“No offense, Ms. Lang, but I haven’t…” Poppy takes her time, making the circumstances sound grave indeed. “Well, I haven’t heard…great things about the denim in your collection. I’m very concerned. I couldn’t possibly have Morgan wear them in public without some generally positive reviews. As you may know, she and Lilly Jacobs are friends, or I wouldn’t let her do this show at all. We’re here negotiating the terms of the fashion evening right now, and—” Poppy pauses. “Sure. Sure. I think that can be arranged. Let me discuss it with my client, and I’ll call you back directly.”
Poppy snaps shut the phone and smiles.
“You are holding out on me,” I point at Poppy. “How did you know about the Paper, Denim & Cloth?”
She just smiles. “Believe it or not, there was an article in my Organic Weekly.”
“You are amazing.”
“Sara Lang had a lot of fear-energy.” Poppy says. “I just had to massage it a little, and she was ours. Still think my energy talk is whacked?”
“Yes, I do. You sound distinctly like Yoda. But the Force is with you, and I love you, Poppy Clayton!”
“Of course you do. I feel ya, girl.”
“To the Spa Girls!” Morgan says while opening a mineral water Lars put on the desk.
“To the Spa Girls!” Poppy and I echo in unison.
chapter 32
My adrenaline is bubbling over. I generally love the rush before a fashion show, but this time the reviews are mine. If the press doesn’t like a gown, they will say something like, “Lilly Jacobs for Sara Lang, complete and utter failure!” Then, not only am I unemployed, but I’m $10,000 in the hole—and back to Nana and finance. So the adrenaline currently feels more like hyped-up angst.
I’m just pacing back and forth, listening to the rumbling crowd as they enter and find their seats. I have poked and prodded and pinned the models until not so much as a wrinkle is apparent on their tiny, shapely frames.
One good thing about this week. I literally worked my fingers to the bone, well the second layer of skin anyway. I’ve been stabbed by needles so often that my finger looks indented like the thimble that I should have worn. Models are wiggly creatures. Regardless, I worked so hard on the gowns that I simply didn’t have time to obsess about my hair. I made a headband out of the leftover tangerine fabric, and it’s tossed up on my crown like fresh fruit salad. I’m a modern-day Carmen Miranda (Nana’s favorite besides Van Johnson and William Holden)!
Sara has seen the gowns and fitted the models with me. She was pleased with my color choices, and for once, I feel like I finally did something right. I can tell she’s pleased because I didn’t hear how idiotic I am even once in the last three days. But of course, if the reviews come back negative, she’ll have plenty to say, and it won’t be good.
The Schwartz family hotel has been transformed. Most of the shows were at the Palace of Fine Arts, but Sara rented out the hotel so the media and society attendees wouldn’t have to cross town for the after-party. More attendees equals more purchases equals more attention. The hotel walls have been draped with rich, colorful fabric to match the gowns, and the ballroom has been sprayed with a fresh citrus scent (my idea—as if I really needed to say so). There’s a collage of expensive perfumes vying for attention, however, and I feel my lovely orange mist is all for naught. Old money and old cologne seem synonymous. There is a shelf life on perfume, people!
Sara managed to hire the models and take care of the musical score for the show, and she had her normal crew build the runway extra long so that photographers have time to snap pictures. Sara says one of the mistakes some designers make is rushing the walk. She says that although the music is fast, models should think of the elephant walk when they parade. Of course, the models are too young to know what she means, so one of the handlers usually translates: “Slow,” he says, like a breeder speaking to puppies.
I found a use for Morgan’s wedding fabric. I used it on the runway, and it’s impeccable down there, providing just the right elegant contrast for the brightly hued dresses.
Morgan is backstage holding my hand. We’re both so nervous we can’t speak to one another. We just stare at each other knowingly. She’ll break free from her dad tonight. I’ll either break free of debt and my fears of unworthiness, or crash over the ledge. It depends on my success rate. If Morgan’s appearance is any indicator, I am home-free. I took thirty-four measurements for Morgan’s figure and fitted the clothing darts precisely where the dress would mold to her. I like to think my finance degree comes in handy here. Because the measurements are so precise—the understanding of math can create a perfect body illusion. Not that Morgan’s body is far away from perfect anyway.
The other gowns are important too; don’t get me wrong. They are an entire year’s worth of work at Sara Lang, not to mention the last deadly week in my own personal sweat-shop/ loft, but only Morgan’s gown and the last six matter at the moment. They are officially in the program as Lilly Jacobs for Sara Lang Couture. They are the beginning of my own walk down the runway. Will I accept a hearty bouquet of roses? Or will there be tomatoes and rotten fruit thrown my way? Okay, Lord, don’t desert me now!
I peek outside the curtain. My Nana is in the front row, with an empty seat next to her where Max should be. Nate is behind her, talking to a blond and tipping his head back in laughter. Oh, brother.
“Is the room packed?” Kim comes up behind me, and I whip the curtains shut. Morgan steps back.
“What? Yeah, yeah. The place is packed.” I grab her hands before she peeks out the curtain. The last thing I need is for her to get nervous. “This is it, Kim. We’ve worked hard for this moment.”
“You never did tell me how you got Sara to agree to drop any charges against me.”
“I had my friend Poppy call her. She’s got some special power over the woman, and Sara is completely under her control. I don’t get it, but I don’t ask questions either.”
Sara’s ex-husband is sashaying about the back room, hoping to catch a glimpse of a model sans clothing, but Sara is actually pretty good about keeping the models well covered. I think she was married to the man long enough. He still owns part of Sara’s business, but what she does with me is hers alone. Hence, the reason she’s been so helpful.
We hold the show’s start until the socialites in the front row arrive. They are generally late to make a grand entrance, and the problem is, every one of them wants to be later than the last. So it’s very rare that a show starts on time, because the wealthier your audience, the bigger the press coverage.
Morgan is shaking her hands nervously, and I gasp again at the sight of her. “Morgan, you were born to be a bride.”
“I know. It totally makes me want to get married—to the right guy. You outdid yourself, Lilly. You have a gift for understanding the shape of women. I never want to take this off.”
“It’s knowing the client. I’ve decided that I’m going to do custom-fit to the body, if this flies tonight. It’s all the measurements, and knowing where to put the darts in the fabric so it lays right. I didn’t do that with the rest of the models, and I see the difference. Maybe the audience won’t see the technicalities. But they’ll know when you walk out there that something is special.”
I take Morgan’s appearance in, and she is truly a vision. The gown is strapless with a small appliqué of beading and pearls on the bodice. Everything is in satin, with the exception of a ruched silk cummerbund at her natural waistline. The skirt is a narrow A-line with a small flare of fabric at the floor.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask her, knowing that both our futures are on the line here.
“I am. Anxious, actually. Are you ready?” she asks, and I nod. “This is what I want you to say.” Morgan hands me a sheet of paper. “My father’s in the back against the wall, and he’s brought quite a few of his security guards for the diamonds.”
“I know. They frisked everyone entering tonight. The press will certainly know the jewels are real.”<
br />
“My father will be sure and let them know exactly where they came from, trust me on that.”
“Sara!” I say, seeing my former boss walking in a daze. “Did you need something?”
“Your agent is amazing, Miss Malliard,” Sara says to Morgan. “She brought her chiropractor table, and just put my spine in such peace. I have never felt so calm before a show. Can’t you just feel the energy out there in the audience? Wait until they see you, Miss Malliard.” Then Sara looks at me and slips her glasses off. “Lilly, don’t you have something to do? We’re about to start.”
The televisions are on backstage in case we get any pre-show press, and I look at one of the monitors, and see Max Schwartz on the screen being interviewed in a tuxedo. I approach the set and turn up the monitor.
“This award means a lot to you, doesn’t it Mr. Schwartz?” the announcer asks him.
“Yes, it does. It’s always nice to be recognized for your work, but it’s more important that the work continues.” He smiles. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m late for another engagement.”
“There he is,” the announcer continues, clearly flustered by Max’s sudden exit. “The recipient of this year’s Citizen Award for charitable giving. He raised hundreds of thousands for San Francisco’s homeless this year, and that won’t be soon forgotten. Back to you in the studio, Katie.”
Morgan comes up behind me. “That’s why he’s late?”
I shrug, open-mouthed. “I guess so. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Did you hear that?”
“No wonder he can put up with your Nana. He probably has really expensive ear buds custom-fitted in there or something.”
Sara claps three times harshly. “Let’s go, Lilly. Now!”
The lights dim lower in the ballroom, and the lights lining the stage brighten, while the music gets louder. My stomach is surging. “This is it.”
“It’s going to be great, Lilly,” Morgan says.
First, I have to wait through the myriad of denim in Sara and Shane Wesley’s collection. Even with the pounding music, the reception is eerily quiet. I can see Sara pacing the stage, yelling at the models to stand up straight. Sara is exceptionally cheap, and she’s usually a model or two short for a show, so they are already not thrilled with the collection in the first place. Being seen in stilettos, black denim, and skeleton T-shirts is doing nothing for their mood. No one ever went on to übermodel status in skull-wear for anorexics.
I’ve found something worse than the silence. It’s the negative mumbling roar that happens when an audience clearly doesn’t like what they see. My heart begins to pound. The mood is not great out there, and I’m praying I won’t be the beneficiary of a grumpy crowd. Worse yet, an absent crowd. I clutch Morgan’s hand, and the music changes to the soft, flowing, dreamy Rhapsody by Rachmaninoff.
The first model steps forward in my canary yellow scooped-neck silk with a matching canary diamond tennis bracelet and huge canary pendant around her neck. Even though she must be all of seventeen, the brunette model appears sophisticated and assured.
“Remember, take it slow,” I say to her. “Float with the music.”
She pushes through the curtain confidently, and I feel her every step. The walk seems to last forever, and I look at my Nana’s expression. She actually has her hand over her mouth. Is she astonished? Disgusted? What?
I see Nate, and he lets out a loud whistle, using his finger in his mouth. As the model makes her trek back up the runway, the crowd erupts in applause. The second model is in front of me, wearing the dress my tangerine headband matches. I tug at the waistline and straighten all the gathers as she steps onto the runway. Time is standing still. And this time, I mean it. Not like when I thought it stood still with Stuart Surrey, but truly, not moving forward and suspended in midair. With each model taking her place on the runway, my heart is in my throat, and I’m parched beyond measure. Every step is like a dagger held precariously at my jugular, as though I’m waiting for the model to fall, or the skirt to rip from the bodice. Impending doom is my M.O.
Finally, Morgan takes her place at the head of the runway, and the finale comes. We grab each other’s hands, and what passes between us in the silence is a knowing comprehension and a quick, “Thank you, Lord.” This is our moment. And like everything else important in our lives since college, we’re doing it together. Poppy is giving massages with her table in one of the back rooms, but she comes out at the moment Morgan steps to the curtain. Poppy points to the ceiling to let us know she’s prayed. And we give one last telling look to each other.
The curtain opens, and Morgan just stands there until the audible gasps die down. Slowly, she glides down the runway like the most seasoned of models, carrying herself with impeccable grace, the simple diamond earrings and enormous cushion diamond engagement ring sparkling under the stage lights. The room is silent, every eye glued to her form as if they are seeing an angel. Then, without warning, Morgan pauses in the middle of the runway. The music suddenly stops.
“Sara,” I whisper. “What’s up? Turn the music back on!”
It’s then that I see Stuart Surrey at the end of the runway. He must have read the press release and known she was here. He’s gazing longingly into Morgan’s eyes but she’s not even looking at him. She’s staring at…“Oh my goodness!” I exclaim, clutching my chest.
“What is it?” Poppy asks, coming behind me.
“L-l-look,” I stammer. And I point. Andy Mattingly, the poem-writing, American Idol reject of Morgan’s romantic past is standing at the end of the runway. The stage lights are highlighting him as though he’s surrounded by some aura. His gaze is fixed firmly on the woman he loved, and her eyes haven’t left him since she first noticed his presence.
“Go, Morgan!” I whisper, urging her down the runway. “Finish the walk! Finish the walk!”
The photographers are snapping at will, thinking it’s Stuart Surrey who has her rapt attention, a trance that has suddenly made her forget to put one foot in front of the other. Stuart stands up proudly when Morgan starts to walk…and then…run!
“I can’t believe she can run in those shoes,” Poppy says.
At the end of the runway, Morgan leaps off the edge, and the security guards surround her. Stuart struggles valiantly to save her. I’m just really glad I glued the gown on so nothing else is struggling to get free. Morgan wiggles and maneuvers until she’s free from the wrong man, and she rushes into Andy’s arms. She closes her eyes, and even from here, I can see the tears streaming down her face. Andy tilts her chin upward, and the two of them fall into a heated kiss that is straight out of a sizzling afternoon soap opera.
“That is hot!” I hear Poppy say. “I’m feeling that energy.”
“I think the whole room is feeling that energy.”
Cameras are clicking madly, and I have to give her credit. Morgan just did more for my fashion career by her own weakness for mediocre musicians than a thousand Stanford degrees could have ever done.
Her father is going ballistic, yelling and trying to get across the room. Of course, the security guards think it’s about the jewelry, but Poppy and I smile at one another, knowing it’s the poverty of the man with his lips locked firmly on the lips of the San Francisco Jeweler’s daughter that is the problem.
“Should we make Morgan’s announcement?” Poppy asks.
“I think she just made her own.”
I look at my Nana and her mouth is agape. She’s just shaking her head at the whole scenario, which makes me giggle out loud. Poppy gives me a hug, and we start jumping around together. “We did it!”
Andy whisks Morgan up into his arms, while she simultaneously rips off the diamonds and hands them back to the security guards—who obviously have no clue who she is. Andy and Morgan are smiling at one another as though they’ve just pulled off the biggest crime spree in centuries. They rush out the door away from her father and toward—their future? My gown is with them, but I imagine that’s good for my future.
&nb
sp; “I told you that dress had power.”
“You did. Maybe you should have worn it, huh, Poppy?”
As the young couple leaves our view, I see Max coming in, straightening his tuxedo collar. He acts as though nothing is amiss with a woman rushing off a Fashion Week runway and out the doors in a wedding gown with an unidentified man, and walks towards my Nana. Then he sees me on stage, and the utter chaos in the ballroom.
He keeps his gaze fastened on me and hops up on a step and then the stage, his broken leg straight in front of him. He winces a bit with the movement, but once he’s on the stage, he comes toward me with those incredible brown eyes, not caring if everyone in the place is watching him. I start to giggle and wonder what on earth he’s up to. I look down at Stuart Surrey, who is doing battle with Morgan’s father, and there’s nothing. Not a single feeling left in my bones—not even in my stomach—for that man. But there are definitely feelings developing for a slightly older television reporter with a goatee and receding hairline.
“Miss Jacobs?” A hand is thrust toward me. “Helen Wong, Women’s Wear Daily. Where do you get your inspiration for your gowns?”
I look at her for a brief second and without another thought, I say exactly where my inspiration comes from. “God. My friends. The spa—usually in that order.”
She nods. “And the colors? They’re so unique.”
“Bright is good energy,” I say, smiling at Poppy. “Will you excuse me, please?”
I finish the walk towards Max, and we stop mere inches from one another. “Max Schwartz, who are you?”
He takes my hand, pulling it to his lips, and he brushes me with one of his gentle kisses. “I’m sorry I’m late.” He takes both of his hands and slides my headband off. “I have a broken leg. You have curly hair. No fair, cheating.”
I shake out my hair and let it explode to its natural girth. “It’s a lot of curly hair, and it’s not temporary,” I say, looking at his cast.
She's All That Page 27