by Cathy Kelly
Kenny himself had overseen Holly’s outfit, which was standard fashion hag black from head to elegant toe. A wool Joseph skirt, chiffon Whistles blouse and LK Bennett kitten heels. Beside her, Caroline looked like an expensively-decked-out Christmas tree.
‘Hello, Tom, hi, Caroline,’ Holly said.
‘You’re going backstage,’ sighed Caroline. ‘That must be fascinating. I said to Joan that I’d love to be backstage just to see what it was like, but she said it was only designers and their assistants for security reasons.’
Holly nodded gravely at this whopping big lie. At least ten of Joan and Kenny’s friends had flitted backstage to bestow good luck hugs and squeal with delight at the clothes. Joan still hadn’t forgiven Caroline for that crack about the three flatmates trying to recreate Friends.
Holly perched on the chair in front of them.
‘Is everything going OK?’ asked Tom. ‘Only I saw Joan’s mother legging it out from the back. Isn’t she modelling for Joan?’
‘Last-minute nerves,’ Holly said, not wanting to be disloyal to Joan. Then she felt bad for not telling Tom the truth. He was her friend, but she didn’t want Caroline to know anything was wrong.
‘Tom says you were asked to model and you said no,’ Caroline went on. ‘You must be mad. I’d adore to be up there on the stage.’
Holly gazed at her. Caroline really was excruciating. Her vocabulary was limited to one word: me.
‘Being the centre of attention isn’t my scene,’ Holly said lightly.
‘Now, tell me about the party afterwards.’ Caroline was all business. She wasn’t really interested in Holly’s opinions. ‘It’s in the Happy Bunny Bar on Clarendon Street, right?’
Holly nodded and got to her feet. ‘I better go back.’
‘You see,’ said Caroline urgently, ‘I want to make sure everyone is there because we’ve got an announcement to make tonight.’
‘An announcement?’ Holly asked.
‘Not now, Caro,’ said Tom uncomfortably.
‘But yes, now. I can’t keep it all to myself!’ Caroline beamed at Holly and held out her left hand, on which sparkled a dainty sapphire which suited her tiny fingers. Holly’s first instinct was to gasp but she smothered it and managed to say ‘Ooh, how lovely,’ instead.
‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ said Caroline smugly. She splayed her fingers and admired her ring. Holly watched her, wondering how somebody as decent as Tom could ever want to become engaged to Caroline. Love clearly was blind.
‘Congratulations to both of you,’ Holly said, backing away. She couldn’t give Caroline a hug, she just couldn’t. It would be hypocritical. ‘I must rush.’
She fled to the safety of backstage where Kenny and Joan were tearing their hair out over the lack of tall, normally-built women to model two vital parts of Joan’s collection.
‘The wedding dress looks like a rag on Ivanka,’ screeched Joan, as she tried to pin her Valkyrie dress on a etiolated girl with mahogany plaits and the face of a angel. Ivanka looked like a child in her big sister’s dress. ‘The whole show is ruined.’ Joan looked desolate.
‘It’ll fit me, won’t it?’ said Holly.
Joan and Kenny looked up like dogs hearing the rattle of the can opener.
‘Strip,’ ordered Kenny.
Within minutes, there was a graceful ballet going on around Holly. Her hair was being sleeked down and plaited by the hairdresser, while Joan made a few last-minute alterations to the wedding dress because Lizzie wasn’t as slim as Holly. The make-up artist stood on a chair and worked on Holly’s eyes, painting feathery little strokes with her sable brushes, making Holly’s dark eyes appear huge and exotically Eastern. They were barely finished when Joan unhooked the wedding dress and Kenny handed over the evening dress that Ursula had been going to wear. It was too big.
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ Joan said hopelessly.
‘Beg your mother,’ said Kenny.
The show’s compère, a handsome singer who strenuously denied that he was gay, appeared. Merrill Anderson was forty, looked thirty thanks to so much Botox he hadn’t smiled in ten years, and was a huge hit with ladies unfamiliar with the sly sniggering of the gossip columns.
Kenny knew Merrill from the shop. Nobody was fussier over the cut of a jacket or the shape of a shirt collar than Merrill. Kenny batted his eyelashes. ‘Merrill, you look divine. We have one teensy, weensy problem and you might be able to help. One of our models is having second thoughts. Could you coax her onstage?’
Ten minutes before the show began, the buzz began like a slow burning fire. It started when the music began to pulse from the speakers. Suddenly, backstage came alive. Last-minute Marlboros were lit, pulses began to race and Holly, clad in her dress and afraid to touch anything in case she somehow spilled something on herself, felt her whole body tremble with nerves. The fit of bravery that had come over her as a result of hearing that Caroline and Tom were engaged had receded somewhat. But she couldn’t back out now.
‘He’s a lovely man, that Merrill,’ sighed Ursula, now dressed in the midnight blue and silver evening dress and enjoying an emergency vodka. ‘If I wasn’t happily married, I’d go for him in a big way. He told me he preferred mature women, you know.’
‘Mrs Atwood, can I have some of your drink?’ asked Holly.
Fear of spilling was overcome by fear of modelling.
‘Sure, have this one,’ said Ursula, handing over a full glass that had been sitting on the make-up table. ‘It’s Joan’s. She’s had enough.’
Holly gulped the whole glass quickly, spilling none of it despite her trembling hands.
Fiona rushed past, her hair standing up like a brush because she’d run her fingers through it so many times. ‘Vic’s here and I told him you’re modelling,’ she told Holly. ‘He says good luck!’
A huge round of applause told them that Merrill had gone onstage.
Everyone backstage watched the big TV monitor where the show was being relayed. The college’s communications department were having a blast producing and filming the show. Merrill rattled on about the prizes for the top three designers, lauded the show’s sponsors, and laboriously thanked the judges.
‘Winning this award will be the start of a fabulous career for one lucky designer, a guaranteed one-year-contract with the Walton Street Design Centre. In fact,’ Merrill smiled at the ladies in the audience, ‘this could very well be the most important night in the life of our designers!’
‘Is he trying to make us all even more nervous?’ groaned Joan.
Holly reached out and squeezed Joan’s hand. Merrill announced the first designer and the show proper began.
The first model set out onto the catwalk and Holly gulped with the knowledge that soon, very soon, she’d be going out there. Thirty minutes of applause and speedy changes later, the assembled models were clad in Joan’s clothes. They all looked incredible, Holly thought, forgetting for a moment what she had to do.
As the person modelling the wedding dress, she would go last.
‘Bottoms up,’ grinned Ursula, swaying past in her midnight dress, perfectly able to face the crowd now that she’d been chatted up by the host and had plenty of vodka inside her.
‘And introducing Joan Atwood’s collection,’ announced Merrill.
The first model stepped out.
Holly’s turn was coming. The penultimate model set out and Holly was poised at the entrance to the catwalk, with the show co-ordinator’s hand firmly pressed in the small of her back.
‘Off you go,’ said the co-ordinator, increasing the pressure. Terrified, Holly walked out, unsteadily at first, staring blindly over the sea of faces. Then, it happened: she became aware of the collective goodwill of the audience. In the crowd were her friends, and Joan and Kenny’s friends, all wishing her well and crossing fingers so she’d walk happily down the catwalk, not tripping or stumbling. They wanted Holly and Joan to do well. The strength of their goodwill was like a palpable force. Holly felt it was
h over her, comforting her and giving her confidence.
Suddenly, she felt sure-footed and light as a feather. Swaying her hips in time to the Shakira track that Joan had chosen, she sashayed down the ramp, a smile dancing at the corners of her mouth. She held the skirt with one hand, swishing it gently, making sure everybody was getting the benefit of this luscious dress. She was doing this for Joan, her dear friend.
Her smile deepened as she reached the judges, and she stopped, gazing confidently out at the audience, letting them know that this dress was making her feel wonderful. She was the bride, happy on this special day. Then, with a flick of her wrist and a wiggle of her hips, Holly turned and let the dress ripple out behind her. Still walking proudly, she made the return journey, conscious that her every move had to be perfect to show the dress to its best advantage. At the end, she shot them another triumphant bridal smile over her shoulder and she was gone.
‘Holly, you were incredible!’ Joan hugged her first, followed by Kenny who was tearful.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it!’ he shrieked. ‘You were born to model! I’ve known you for nearly four years and it was like watching this beautiful stranger, I never knew you had it in you!!’
She was laughing and talking, telling them she’d been scared but then it had been all right, and then there was no time because Joan’s collection had to head back down the ramp altogether. One by one the models strode past onto the runway and as they passed Holly backstage, they smiled at her and made thumbs up signs because she’d been like a professional; she was one of them.
‘Well done,’ smiled Ivanka as she swayed past Holly.
‘You were great,’ said another.
‘You’re next,’ said the show co-ordinator but Holly didn’t need the push this time. She stepped out, following the gorgeous procession. The first model had reached the end of the catwalk and stopped, clapping and waiting. Holly stood triumphantly at the back. For the first time ever, Holly Miller felt that she too was gorgeous. Then Joan appeared from backstage and grabbed Holly’s hand, leading her past the line of models to accompany her down the catwalk as she received her acclaim as the designer of this fabulous collection. The audience went wild. Joan had to win, Holly thought.
In the crowd, Holly could see people. She saw Joan’s family clapping wildly, she saw Vic on his feet yelling congratulations, she could see Tom’s head at the back and he was clapping vigorously too. She felt a surge of pride that she’d been involved in this wonderful evening.
The Happy Bunny club was heaving. Joan was surrounded as soon as she stepped into the club, with well wishers hugging her and telling her they were thrilled she’d won. Joan brandished the glass trophy in one hand, and a rapidly-disappearing bottle of champagne in the other. Vic led Holly in through the throng, not letting her go for a moment. Some people recognised Holly and they hugged her too.
‘That dress was fabulous,’ they sighed. ‘You were the star of the show but we won’t be able to afford Joan’s clothes now.’
‘Do you get to keep the dress?’ asked someone else.
Holly laughed. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Yes, she is keeping it,’ said Vic proudly. ‘She’s going to marry me and she’s wearing that dress. All those other girls are going to be bridesmaids too, which should please whoever I pick to be best man.’
Holly laughed even louder.
Joan’s father, Andy, was at the bar with Ursula, who was still wearing her midnight blue evening dress. ‘I’m the designer’s mother so I get to keep it,’ Ursula told everyone grandly.
Joan’s father ordered champagne and Ursula interrupted to tell the barman that they wanted a big bottle.
‘A whatchmacallit bottle,’ she said, drunk on her success and Fiona’s quadruple-strength vodka and orange.
‘I think she means a magnum,’ said Andy.
‘Magnum! That’s it,’ said Ursula happily. ‘God, I loved Magnum. That Tom Selleck, phoar.’
‘Don’t ask your mother to model again,’ Andy begged his daughter. ‘I cringe when I think of what the photos will look like.’
Several press photographers had turned up to take photos of the winning designer and her clothes. Faced with the usual line-up of beautiful, slender models, they’d been fascinated by the real-life, voluptuous glamour of Holly. Joan had insisted on being photographed only with Holly and her mother. This fresh chance of fame had gone to Ursula’s head.
The magnum disappeared like a shot. Vic managed to get two glasses for him and Holly.
‘I suppose you’ll be off to Hollywood now that you’re famous,’ he teased.
‘Tickets are booked and everything,’ she said, keeping the joke going.
‘Does that mean we’re not going out any more?’ Vic looked more serious now.
Holly decided that the light-hearted approach was best. ‘Vic,’ she said cheerily, ‘we’re not going out. We’re friends, remember?’ True to his word, Vic had seemed happy enough to keep things on a friendly footing when they’d gone out for a Chinese meal a few days earlier. Holly had been ready to tell him that she wanted to keep it like that in case he wanted to progress things, but he’d said nothing and had been marvellous company.
‘I like being your friend, Holly,’ Vic said now, sounding serious for once. ‘But I’d like to be more than that…’
Holly felt her skin flush up; the first sign of embarrassment. What was she going to say?
‘You were fabulous tonight. Have you ever thought about being a model?’
A tall, eccentric-looking woman with raspberry-coloured hair stood beside them, gazing intently at Holly.
‘Cassiopeia Alexander,’ said the woman, armfuls of gold bracelets jangling. ‘Fashion director at Heavenly Style Plus. We’re new to the market, a magazine for plus-sized women. You’re a bit thin for us, we specialise in size sixteen or over, but we could make an exception in your case. Those curves are very now and a decent twelve to fourteen looks best in photos.’
Both Holly and Vic looked blank. It was the raspberry hair that did it. Holly wondered what sort of hairdresser would do that for you and Vic wondered if it was poisonous.
‘No?’
‘Well, probably no,’ said Holly, blushing some more. ‘Tonight was the exception, I’m not very good at standing up in front of strangers.’
‘Photographic modelling isn’t about standing up in front of strangers,’ insisted Cassiopeia. ‘There’s six people in the room, max. You’d love it; you’re a natural…You sure can walk the walk,’ she told Holly. ‘Here, take my card. Call me if you change your mind.’ And she swept off.
‘What about that hair,’ said Vic in awe.
‘I know,’ whispered Holly. ‘Do you think she’s for real?’
Together they examined the card, which was expensively cream with black letters on one side and gold on the other. ‘Looks good to me,’ said Vic.
‘We’ve told everyone we’re engaged!’ squeaked Caroline, dancing up behind Holly with Tom following loyally. ‘They wouldn’t let me use the club loudspeaker to announce it, so I’ve just told everyone myself!’
‘Told them what?’ inquired Vic.
‘That we’re engaged.’ Caroline’s hand shot out in a Pavlovian reaction and Vic dutifully admired the ring.
‘So when’s the big day?’ he asked.
Caroline began to tell him.
‘You were great,’ said Tom in an undertone to Holly.
‘Thanks.’ She looked at the floor, anything rather than look at his face.
‘What made you do it? I didn’t think wild horses could get you on a catwalk.’
Holly’s mind rushed through possible answers because saying that she’d been spurred on by the shock of his engagement would sound very odd indeed.
‘Er…Joan needed me,’ she mumbled.
‘You’re a good friend, Holly,’ he said, taking her hand and holding it.
Holly dragged her gaze from her shoes and looked into Tom’s earnest, kind face. It was
like he was trying to tell her something, but what? Then it came to her: Tom’s message was surely along the lines of ‘Sorry you fancy me but I don’t fancy you back. Please don’t be upset.’
It would be too shaming to have Tom think that. She forced herself to hold her head high. If she could parade up and down in a fashion show, she could be brave now in defeat.
‘I’m delighted you and Caroline are engaged,’ she said, trying to make her eyes sparkle so they wouldn’t betray her sadness. ‘You deserve to be happy.’
She didn’t wait for a reply but quickly pulled her hand from his and tapped Vic on the shoulder.
‘We should be going now, Vic. To the other party…’ she added meaningfully.
‘Of course,’ said Vic, skilfully taking his cue. ‘The other party. Yes, gotta go.’
Holly bestowed her best modelling smile on Caroline.
‘Hope you both have a nice evening,’ she said. ‘And congratulations again.’
Vic was taller than Holly and together they made an imposing couple as they sailed through the club, stopping only to say goodbye to Joan, her family and Kenny.
‘You’re my best mate,’ snuffled Joan tipsily as she grabbed Holly and hugged her. ‘And you too,’ she added, spying Kenny and dragging him into the circle.
Holly and Kenny laughed as Joan pulled them even tighter.
‘Friends forever,’ muttered Joan.
‘You bet,’ said Holly.
‘Holly! There you are,’ said an excited voice. The threesome parted and to Holly’s utter surprise, the person who appeared wildly pleased to see her was Pia from work.
‘Holly,’ repeated Pia excitedly as if they were bosom pals reunited after an eternity apart, instead of people who disliked each other intensely. ‘How great to see you. You were wonderful. You must meet my friends. I love your clothes,’ Pia added cravenly to Joan, who was trying to work out who this interloper was.
Holly prayed she wouldn’t remember. Joan had promised death and facial reconstruction the last time she’d thought about Pia. From the look on Kenny’s face, it was obvious he knew exactly who it was.