by Tia Williams
Eric cocked his head. “You always get what you want?”
“More or less.”
Eric nodded, thinking to himself. And then with a coolly assured expression, he said, “So do I.”
CHAPTER 7
The Isabel Mirielle showroom was inside of an eight-story building on 37th Street, and was typical of all the other buildings in the Garment District—run down, over a century old, and boasting a tacky ground floor wholesale boutique overloaded with polyester, pageant-lite Sweet Sixteen gowns and First Communion dresses. From the outside, you’d never know that the tenement-style buildings housed the factories and showrooms of some of world’s most important fashion houses. In fact, the architecture was so dreary that it always felt like it was about to rain—and today it was sunny and almost eighty degrees, a beautiful early-September day.
Eric was standing in front of 210 West 37th with his camera equipment, waiting for Jenna and musing on the vast number of red flags indicating this shoot would be a fail. Thanks to their tumultuous two days, Jenna and Eric waited too long to come up with an idea and now it was rushed. They had zero plan of action. He should’ve spoken to Greta, himself, to go over the direction—but Jenna got all territorial, insisting that she speak to her directly. And she was only able to get the assistant, because Greta was out of the country until this morning.
Jenna had picked a mysterious person with no digital footprint, so he couldn’t do any research on Greta to help him prepare. So basically, neither he, Jenna—or this phantom of a shoe designer—had an idea what they were walking into this morning.
He didn’t challenge any of this bullshit because…why should he? Jenna was so smug, so stubborn—so loud and wrong. It was impossible to get through to her when she thought she had the answer. He’d let her find out. Terry told him she’d been a judge on a TV show.
Clearly, Jenna was used to big budget productions with assistants and handlers making the major decisions, and now that she was on her own, she had no idea how guerilla-style, low-budget shoots went. Jenna wasn’t aware that she wasn’t just the talent—she had to help produce her content. Not just show up and sparkle.
Jenna was a diva. And the worst kind—the kind who thought she was down-to-earth.
That was the thing about her, though. She was totally lacking in self-awareness. She thought she came across as powerful during those temper tantrums—but she just sounded scared. This morning, after he spent twenty exasperating minutes walking her through Instagram, she thought she looked busy and unbothered by declining to share a cab uptown (“Sorry, I just need to finish up this post, I’ll meet you.”). But all she did was broadcast that she couldn’t be alone in a cab with him.
Actually, Eric wasn’t comfortable being alone with her, either. Over the past day, he’d discovered that the stress of dealing with Jenna’s Jennaness gave him a splitting headache. He’d taken two Excedrin on the ride over, as a preemptive measure. Yes, she could be cool-ish when she wasn’t yelling at him—but that’s where their conversations always ended up.
I’ve never regretted kissing a woman in my life, until now, he thought. I should never have gone to that dog party. I should’ve just gone to Tim’s and watched Key and Peele for fifteen hours. My life would be so easy right now.
A cab slowed down to a stop in front of him. Squinting against the glare bouncing off of the back window, he saw Jenna inside.
And then she opened the door and stepped out wearing a shrunken red sweatshirt with a sliver of midriff showing, a thousand pearl necklaces and skintight, ass-hugging denim sailor pants. Her curls were pinned up on one side. Pony-skin stilettos. Glossy lips. Movie star shades.
Eric blinked. And then chased every unprofessional thought from his head.
“Hi,” said Jenna, walking up to him with a businesslike smile. “Hey. You changed.”
“I know, this is my ‘Socialite Sailor’ look. Red usually reads well for me on camera.”
“It’s good that you wore solids. I forgot to tell you that prints can throw off the perspective.”
“I know that trick. I’ve been in front of the camera a few times.”
“Yeah, I heard you were a fancy TV star. Explains so much,” he muttered under his breath. “So. Before we go in, let’s shoot the intro. We only have twenty minutes with…”
“…Greta Blumen.”
“So we gotta hurry.” Eric looked up and down 37th, his brow furrowed. “Stand right here, with Seventh Ave. behind you, so we can get the street traffic.”
“Here?” She backed up.
He peered over her head and then looked up at the sun. “No, to the left. We need to catch that light.”
Without thinking, Eric held Jenna by the shoulders and gently moved her to the left, and then slightly to the right. He was so lost in setting up the shot, that he didn’t realize he was touching her—until he looked down at Jenna’s face, and saw her widened eyes. He dropped his hands.
“Perfect,” he said. Eric planted his tripod ten paces in front of her, and positioned the camera on top. Peering into his lens, Jenna looked rigid. Her lips were in a tight little line and her arms hung stiffly at her sides. He had to loosen her up.
He lifted up his head. “Did you ever have a pet?”
“A pet? I’m allergic to every animal fur under the sun. But I did have a hairless cat.”
“What was its name?”
“Colleen. I’ve always loved the idea of giving pets inappropriately human names. She was almost going to be Rachel. Or Tameika.”
“Pets weren’t allowed at the Vale crib, but in sixth grade, I adopted this little Terrier and kept him at my boy, Tim’s. His name was Rocky 4.” He ducked behind the camera, adjusting the lens. “Anyway, your bag reminds me of Rocky 4’s fur.”
“Are you comparing my cross-body clutch to a dog? This is high-quality faux chinchilla!”
“Oh, faux real?
Jenna chuckled a little.
“It’s a compliment,” said Eric. “I loved that dog.”
Jenna shook her head. Fluffing her hair and fidgeting, she watched Eric replace a lens, adjust the angle, and do it again. His brow was furrowed in concentration.
“So why do you love this?” she asked. “What made you want to make movies?”
Eric popped his head up again.
“It’s just always been there. I guess, when I was a kid, my life felt… messy. I loved that movies had a beginning, middle, and end.
Everything works out in the third act. Or maybe it doesn’t, but at least you have an answer. And I like making the world look how I want it to look. It feels like I’m god,” he said. “It’s crazy. Sometimes I have a memory, and it feels mad visceral, and it’s a good five minutes before I realize that it’s not real; it’s a scene from a movie.”
She smiled with recognition. “I can relate. I feel the same way, but about what the characters were wearing. Can I ask you what’s your short’s about?”
“No. Please, noooo,” he groaned. “How come?”
“Just thinking about it stresses me out. I’m having a panic attack from the question,” he said. “So, what about you? Why’d you want to be in fashion?
“Clothes say everything about who you are before you even open your mouth. Take you, for example. It’s clear what you want the world to think about you.”
“And what’s that?”
“Like you don’t try at all, even though you clearly do.
Accidentally cool. Off-duty actor caught by the paparazzi.”
He looked down at himself. “I don’t try. I’m a dude; I just throw some shit on.”
“Please! You had on the white and grey Air Yeezy’s yesterday. The crispest sneakers Kanye ever designed. With a RZA tee I know you got at VFiles on Lafayette. Is that place still open?”
“Yeah, but, I mean…”
“And today, you’re wearing the plaid shirt that’s currently in the window at the Soho H&M. Plus, faded Rag & Bone jeans and fancy workboots—what are those, Art
ful Dodger? Limited Edition J. Crew?” She giggled. “Fall workboots, even though it’s eighty degrees. That’s a fashion person move. You definitely try.”
“How did you do that?” Eric looked down at himself. “I feel so exposed.”
Jenna narrowed her eyes, studying him. “I’ve got it. You’re a hybrid of Platinum-Selling Rapper Sitting Courtside and Haute Hipster.”
He stepped away from the tripod. “Hipster? Do I look like a person who drinks artisanal craft beer? Am I dressed like a 19th century farmer?”
“No, but you are dressed like a 19th century logger.”
“It should be noted that you’ve memorized my entire wardrobe,” he said. “Why’re you looking so hard?”
“Please, I do this with everyone.”
“Yeah okay,” he said, with a pleased grin.
Satisfied with the setup and assured that the ice was broken with Jenna, Eric said, “Let’s do a run through of your intro. This is your first one, so it’s gonna set the tone for the whole series. Remind people who you are. What to expect.”
He handed her the StyleZine microphone. She took a deep breath and blew it out hard; scrunched up her nose and released it; and wiggled her shoulders.
“I’m ready.” She threw on a big smile. “Hello everyone, it’s Jenna Jones, the new editor at large at StyleZine. I’m so excited to bring you my very first video blog! Today, we’re at the Isabel Mireille shoe showroom, where…Eric Combs has just looked up from his camera with obvious dissatisfaction.”
“Whose voice is that?”
“It’s my voice!” She frowned.
“Just be conversational. Casual. YouTube vloggers talk in their bathrooms and kitchens like they’re talking to friends. It’s about being real.”
“I don’t sound real? “You sound like Siri.”
“This used to be so easy! I guess I’m really out of practice.”
“It’s cool. Just relax.”
Jenna started again, but got thrown off when a gust of wind tousled her hair. She smoothed it down, peered into her compact, and started over. Then she got too close to her microphone and smeared her lip gloss, so she had to look into her compact again. At which point she noticed that her blush had faded in the sun, so she pulled some out of her bag and reapplied. On the third take, she yelled, “Cut!” to fidget with the placement of her necklaces.
“Yo, what are you doing?”
“I’m used to having hair and makeup and a stylist before I go on-camera!” She looked into the mirror again, smoothed her undereye concealer, and started over. “Take four. I’m Jenna Jones, and…”
Eric turned off the camera. “You’re taking all the spontaneity out of this. You don’t wanna overdose on perfect.”
“Yes I do.”
“No, you wanna be relatable. Besides, there’s no art in idealizing beautiful women on film. It’s about the vulnerable, feminine moments. You know, when it’s windy and a woman’s hair gets caught in her lip gloss. When she laughs too loud and and covers her mouth. When she unconsciously smoothes her skirt over her ass ‘cause she thinks it’s too big, or too small. Imperfections.”
“At my age, imperfections are illegal.”
“Just stop overthinking it, and do whatever feels natural. Let’s do the intro again, and this time don’t stop. You’re gonna kill it.”
It took three more takes and Eric’s gentle coaching for Jenna to nail it. Finally, she dropped the stiff bit and came across as authentically her—authoritative, smart, but with the slightly kooky, self-deprecating edge that made her a fan favorite on America’s Modeling Challenge. When she stumbled over “Isabel Mireille,” she didn’t stop. Instead, she giggled and said, “Don’t mind me, I’m new to fashion.” It worked.
This might not be so bad, he thought.
And when Greta’s assistant buzzed them upstairs to the warehouse—which was a modest space, the size of a two-bedroom apartment in a Midtown high-rise—Eric felt hopeful. The showroom was gorgeous, an explosion of luxe bohemianism. There were embroidered, crushed velvet scarves draped over everything, exquisitely crafted incense pots, and a psychedelic Turkish rug covering the purposely beat-up wood floor. A Moroccan tiled wall running the length of the room was lined with shoes, from the ceiling to the floor, with a panel of sheer organza floating in front of it. And there were four young women perched on plush, pillowed ottomans around a weathered white table, poring over shoe designs.
“Hi, I’m Rosie,” announced Greta Blumen’s assistant, striding over to them. She was stocky, with a slack tangle of orangey hippie hair. She looked hearty, like she could fell a mastadoon with her bare hands.
“Right, we spoke on the phone!” said Jenna.
“Ms. Blumen’s in the back,” she said, looking past Jenna and zeroing in on Eric. “And, well, I think she’s having second thoughts. Can you come back another time?”
“What?” Jenna was stunned. “You can’t go talk to her for us?”
“Wellll…she’s coming off of an intense week. And she’s so unpredictable. I can’t afford to get fired right now.” She made a move to usher them to the door.
“But Rosie,” said Jenna, trying to stave off panic, “you committed to the shoot yesterday, and…”
“Why is she having second thoughts?” asked Eric, addressing Rosie directly.
“She never appears on camera,” she said, shyly glancing at him again. “She’s having jitters.”
“It’s natural,” said Eric. “She’s used to being behind-the-scenes. But she’ll be fine.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I know how to get women to loosen up,” he said, his dimple flashing.
Rosie looked at him and then she rolled her eyes, blushing. “I bet you do.”
He grinned. “What’s that mean?”
“Nooothing,” she said, all saucy.
“All I was saying,” continued Eric, with faux innocence, “was that every director should know how to make his leading lady feel comfortable. Why’re you making it a thing, Rosie?”
“I’m not making it a thing!” she giggled. “God!”
Jenna looked from Eric to Rosie and then back at Eric, stunned by what she was witnessing. Rosie’s posture had gone from tense to almost comically languid. She was leaning against the wall, lazily stroking a chunk of her gnarled hair.
“Okay. So, look. I don’t wanna get you fired. But can you just try to get her for us?”
“I don’t think I can convince her to come out.”
“You sure?” said Eric, his voice going low. “You seem the kind of girl who knows how to get what she wants.”
“I do?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Yeah. I mean no. I mean, yes?” Rosie shook her head, discombobulated. “Umm…I’ll be right back..”
The redhead left them in the doorway, and scurried across the room.
Jenna turned toward Eric and stared at him, incredulous. “What?” he whispered.
Jenna whispered-hissed back, “What the hell was that?”
“One of us had to think quickly.”
“That’s quick-thinking to you? Eye-fucking her into helping us?”
“I was just using the resources available to me to save our asses.”
“That was so cheap, Eric.”
“Yeah, but it worked. What was your plan?”
“Who had time to think of one? You’d already gotten her pregnant!”
Just then, Rosie hurried back over to them.
“Good news. Ms. Blumen has agreed to give you guys five minutes.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Jenna. “Thank you,” said Eric to Rosie.
“My pleasure,” she purred, tossing her tangles behind one shoulder. Jenna wanted to gag.
“So guys,” Rosie continued, “she’s in the bathroom, finishing up massaging her pulse points with myrrh oil. But be prepared. She’s had a rough couple of weeks.”
Just then, they heard a loud, husky voice in a heavy German accent, coming from som
ewhere behind them.
“Sank you, Rosie, you’re dismissed. Jenna! Oh Jenna, my luff!” They spun around, and there was Greta, all frenetic, jittery energy, emerging from the bathroom. She looked like a fortune teller and appeared to be on blow. She was wearing a flowy, ikat-print blouson dress, satin Capezio tango pumps, and a gold headscarf lined in dangling pailettes—with wild black waves tumbling out from beneath. Her getup looked totally natural, like she sprang from the womb a fully-developed woman wearing a gold snake armband and clutching a crystal ball.
Greta did have on a few accessories that didn’t go with the outfit—a massive white neck brace and a full cast covering her entire left arm. And crutches.
Jenna and Eric looked at each other.
“Mein leibling!” She limped over to Jenna and gave her a stiff-necked, encumbered hug, and then did the same to Eric. Then, in obvious pain, she put her hands in a prayer pose. “I’ve been nervous for the shoot all day, because uff my injuries, but Rosie said that my old friend and the cutie looked so sad that it vould be just a disaster to let you down. So, let’s go! I’m an open buch.”
“Greta? What happened? Your assistant didn’t mention anything about you being…injured.”
“I was chasing my peacock, Taraji P. Henson, around my garden for exercise, and I slipped on my pile of meditation pebbles. Sprained everything and broke my arm. It was a catastrophe, but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
“Oh Greta,” managed Jenna, who had forgotten that Greta was prone to peppering her speech with mind-numbingly obvious cliché’s.
“My husband was angered that I was so reckless. He threw a fit because we don’t haff insurance? Ach! I make him no attention. Hurt people hurt people.”
“Well, maybe the brace and cast will give the interview some extra color! Right, Eric?”
Eric had no words. “Eric?”
“Yeah, absolutely,” he said, springing back to life. “So, Greta, are you ready? The shoe wall is a nice place to start.”
“Not there. I’m very superstitious, and I just had this place feng shui’d for the seventh time. We haff to be careful not to disrupt the chi.”
Eric looked around. “How about in that corner, with the gold couch?”