Chapter
15
As usual, Paige is in charge of wardrobe as we dress for the after-parties. It doesn’t take long for her to decide that I “must” wear the garnet-colored Gucci cocktail dress. I don’t argue. It’s a good style, not too short, not too low cut, but very pretty —and like Paige says, garnet is a good color for me. And the matching shoes she picks for me to wear with it are perfect. “You make style seem so simple,” I tell her as I check out my image in the mirror.
“Sometimes.” She shakes her head as she goes through the rack of clothes again. For some reason, she’s having a harder time finding a dress for herself tonight. Finally, she is standing in front of the mirror, wearing the kind of gorgeous, lacy underwear that makes me nervous, as she holds up a creamy satin dress. It’s so elegant and beautiful, I can’t believe it when she hangs it back up in the closet.
“Why aren’t you wearing that?” I demand. “It looks fabulous.”
“I’m saving it for tomorrow night.”
“What’s tomorrow night?”
“The House of Marceau after-party,” she says with pride.
“Oh … is that going to be a big shindig?”
She shrugs. “Well, not by Gucci standards, but it will be a big night for Dylan and me. I want to look my best for him.”
She holds up a little black dress. “I could go the safe route tonight.”
I frown. “But you’re Paige Forrester,” I remind her. “You’re supposed to make heads turn when you enter the room.”
She laughs. “Yes, but that’s what everyone’s trying to do at these parties. If I go with this Valentino classic, I might just stand out for being the only one there in a little black dress.”
“You’re the expert.”
She frowns at the clock. “And we’re running out of time.”
I spot a gold dress in the back of the closet. “Hey, what about this one?” I ask as I hold it up to the light where it sparkles with promise.
Her eyes light up. “Versace!”
“You think it will work?”
“Oh, Erin, it’s perfect. I totally forgot about that dress. And one of the parties is Versace. You’re a genius.”
Feeling lucky, while she’s slipping into the dress I scramble through the shoes, finally choosing a pair of gold metallic sandals with killer high heels. “What about—”
“Perfect,” she cries as she grabs them. “We’ll both be wearing Prada shoes tonight.”
I bite my tongue as I watch her trying accessories. I don’t want to get in an argument with her right now, but I do have some questions about Prada’s environmental and global practices. However, I know Paige loves their designs, so really what’s the point? Maybe that’s the attitude I need to adopt with her love life too —kind of a don’t-ask, don’t-tell policy. She tries this and that until she finally decides on a fairly simple pair of gold and pearl earrings. The effect is perfect. “Here,” she says as she hands me some twisted silver earrings. “These will look dramatic with that dress.” She holds up a necklace. “And I think you need this too.”
I try it on and decide, once again, she is right. “Thanks for the help,” I tell her as we make final adjustments to our makeup. Then, as we’re selecting the right evening bags, her phone rings.
“We’re on our way down,” she chirps happily.
“Thank you,” she tells me as she does some last-minute preening in the mirror by the elevator. “I totally forgot about this Versace — and it’s absolute perfection.” She then looks slightly dismayed. “I wonder if I should’ve saved it for tomorrow night.”
“No time now,” I say as we get into the elevator. “And you will definitely turn heads in that.” “As long as I turn Dylan’s head.”
I nod, biting my tongue. Suddenly I’m thankful that I found such an incredibly fabulous dress for Paige to wear tonight. The Versace is stunning. For some reason I think she might need it. I don’t even know why exactly, but I want my sister to be at her very best. I want her to stand tall and regal, no matter what comes her way. Even as I think this, I hope nothing too terrible comes her way. I’ve seen her derailed before, and it’s not pretty. Besides that, we still have five more days of shooting to do. I know I can go solo, but I don’t want to.
As we walk through the lobby, we are noticed. And it’s not like that happens easily during Fashion Week. This is a tough crowd. But Paige is dazzling. Next to her … well, I’m probably invisible. The guys wave to us from where they’re waiting by the fireplace.
“Buonasera,” Gabin says as he takes my hand. “Sei bellissima.”
I giggle. “Thanks. Your Italian is as good as your French.”
“No, not even close. But I try.” He kisses my hand.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Dylan greeting Paige with a long, passionate kiss on the lips. “You look lovely,” he says as he possessively links her hand over his arm, almost as if she’s his prize … or maybe wrist candy. I don’t like to feel this way, but I’m aggravated. I think Dylan is a big fat phony and the sooner it blows wide open, the better it might be for everyone. The thought makes my stomach clench with anxiety.
“Are you okay?” Gabin asks quietly. He’s peering at me almost as if he can see right through me. “All ready to go now?”
I force a smile and will my feet to move. “Sure.” I look more carefully at Gabin, actually seeing him for the first time. “And you look very handsome tonight,” I say as we head out to where Dylan and Paige are already entering the waiting car.
“You are worried about Paige?” he says discreetly.
I nod. “I’m trying to follow your advice. It’s just not easy.” I haven’t even told him about what Taylor said to me outside the restroom last night, how she confirmed his suspicions about Dylan’s attraction to beautiful women. But I have a feeling I don’t need to tell Gabin this. I suspect he might know even more than he’s let on.
We get into the limo and Paige begins to chatter away, telling all about what we did and saw today. She is like the quintessential charming talk show hostess—watch out, Kelly Ripa. With Paige in top form there is never a dull moment, never a lull in conversation. She is clever and funny, gifted at making others feel important, and liberal in her praise as she compliments her fiancée on his spring line. Dylan is eating it up.
“You’re being awfully quiet tonight,” Dylan says to me suddenly. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you enjoying your time in Milan?”
I make a stiff smile. “I adore Milan,” I tell him. “Almost as much as I love Paris.”
Gabin looks hopefully at me. “You prefer Paris to Milan?”
“I’m not positive … I mean, I haven’t seen all that much of Milan,” I admit. “To be fair, it’s a bit like comparing apples to oranges. But maybe I prefer Paris.”
“Splendide!” Gabin looks somewhat victorious. “I always know you have excellent taste, Erin.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Milan is totally amazing. I love the architecture. And the food is awesome. Really, it’s a beautiful city too.”
“And tomorrow we go shopping!” Paige sighs happily. “Millions of girls would kill to have my job.” She beams at Dylan. “And my life.”
“Maybe we should get you a good life insurance policy,” I tease. But I’m thinking there probably are a few women out there, the Elizas of this world, who wouldn’t mind seeing Paige snuffed out.
Somehow we make it through the night and both afterparties, visiting with the who’s who of the fashion world without hitting any serious bumps along the way. I get a little nervous when Paige insists on inviting Taylor and JJ to join us at the Versace party, but Taylor acts perfectly normal. And, thankfully, Eliza must be elsewhere. I don’t even ask. I don’t want to know.
When the evening finally comes to an end, I am hugely relieved. I feel like my sister is sitting on a time bomb, and yet she has no idea. As we go up to our suite a bit before one in the morning, I have to ask myself, what does a loyal and loving sister
do in this situation?
According to Gabin, nothing. According to Taylor … well, even she was a little fuzzy on it. She acted as if my faith was somehow going to get me through this dilemma. And suddenly, I realize I haven’t even prayed about the situation.
“You really did seem extra quiet tonight,” Paige tells me as we’re getting ready for bed. “Is something wrong?”
I think hard, wondering if this is my opportunity to lay the cards on the table, spell it all out for her. But somehow I know that’s not the right thing to do just yet.
“I think I’m just tired,” I tell her. And this is true. As I go to bed, I decide there’s no way I can bring any of this up to Paige before I’ve asked for God’s help. I need some special spiritual direction and discernment for this. I need to pray. So that’s what I do. Before I go to sleep, I pray long and hard for Paige. I even pray for Dylan. Really, for all I know, he could be more innocent than I’ve been led to think. In all fairness, I haven’t heard his side yet. You can’t convict someone based on rumors.
The next morning starts out the same as usual: Shawna and Luis show up and go to work on us, Paige picks out our wardrobe, and then we head out to shop.
“Okay, girls,” Mom says as we’re riding in the car, “we don’t want it to look like you’re speed shopping, but to stay on schedule and hit all the shops we’ve put on the docket, you will have to spend an average of only twenty minutes in each shop. Can you do that?”
“It won’t be easy,” Paige admits.
“I’ll watch for your cues,” I promise.
As Mom continues briefing us about how much to spend, which is a crazy amount of money, I can’t help think of how unrealistic these portions of our “reality” show really are. I mean, seriously, how many girls wake up to a hair stylist and cosmetologist, get to wear expensive designer clothes, and are chauffeured off to some of the most highfalutin shops on the planet and told to shop until they drop or the studio’s American Express card melts down or maxes out? It’s ridiculous.
Yet here we are, shopping at Gucci like we’re made of money. Okay, the truth is we do have a budget. But it’s also true that some of the shops offer discounts in exchange for promotion on our show. We pay visits to Armani and Valentino, pause for espressos, then head on to Fendi and finally Prada — where Paige is in hog heaven. Okay, she wouldn’t appreciate that metaphor, but it works for me.
Part of our “on the town” show includes us having lunch at a traditional Milan trattoria. Naturally, they’re expecting us, but because the space is small, we only take in one camera. Mom and Leah get a table near the kitchen, but Paige and I are seated at one of the small tables in a more prestigious spot. Our waiter makes a great to-do about us and then we are presented with an antipasti plate of prosciutto and other meats, cheeses, and olives, “Complimentary!” This is followed by zuppa, gnocchi, and all the specialties of the house, until it’s time for dessert and coffee.
“Now I’m ready for a nap,” I say to Mom and Leah as we’re getting back into the town car.
“That was scrumptious,” Mom says as she checks her watch. “But no time for a nap. We have the Rosso show at two.”
“And the Marceau show at four,” Paige says happily.
“Rosso?” I say, trying to remember. “Is that the guy who designed the Eco Shoe?”
Paige laughs. “No, silly. Renzo Rosso is the designer behind Diesel.”
“Right.” I nod. “I knew that.”
I try not to fall asleep during the Rosso show. Not that it’s boring, because it’s definitely not, but I’ve found out it’s unwise to pork out on too much Italian food in the middle of the day. Now I realize that Paige is smart to eat small portions, not only for her figure’s sake.
After the show we go backstage to get some behind-the-scenes footage that we arrived too late to shoot earlier. Fortunately, there’s an espresso machine and I help myself to a small cup, hoping it will jar me back into action. It’s a lively bunch back here, and we’re getting some good interviews. But suddenly Mom is waving at us, saying it’s time to get to the next show.
“Oh, great!” Paige exclaims as we’re rushing to wrap it up. “Now I’m going to be late to Dylan’s show.”
She continues to complain as we get stuck in traffic. By the time we get to the Marceau show, we are indeed late. At least our seats are still waiting for us. We rush in as a model is strutting down the runway.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper in Paige’s ear. “We can stay afterward for as long as you want. This is our last gig of the day.”
At first she frowns at me, but she must’ve remembered that others might be watching. So she squares her shoulders, pastes a satisfied smile on her face, crosses her long legs, and focuses her attention on the runway.
My eyes are on the runway too. But I’m thinking—and I could be wrong—that although the models are totally gorgeous and the music is great, the clothing is uniformly unimpressive. Oh, it’s not terrible, and I certainly am no expert, but in my opinion it’s rather ho-hum compared to what we’ve seen in Milan.
I sit up straighter and tell myself to pay better attention. I must be delusional or I’m still drowsy from too much lunch. Or maybe I’m being extra critical of Dylan because I suspect he’s really a jerk. I blink and clear my thoughts and then stare at the beautiful blonde strutting by us in a pink-and-gray plaid jacket and skirt. It’s similar to what I’ve seen Paige wear … in the past. Something about it feels so last year to me.
And we’re talking about me, not my fashion-forward sister. I could be imagining this, but I’m thinking Dylan Marceau might very well be, in the fashion world at least, yesterday’s news. Because if anyone asked me—and there’s a distinct possibility that could happen — I would have to say Dylan Marceau’s new spring line is only so-so, run-of-the-mill, average. Oh, my!
Chapter
16
When Dylan’s show ends, he comes out to make his appearance. Most of the designers do this, but I’ve noticed that they all do it a little differently. Ironically, it seems to have little to do with whether or not their designs are well-received. I’ve seen crowds with so much enthusiasm that it feels like the building might collapse, and then some iconic designer, say, Ralph Lauren, will make a quick appearance, bow, and then disappear — like it’s no big deal.
At other times, when a crowd is politely clapping and people are making quick exits, I’ve seen lesser designers bow and make speeches and generally come off as narcissistic fools. Unfortunately, Dylan Marceau is falling into the latter category today. And when he calls for Paige to join him on the runway, I can tell by her expression that she is less than eager.
But being a lady, she does join him. He takes her hand and they both bow, which I’m sure must be making her feel like an idiot since this crowd seems to be of the politely clapping variety and already I see a lot of empty seats. But Paige is giving a full smile, and I wonder if perhaps I’m wrong or even jaded. Maybe she thinks Dylan’s spring line is the best thing since Louboutin’s red soles. That doesn’t explain the crowd’s response, however.
I go to where Leah and Mom are, as expected, on the sidelines. “What did you think?” I say quietly in Mom’s ear. She gives me a curious expression, as if she’s not sure how to answer. “Anyway,” I continue, “I told Paige that since we got here late, we should probably stay as long as she likes to get some more behind-the-scenes footage.” I think it’s going to be a giant waste of time, because I seriously doubt that any of it will make it onto our show. At least I hope not.
Paige is coming over to us, still smiling. I can’t tell if it’s a shocked smile or if she’s truly pleased. “So,” I say carefully to her, “do you still want to get some more film?”
“Of course,” she says cheerfully. She waves to the crew and we begin to make our way through the quickly dwindling crowd. I’m tempted to pop a mic in front of some of the spectators to get their reaction, but it might be too embarrassing. They probably know who I am
and that my sister, Paige Forrester, star of On the Runway and the Queen of Style, is engaged to this uninspired designer.
Instead, I trail behind Paige, listening as she talks to the models and stylists. But even they seem a little unenthusiastic, and I suspect they know they have a bust on their hands. Even though they can always work for someone else, it must be difficult to act like all is well after a show like that.
I can tell I’m useless to Paige right now. I’m sure she wouldn’t even want to hear my comments, since she seems determined to keep on her sunny face, acting like it was a fabulous show. She reminds me of the foolish king in the fairy tale “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” Anyway, I’m thirsty and I know there has to be a cooler of bottled water somewhere around here, so I wander into a vacated area that appears to have been used for hairstyling. Just as I’m plucking a bottle from a tub of melted ice, I hear a shuffling sound.
I peer over to see a couple, partially hidden behind a folding screen and oblivious to me, caught up in a passionate embrace. The brunette woman, obviously one of the models, is facing me, but her eyes are closed. It’s not so unusual to catch people in “compromising positions” in this industry, but I feel embarrassed. Before I turn away, however, I recognize the dark gray suit and realize that the guy with his hands all over the girl is none other than my future brother-in-law!
I gasp, dropping the bottle of water with a loud clunk, which Dylan hears. He turns toward me and we lock eyes, and without saying a word, maybe not even breathing, I dash out of there. I return to where Paige is still talking to a model and breathlessly ask her if we should wrap it up now.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, keeping her TV smile in place, although her eyes are curious. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Maybe I did,” I tell her. “The ghost of fashion future.”
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