eager to tell the strip-search story too many times. Although I suppose it could end up being therapeutic.
“And who knows?” Fran continues. “If the GMA interview goes well…maybe Today will call. Or maybe GMA will want to invite you back next week to talk about On the Runway at Fashion Week.”
“I guess we should make the most of it.” Paige nods. “Besides, it might actually help some other unsuspecting girl to not make the same mistake.”
“By the way,” Fran adds. “Helen said that Prada is probably sending you a little something as a consolation gift. We’ll check with the concierge at the hotel tomorrow.”
Paige doesn’t even respond as she opens a thick edition of Vogue. “You know, I’d just like to forget about the whole thing…for a while.”
“Me too,” I agree.
Paige leans back into the seat with a contented expression. “First class is definitely the way to go.”
“That was so cool that the airline upgraded us,” I tell her. “I mean, it’s not like they were responsible for the security people.”
“But what a price to pay.” Paige sighs.
“I’ll say.” I slowly shake my head. Then I peer curiously at my sister, suddenly wondering if she might’ve intentionally pulled that whole crazy stunt just to get…No, that is way too extreme. Even for a drama queen like Paige. But it just figures that she would end up with a payoff like this. My sister sometimes takes a beating, but she usually lands on her feet.
“So what time do we get in to New York?” I ask Fran.
“We probably won’t get settled in our hotel until nearly midnight,” she says.
“Midnight?” Paige looks surprised. “And what time do we have to get up for Good Morning America?”
“They want us in the studio by six thirty.”
Paige does not look pleased. “So that’s like three in the morning West Coast time?”
“Yes, but you shouldn’t think about it like that,” Fran warns. “Set your clock on Eastern time and just forget—”
“So I’ll be getting a few hours’ sleep, if I’m lucky, and at three in the morning I have to show up at Good Morning America looking fresh and pretty and fashionable and chic?”
“Fashionable and chic, always.” Fran nods. “Fresh and pretty…? Well, let’s just settle for a worn-out sort of pretty. Everyone will know you’ve been through an ordeal.”
“Don’t worry,” I assure Paige. “By tomorrow, you’ll be looking gorgeous again.” And, I think to myself, I’ll be looking for a camera to hide behind.
Chapter 8
After a relatively pleasant and un-eventful flight, it’s about eleven when we finally make our way to baggage claim in LaGuardia. Our internal clocks still seem to be on Pacific time, where it’s only eight, so we chatter amongst ourselves as we wait for the luggage near the airport office, where our bags would be stored because of the earlier flight. But then we wait and wait and wait…and you’d think that our luggage would be easy to find with all of Paige’s pink bags, but after about twenty minutes we realize we have a problem.
Fortunately, Fran is on top of it. She’s already notified a man who is trying to track down the whereabouts of our bags. “It sounds like they’re stowed somewhere else, and if we stick around we can just take them with us instead of waiting for someone from the airline to deliver them to the hotel.”
“I’ll feel better waiting,” Paige tells her. “Especially with Good Morning America in the morning. All my hair accessories and cosmetics are in a checked bag.”
But after nearly an hour, we are worried and antsy. “What if they really lost our bags?” I ask Fran after she informs us that they weren’t on our original New York flight.
“They have lost our bags, Erin,” Paige says impatiently. “Aren’t you listening?”
“I mean lost them for good.”
Suddenly Paige looks like she’s about to cry or maybe just scream uncontrollably. And I realize I’d better not push this girl’s buttons.
“The bags have to be somewhere,” Fran reassures us. “And Paige’s pink luggage would be hard to misplace—for long anyway. I’m sure they’ll be at our hotel by morning.”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “So maybe that’s where we should be too.”
Fran points over to where our limo is still waiting. “Let’s blow this joint.”
“Watch what you say,” I tell her. “Security might be listening.”
Fran laughs as we hurry to the limo, but once we’re inside, it’s clear to see that Paige is not handling this well. In fact, she looks close to a meltdown.
“Are you okay?” I quietly ask.
Her lips are pressed tightly together, and it could be my imagination, but it looks like her nostrils are flared. “How do you think I am?”
I just shrug and glance nervously at Fran. I know my sister, and there are a few specific (seemingly minor) things that can totally unravel her otherwise unflappable personality. Things like: One, being humiliated in public; two, being observed by almost anyone when she’s not looking “picture perfect”; and three, losing her stuff. Right now I’m worried that we’re facing the triple threat.
“How do you think I am?” she repeats with a snarl.
“You’ve had a rough day. I know.”
“But you’re in New York City,” Fran says pleasantly as she points out the window of the limo. “Just look at those lights—this is the city that—”
“I am in the fashion capital of the United States,” Paige says in a monotone, “and my cosmetics and my hair products and even my clothes are all MIA. I am supposed to appear on national TV in—” she glances at her watch. “In about six hours. I will not be able to sleep. I have a bruised face. My hair is totally gross. My clothes are—”
“The clothes from the studio should be in our hotel,” Fran says quickly.
“Yes, that’s just fine,” Paige shoots back at her. “I’ll be dressed for the runway but I will look like I’ve been run over.” And then she starts crying.
I wish I could think of something to say, but I feel over my head.
“We’ll go to ABC early,” Fran tells her. “I’ll find you hair and makeup stylists and you’ll look fine.”
Paige blots her tears with a tissue. “Thanks. We’ll see what they can do with my puffy eyes,” she says with a sniff.
“You’ll look fine,” I assure her. “I’ve never seen anyone who can recover and pull herself together faster than you, Paige. And besides, you shouldn’t look too perfect tomorrow—”
“You mean today,” she corrects me.
“Yes. Today. You should look a little bedraggled. I mean, you’re going on their show to talk about the ordeal you went through with security. If you look perfect, they might not believe you.”
“That’s right,” Fran agrees. “You
want to win the public’s sympathy. Otherwise, you’ll look like a spoiled fashion princess who goes around complaining about everything.”
Paige seems to be considering this, and I think maybe we just averted a total meltdown. And yet I realize we’re not home free yet. As we get out of the limo and head into the hotel, I feel like I’m transporting volatile explosives, and like I should warn everyone (including helpful doormen) to just back off Paige so nobody gets hurt.
Fran gets us checked in, and then as Paige gazes at a window display of some elegant beauty products that are available at the spa/salon (when it’s open), Fran quietly gives me the key card and tells me to take my sister up to the suite. “Just get her to take a relaxing bath before bed.” Fran reaches into her bag now, pulling out a small pill bottle. “And, if you need to, give her one of these.”
“What is it?”
“Just a very mild sleeping pill. Right now, I think Paige could use one. In the meantime, I’ll check with the concierge about the clothes the studio shipped and I’ll see if he can send someone out to procure some beauty products—things Paige will need if her bag doesn’t make it. Why don’t you ask her what exactly she needs and call me back with a list?”
I’m not so sure about this plan, or whether or not Paige should take a sleeping pill, but I pocket the bottle and pry Paige away from the display case before she attempts to break in and snatch the beauty products.
Our two-bedroom suite turns out to be just that. Sweet. But Paige doesn’t seem to even notice the cool contemporary furnishings, big windows, or even the luxurious amenities, like a cashmere throw at the foot of the bed. Cashmere! But I have a feeling that nothing is going to impress this girl tonight. “You get undressed,” I say as I hand her a fluffy white terry robe. “I’ll run you a bath.”
She just nods. “Thanks.”
I pour some fragrant-smelling bath product into the elegant tub and run the water, making sure that it’s nice and warm but not boiling hot. And before long Paige is settled down into the bubbles and giving me her wish list of hair and beauty products. While she’s soaking, I call Fran and relay this list to her.
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