I don’t even remember opening Camila 4 Cam’s YouTube page. It’s just on my screen, bleached-white teeth blinding me like a flashlight in a darkened room. One video, I tell myself. I need to know what I’m getting myself into, if I decide to call.
“Hi guys, Camila here.” An ethnically diverse Disney princess, flipping a glossy brown mane. I try to imitate her and get hair in my mouth. “Today I’m going to show you three easy workouts that’ll give you a bubble butt like mine. Ready? Let’s get into it!”
Who doesn’t want a bubble butt like Camila’s? And who doesn’t want to watch Camila showing you how she got hers? I push my chair back, ready to squat till I drop.
Wait: my bucket list isn’t about physical self-improvement. I might be seeing this girl naked, and I best be firing on all four cylinders when I do. It’s been a while since I romanced the stone, as Cooper put it. I told Steph and Viv I faked orgasms as a time-saving method. The truth is more complicated. I do it because I don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings or for the guy to get annoyed. Or really, because I’m not super comfortable coming with someone else. The flow I get into when I’m doing anything from curating outfits or making spreadsheets or even masturbating isn’t as flowy when there’s other people around. That needs to change. I need to let people in, so to speak. And change, as they say, starts at home.
Feeling very much like I’m dipping my hand into an illicit cookie jar, I slide my fingers under the band of my underpants and focus solely on Camila’s perfect ass.
Right about now, my brain usually flips through a series of factory-tested scenarios: lesbian porn clips, past hookups, sexy movie scenes, some standard intern/boss or teacher/student shenanigans. I’m never in my sexual fantasies; I flip perspectives between the characters. But because Camila is someone I might have sex with, I give myself the starring role.
I picture sitting between Camila and Cam. Cam’s just wearing jeans and Camila’s in black lacy underwear. I imagine making out with Camila. Kissing her in a slow, decadent way, like licking an ice-cream cone on a summer’s day. Cam’s mouth is on my neck, running his tongue along my jaw until I shiver. In my ear, Camila moans softly and all the little hairs in my eardrum stand to attention. My blood runs hot, and I’m greedy, needing. I run my fingers over her ass, squeezing the plump flesh, and then slide both hands up her body to trace her generous breasts. They’re full and soft, spilling out of her bra. Reaching inside, I brush her erect nipples. She gasps, girlish, arching her back. Cam’s unbuckling his belt, shucking off his jeans. His stomach is golden, a board of solid flesh. His lips are parted as I slide my fingers slowly, deliberately slowly, into his boxers. I grasp hold of his cock. It’s huge and hard as a rock, warm in my palm. He lets out a rough breath, his eyes on my hand. As I start stroking him, Camila’s hands circle my tits, squeezing them, cupping them, the tip of her tongue circling my nipple. I am blind with desire. Saliva floods my mouth, the sensitive parts of me throbbing, needing contact. Cam pulls me toward him. I’m straddling him with spread legs. Strong hands grip my thighs and he tips his hips to rub himself against me. My underwear is off. I’m naked, slick with sweat. Cam slides two fingers between my legs. “You’re wet,” he says wonderingly. Admiringly. “Lacey, you’re so wet.” I am. I really, really am. Camila’s mouth is on mine, our tongues touching, as I lower myself onto Cam. He fills me completely, a slick, hot rush of pleasure. I exhale in release, rocking my hips, and he’s bucking up and we’re all moving in tandem, thrusting, touching—hands, lips, tongues everywhere—and I’m going to come, holy fuck I’m going to come—
My phone rings. Vivian. I yank my hand from my pants: sprung. It rings out, then starts again, insistent. I answer with my pinkie and scramble to find a washcloth. “Hey babe. What’s up?”
In the background, a Katy Perry power anthem. Viv’s panting. Treadmill. Gym. “Just checking in. How are you going with the outfits?”
Obviously she’s tracking my lack-of-progress. My entire body is thrumming, thrilled, hysterical with stifled laughter. I feel like I just gave sugar to a kid and bore witness to the attendant high. I’m a little guilty, but most of all bewildered, even amused. I try not to sound breathless. “I’ve been . . . researching plastic surgeons. But I’m getting ready for an all-nighter.”
I hear a beep, the sound of the treadmill slowing. Ms. Perry fades. Viv’s voice sounds clearer. “Lace . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Is Clean Clothes still something you can commit to?”
I blink once, hard. The sugar high I’d kindled flickers out. “What do you mean, of course I’m committed.”
A short pause. “We haven’t talked about Hoffman House in a while. Are you still interested in becoming an editor?”
“No. I’m not,” I lie. “I’m fully committed to the app.” Another lie.
“Look, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. Your diagnosis has already changed your priorities.”
“It’s affected them,” I counter. “But it hasn’t changed them entirely. Shit, I’ve been MIA for only a week.”
“I know, I know, and that’s understandable,” Vivian says. “I’m not mad. I’m just trying to manage the future.” She pauses. I wait. “We can at least have a conversation about what it looks like if you were to step out now. Before anything . . . gets affected.”
My chest is rising and falling fast. I’m fighting a wave of anger. Step out now? I’ve been working for free for eight months. I own twenty percent of this company. My fingers are clenching the phone. I relax my hand. There’s only one way to go head-to-head with Vivian. Match her cool head, word for word. “We don’t need to have a conversation about it,” I say. “I’m one hundred percent committed. I’m seeing this through.”
Silence. I imagine us both staring into the middle distance trying to conjure our version of the future into the other’s head.
“Great,” Vivian says, with the simplicity of a raindrop. “I’m happy to hear it. Also, I might have a plastic surgeon recommendation for you. A friend of mine got her tits done with him last year.”
I wouldn’t be “getting my tits done.” I’d be launching a preemptive strike against my own body. But I make myself sound surprised and thankful when I reply, “That’ll cut down on research time.” Because that’s exactly what she wants to hear. We are self-serving creatures, even if we have the very best of intentions.
“I’ll text you,” Vivian says. “Have fun with the outfits.”
I hang up. It should feel like victory, or relief, but instead I feel like I was fighting someone else’s battle, with the outcome undecided.
The outcome that is decided?
Camila 4 Cam 4 Lacey.
10.
* * *
February
I’ve been on hold with my insurance company for thirty-eight excruciating minutes in an attempt to work out various copays when Eloise glides into Hoffman House in a white mink coat and thigh-high boots. Impossibly, she makes eye contact with me. Impossibly, she starts coming my way. No, not now, please not now—
“Got a second?” she asks as the on-hold music clicks off and a real, live human says, “Sorry to keep you waiting, how can I help?”
“I’ll call you back.” I consider swiping my coffee cup and the remnants of a bran muffin into the trash, but it’s too late. She is here, now, at my desk.
Her gaze flicks over my outfit: plaid wool skirt, sweater embroidered with i miss barack, slouchy beanie. “What a colorful outfit.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to sound eager or grateful, of which I am both. “How are you?” No, too familiar. “What’s up?”
“Fashion Week has been insane this year,” she sighs, false lashes fluttering. “I’m a little behind.”
“You need me to write a report?” I scramble through my notebooks. “I could do something on sculptural silhouettes, or all these remastered reds we’re seeing—”
“No, no, no,” she cuts me off with an airy laugh. “I just need someone to fact-c
heck my work and upload a few galleries. Tonight.”
She’s not the only one behind. I pushed back every client presentation last week. My in-box is as full as a football stadium, and I need to nail down the copays. Find out if I can extend my coverage for more than one night in a hospital, should I end up going through with it. I’m not even sure if getting on Eloise’s team is plan A or plan B, now that getting a lead investor for Clean Clothes is something Vivian feels we’re ready for. But in the interest of keeping all doors open, I want in on the fashion editor’s good graces. Honestly, I’m flattered that she’d ask. Last week in the kitchen, she caught me piling a stack of sandwiches leftover from a meeting into a ziplock bag. They’d only be thrown out; I was planning on having them for dinner. Humiliated, I tried to make a joke. “Free never loses its appeal, does it?”
Beneath the cashmere cardigan knotted around her porcelain décolletage, her shoulders raised in a helpless shrug, as if to say, I wouldn’t know. I’ve slept on a big pile of money my entire life. I felt bad about the thought as soon as it came. Neither of us can help where we come from.
Vivian doesn’t like Eloise. They met last year at an event at The Wing, an insanely beautiful female coworking space that gives women the right to be free from men while surrounded by lovely things. Vivian thinks Eloise is a snob: an elitist were her exact words. I don’t agree. Sure, Eloise is no populist, but her taste is impeccable, and she exudes calm, purposeful confidence that is enviably bulletproof. During my first month as an intern, I dropped off her favorite lunch order (sashimi) without having to be asked and she gave me a gold Miu Miu headband encrusted with Swarovski crystals and milky pearls. Yes, she’d been sent the headband for free, but she could have kept it for herself and she didn’t: she gave it to me. It was the single most expensive gift I’d ever been given.
So now, all these years later, there’s only one answer I can give her. “Sure. I’d be happy to—”
The interns descend. They are explosive with excitement. “Sorry to interrupt—”
“We thought you should know—”
“Omigod, it’s so exciting—”
“You’re going to die!”
“What?” I ask.
The trio choruses as one. “Elan Behzadi!”
“Invited you—”
“To his show—”
“Tonight!”
I can wrangle invites to the after-parties, but never to the actual shows: those are reserved for people significantly more powerful or beautiful than me—people like Eloise, who is frowning delicately. “Are you sure?”
The interns nod. “His publicist called—”
“You’re on the list—”
“Tonight.” The interns thrust a phone message at me.
A scribbled address and 7:00 p.m. underlined three times. My instinct is to squeal. Instead, I channel Eloise’s unflappable cool, nodding at the interns as if they’d just handed me some almost-interesting mail. “You’re going, aren’t you?” I ask Eloise.
“Of course.” She’s clearly surprised at my invitation, and I don’t blame her. I’ve never been to a main-stage Fashion Week show. And, okay, I know Fashion Week is going the way of Facebook: lame, outdated, a waste of time and resources, but . . . it’s New York Fashion Week.
“If his publicist called, I better go,” I say. “I’m sorry. Hope you can find someone to help you out.”
She opens her mouth to reply, pauses, seems to reconsider, then simply says, “Have fun.” She turns and walks away.
Why on earth did Elan Behzadi invite me to his show?
11.
* * *
“It’s obvious why he invited you.” The video connection drops out for a second so Vivian’s next words come sped-up double-time. “Hewantstoboneyou.”
“I don’t think bumbling idiot is Elan Behzadi’s type,” I say. “And he’s certainly not mine.”
“Racist.”
“No, dummy. He’s old.”
“Forties isn’t old.”
“That is honestly really depressing.” I remember when thirty was old. Now it’s coming for me while I sleep like Freddy freaking Krueger. “He’s probably gay,” I add, even though I don’t believe this. Elan has been engaged twice, married once, very briefly, to an actress-ish. (According to the rag mags, they are still “great friends,” which is obviously “total BS.”) “What about this one?” I pirouette in front of the computer. “Too basic?”
Vivian looks unimpressed. She’s at the coworking space. Behind her, two guys are having a meeting. Both are holding very small dogs. “You need to make an impression, babe.”
“Pass. I’ve already made one impressive exit around this dude. I’ll settle for can’t-place-her-face.”
“At least show off your legs,” Vivian says, matter of fact. “Or your tits. Having any kind of support from Elan would be major.”
“You just want free clothes.”
“I can afford my own clothes, Lace,” she says. “Besides, isn’t that on the bucket list: boobs-on-parade dress?”
“What are you, my pimp?” I wriggle out of the dress. “No boobs, no parade, not tonight.”
A buzz. “That’s Brock on the other line.” Clean Clothes’s whiz-kid engineer. “Gotta take it. Have fun. Meet Elan!” And she’s gone.
When it comes to events, I usually go for hip over sexy. No plunging cleavage or thigh-high skirts: power to the Kardashians but it just isn’t me, a.k.a. my authentic personal brand. But the usual ease at which I pull a look together is oddly absent. I yank aside hangers, diving toward the back of a closet stuffed with samples, freebies, and thrift-store finds. It’s almost six and I haven’t even showered: I’m running out of time.
And that’s when I feel it.
The distinctive texture of tulle.
* * * *
I’ve always liked dressing up. When my middle school put on a performance of Jack and the Beanstalk, I begged my teacher to let me be the Goose That Laid the Golden Egg because that was the most fun and outlandish costume in the cast. Being playful with how I look has always made me feel confident. And now, ascending out of the subway into Tribeca, I feel more than confident. I feel like a badass. The long black tulle skirt I’m wearing used to be the underskirt of a terrible bridesmaid dress I was forced to wear at a high school friend’s shotgun wedding. I didn’t realize how much I needed to rip it from its seams until I started doing it. From there, everything fell into place. I used my trusty hot-glue gun to attach the tulle to a thick black elastic belt, and I’m wearing that over these amazing blue-green sequined boy shorts I nabbed at an Opening Ceremony sample sale. Up top, a tight black turtleneck that scoops in the back and has big cutouts over the shoulders. Secondhand Frye motorcycle boots. Gold jewelry, lots of it, very mismatchy, very Brooklyn. Dark pink lip gloss, a few false lashes, smidge of bronzer. I didn’t have time to blow-dry my hair but some sea salt spray makes it look just-got-back-from-the-beach chic. I don’t care that my legs are freezing as I join the (massive) line for the show. I look rock-and-roll and, yes, sexy as hell.
I strike up a convo with this gorgeous black dude wearing moon boots and his very short, very funny boyfriend. We share a small joint. We laugh at the ridiculousness of everything.
I’m not precancerous here. I’m just a regular girl. I’m on the list.
All afternoon I’d been fantasizing about finding myself front row, inexplicably rubbing shoulders with Anna Wintour, tossing off a line like, “I’m a friend of Elan’s” to explain my caste-hopping. My fantasy evaporates when I’m thrust a paper ticket with an S: standing room only. I’m not upset. I’m grateful. This small-town girl is really here, in the center of things, in New York City. I got myself here: not my parents, not a trust fund, not my tits. Me. No matter what the future holds, no one can take this away from me.
I step into preshow chaos.
Like cocktail hour, it’s always Fashion Week somewhere. From Sydney to Seoul to Slovenia, Fashion Week rolls around the earth in an
unstoppable orgy of hand-stitched hems and hot haute couture. There are only four that really matter: London, Milan, Paris, and New York. Everything else is akin to the regional office throwing a party with paper plates.
Elan’s show is at one of the two main venues for this year. Originally a 1930s train terminal, it’s a white-walled industrial-looking gallery the size of a high school gymnasium. For past shows, it’s been transformed into everything from a fake forest to the palace of Versailles. Tonight, the look is clean, stark, and classic: no shtick, no tricks. A U-shaped runway curves from one set of black curtains to another, lined by four tiers of chairs, with a media rise for a group of noisy photographers at the far end. Beyond the curtains, I imagine backstage chaos: the hive-like buzz of models and makeup artists and assistants, all managing meltdowns by swigging water with electrolytes.
Is Elan calm or stressed out? Does he enjoy this or endure it?
Did my invite mean anything?
No booze or finger food: most of the crowd will be out the door as soon as the lights come back on, zooming to the next show. I jostle into place behind the fourth row and scan the crowd. A costume party with no discernible theme. Sunglasses and wigs and requisite Cool Kid posturing by people trying too hard to look bored (if you’re that bored, why are you even here?). Eloise is in the second row on the other side. I try to catch her eye, but she is gazing at the front row with such deeply felt longing, I wonder if it is possible to love a seating arrangement. A-list celebs are present and accounted for in the form of the three Emmas: Watson, Roberts, and Stone. Everyone is pretending like they couldn’t care less—What famous people, who? I surreptitiously gawk like the Midwesterner that I am and text Steph. No sooner do I hit send than the lights dim. A smash-clash of raucous classical. The show—and subsequent live streaming of the show by every single audience member—has begun.
Elan Behzadi has been a fixture of Fashion Week for as long as I can remember, which admittedly isn’t that long. A few tiers below big dogs like Marc Jacobs or Ralph Lauren, he’s still one of those younger male designers who seems to always be there: dressing celebs for the Emmys or the Oscars, showing up to parties with a variety of beautiful young sticks, rating occasional who-what-where mentions on Page Six. His line is in Saks and Bergdorf, and a flagship store in the Meatpacking District. His style is sleek and sophisticated, the kind of clothes women like Vivian Chang have hanging in their closets. Tonight’s show presents fall’s ready-to-wear.
The Bucket List Page 7