One by one, models pour out from the black velvet curtains like well-dressed lemmings. The mood is luxe, European, classy. Elan uses color sparingly, focusing instead on fine fabrics, perfect fits. Tonight’s palette is white, black, cream, and camel, with a single shot of vibrant turquoise blue. Everything is pared back and elegant. Crisp white shirts tucked into hip-slung black pants, cashmere coats cinched at the waist. The evening dresses are gorgeous; it’s here Elan really shines. I make notes: An Elan Behzadi woman is modern, fluent in fashion, effortlessly sexy. I see lunch meetings in lovely hotels, date night at the opera, midnight strolls through secret rooftop gardens. Even though Elan’s official position is he doesn’t follow trends, shearling, oversize cuts, and shimmering fringe all make an appearance. Three trends I compiled ignored reports on late last year. Vindicating to see I was right.
The models are otherworldly beautiful; wide-set alien eyes and necks like pieces of pulled taffy.
I’m not a model hater. The world has enough aggression directed at women, I don’t need to add to it by putting the boot into young girls born freakishly tall and thin. Honestly, they don’t strike me as a happy breed. It’s hard to be jealous of girls who seem to be trying very hard not to give in to crippling anxiety. I’ve heard they’re bad in bed, but that could be a sexist rumor.
Does Elan sleep with his models? That would be morally reprehensible: they’re younger, more vulnerable, it would be exploitative. How easily it could happen: a private fitting late at night, one finger skimming the side of a small breast, a cocked eyebrow, a silent proposition. Nipple in mouth, guiding him in, coarse pubic hair black through milky fingers, and my head is arching back like the wing of a bird . . . I check myself. My whole body is simmering. I’m turned on. Focus, I instruct myself, but I’m biting back a smile. I’m changing. I don’t know this new girl, this new energy that she has, but I’m circling her, equally intrigued and in awe.
The final piece is worn by his biggest name walking tonight: Coco Du Bellay, one of the current it girls. French, black, trans, stunning. Her spectacular aquamarine dress is constructed entirely of tiers of fringe. It shimmers against her skin like rolling ocean waves. She struts, lifting her legs like a stallion negotiating sticky mud. Glimpses of rouged red nipples peek through the shifting fringe. I’m conscious of my own nipples, burning bright under my top. My bucket list drifts into my mind’s eye: Sunbathe topless. Role-play. Sex in public. Everything on my list are things I want to do, theoretically. But for the first time, I feel that yes: I will do some of those things.
Or what if I did them all?
We’re clapping as Coco leaves, and here comes the full lineup in their last looks, women and men with cheekbones you’d sacrifice your firstborn for. Bringing up the rear is the man himself. Next to his models, he looks positively pint-size, in a fitted gray suit, day-old stubble, and a thin purple tie. He’s barely smiling, appearing entirely unfazed as he heads toward the top of the runway. I’m clapping like everyone else as he reaches the end, where he lifts a hand to acknowledge the crowd. I want him to see me. I need him to see me. His gaze barely skates the second row. For reasons I cannot comprehend, I do something very, very embarrassing. Without thinking, I thrust my thumb and pinkie in my mouth and emit a piercing round-’em-up whistle. He turns in search of the sound and I’m so mortified by my childish need to get the Famous Person’s attention that I just stand there, stunned. His gaze lands on me, or I think it does, it’s hard to tell with the lights.
A flash of recognition in his eyes. The same deep expression from the night we met at the Hoffman House party unfolds on his face.
He sees me.
Everything falls away. A rush of cold. I’m suspended in the vast emptiness of space, cut off from the planet, drifting into blackness. He turns away and I’m back: applause, music, a show, this night. His flock of mannequins begin exiting the runway, smiling and relaxed. The lights brighten, the chatter rises, and I am breathless, thrumming with the memory of Elan Behzadi turning his head in search of me.
12.
* * *
I hang out at the after-party for two hours, but he does not come to me. In the dimly lit Chelsea restaurant, I whirl between constellations of fashion editors and buyers, bloggers and hangers-on, fighting the ridiculous feeling that I am waiting for him. He appears every now and then, sliced between slivers of the crowd, but he does not meet my gaze. I laugh like I don’t have a care in the world and track him like a spy. Champagne pours from the rafters; I want a drink so badly it hurts, but every time I reach for a glass, a zap of panic: cancer! The moon wheels slowly overhead. The night turns as sober as I am. It’s not even midnight when I slip away, trying to talk myself out of feeling like a sad, little fangirl.
I’ve never had real depression. That’s my sister’s territory. But once I’ve stepped out of my tulle and motorcycle boots, and washed off my face of makeup, I can’t fight the wave of emotion chasing me. Tucked into bed, feeling small and vulnerable, I let it drown me, sinking into all the things I’ve been trying to avoid.
No man will find me sexy if I go through with it. But I might die if I don’t.
I don’t want to lose my breasts. I don’t want implants inside of me.
I am scared.
I am so, so scared.
* * * *
The next day I don’t have any meetings, so I task myself with clicking through hundreds of fall/winter looks from the past few days at Fashion Week, identifying the patterns, looking for trends. Transparent and sheer looks are everywhere. As always, knits dominate, and we’re seeing a lot of utilitarian pants and colorful outerwear. Graphic prints. Slouchy suits.
I love looking over the lines. Only after scrolling through dozens of collections do the overarching themes become apparent. It’s fascinating to see how the designers interpret the season. Fashion alone can be a bit superficial, but when you connect it to the bigger picture, it really means something. Like the way I see strong reds, pinks, and violets, which reflect the growing feminist movement, or the lack of black and return instead to inky darks and browns, representing the resistance to politics of hate. The political atmosphere as interpreted by fashion is less about literal politics—Right versus Left, Republicans versus Democrats—and more about old versus new values. The twentieth century versus twenty-first. I love seeing how everything fits together; the constant conversation fashion is having with itself.
I finish a report on a trend I’m calling “art gallery nautical” and send it through to Eloise. No reply. I always assume I’m not getting it right or she’s busy. But maybe she actually delights in rejecting them, as a way of rejecting everything about me. I know she’s proud of her Harvard roots: maybe the fact I’ve seen a cow tipping firsthand disgusts her.
No. I’m just being paranoid. Alexander McQueen was raised in public housing. Ralph Lauren was a clerk at Brooks Brothers. Coco Chanel grew up in an orphanage. Fashion is not the sole domain of the Rich Kids of Instagram. I’m sure Eloise knows that.
Patricia pings me. Come into my office.
I shiver. Later, I’ll rake over this reaction.
Somehow, I suspected what the future held.
Somehow, I knew.
Patricia’s corner office has views over lower Manhattan: the rooftops and the water towers and the glinting blue pools rich people keep in secret. My boss peers at me over green-edged half specs, eyelashes slick with purple mascara. “You look cute, darling.”
“So do you,” I reply, “as always.”
She smiles. She likes it when anyone flirts with her, even me. “I don’t think I saw you yesterday. How was your weekend?”
“Great,” I chirrup. “I checked out this hot new cocktail bar in a reclaimed textiles factory in Bed-Stuy. They handmade all their furniture, only play records, and make all their bitters and syrups from scratch.”
“Sounds very nostalgic.”
I actually went to this bar before Christmas, but I keep a collection of these little per
formances up my sleeve every time Patricia calls me in. She loves them. I cock my head. “I think it’s more a reaction to all the immediacy in our culture. The world feels overwhelming and moves too fast, so we’re turning to highly crafted sensory experiences that feel unhurried and real. Old-thentic, if you will.”
She nods approval and tents her fingers. “Are you up-to-date on all the new books?”
“Sure.”
“We have a prospective new client.” She pauses, examining me for a long moment. “Elan Behzadi.”
This feels like being handed a plate of spaghetti for no reason at all. I have no idea what to do with it, and yet, my mouth is watering. “But he’s a designer. We don’t work with designers.”
“I know.”
“Designers don’t buy trend books. Designers make their own trends.”
She removes her glasses delicately. “I know. But he said you met at our holiday party, that you were very charming. Youthful, I think he said. And didn’t he invite you to his show last night? I assumed you’d become friendly.”
Why would Elan make it seem like we’ve become acquainted when we haven’t? “Shouldn’t someone more senior present to someone like Elan?”
“Technically. But he asked for you.” She pauses, as if about to say something more, before evidently changing her mind. “You’ll have to be discreet. He’s requesting you come to him. He’s in the West Village—”
“I can’t present to Elan Behzadi!”
“Why not?”
I can’t stay seated; I have to stand. “Because he’s . . . Elan Behzadi. He’s a designer.” By which I mean, he’s famous.
“Oh, Lacey. As my daddy used to say, we all shit in the same toilet.” She chuckles to herself. “He was a little crude, Daddy was. He was a pig farmer, you know. Gave a whole new meaning to bringing home the bacon.”
I’m going to present to Elan. He asked for me. Me. I’m having trouble swallowing.
“He’s certainly talented,” Patricia continues, unperturbed that I’ve started pacing around her office. “And he knows it. He’s aware of the effect he has on people.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s a flirt.” Patricia looks right at me. “Don’t fall in love with him.”
I laugh, loudly and quickly, although I’m not amused. I’m embarrassed. Exposed. “I don’t think so!” I fail to fight a blush. “I don’t . . . No.”
“Good,” she says, as if that settles it. “Start with the Panzetta: you’ve got that pitch down, and it’ll appeal to his sensibilities. Your riff on metallics-as-neutrals is working right now, and that spiel about remastered reds. Don’t be nervous. He asked for you, remember that.” She gazes at me with cool, steady intensity. “You are qualified to have this meeting, Lacey. I mean that. Good luck.”
I lick my lips and grip the back of my chair. “When?”
13.
* * *
Because I don’t know why on earth Elan wants a presentation, I take so many books with me, I can barely get out of the cab. Each one weighs ten pounds and is the size of an atlas. They mostly specialize in color or fashion, i.e., trend, but also interiors and consumer insights. They’re beautifully shot and designed, outlining the various trends the publishers see happening in the coming seasons, usually about two years out. The books come complete with USB sticks of all the color palettes, so my clients’ in-house designers can start using their chosen palettes straightaway. We buy those books from the publishers, then we sell those books to anyone and everyone working in style: we’re the liaison between the publishers and the companies. At any given time, we might have a hundred different seasonally relevant books on offer.
The books are old-school: they’re the way forecasting worked before the internet. Even though the future of forecasting will probably all end up online eventually, I love the books. I love their weight. I love turning the thick, glossy pages. I love the way they portray the world: endlessly beautiful, everything in its place. That sort of order is a comfort to me. Perhaps because order felt that way when I was young, or perhaps because the pursuit of perfection is its own satisfying distraction; a catch-22 of unattainable loveliness.
But individual designers like Elan don’t buy trend books. It’s scandalous for him to even be having this meeting. Designers are not big-box retailers; they’re artists. Which is why, as I introduce myself to Elan’s doorman, I am nervous and confused and excited, all at once. I’m told to head on up. Elan is expecting me.
In front of the elevator, I get out my phone to call Vivian. I still feel a bit guilty about blowing it in front of Tom Bacon, but now I can turn that screwup into something of a victory. But I find myself pausing, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because Vivian will launch into a prep speech I’m not in the mood for. Maybe because she’ll be disappointed if nothing happens.
Or maybe because I just don’t want her to know.
* * * *
The door to the penthouse is answered by a stylish young woman in tortoiseshell specs. Mika is Elan’s assistant; brusque and intimidatingly cool.
I follow her down a corridor, trying not to bump anything with my two giant bags of books. The apartment (if you can call it that; it’s the size of a house) is so beautiful it makes me nervous. Original art on every wall. Sculptures in every corner. The home of a collector. An adult. Every piece of furniture looks like it came straight from those high-end antiques stores where everything has a shocking amount of zeroes on the end of the price tag.
Mika leads me into a room with a polished wooden table and four chairs upholstered with hand-embroidered baroque fabric. The walls are a mossy, silvery green. On the one facing me, a simple black-and-white line drawing of a woman on the edge of a bath, seen from behind. A small buffet holds two solid silver candlesticks, a pale pink ceramic vase, and a stack of photography books. Two of the chairs are slung with a dozen garment bags. A water pitcher sits next to two glasses (hand-blown, naturally—I think anything IKEA would spontaneously combust in here) and a small pile of multicolored pills. Beside them, a plate of Greek pastries: baklava and dense-looking cookies. Sugar scents the air, as subtle as a glance. Mika tells me Elan will be right in, closing the door as she leaves me alone.
I busy myself with finding the book to start with, the Panzetta that Patricia suggested. She’s a womens wear expert based in Paris, my favorite of the current batch. The sky, glimpsed through a tall window hung with long patterned curtains, is flat and gray, darkening slowly. There is a hushed, theatrical gravitas to everything around me, a regal sense of style that feels precarious and unhomely. Next to all this, the loft looks like a trash dump. With every passing second, my nerves are less under my control.
There’s a collection of small artworks on the wall behind me. The one in the center is a Miró. I recognize the style before the scrawled signature in the bottom corner confirms it. A Miró. Deceptively simple: a smiling yellow sun, a crooked blue star, and the profile of a woman in a black and red dress, but it is playful and joyous. Not a major work, perhaps an early one, but a Miró nonetheless.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
I jump and exhale hard.
“Sorry.” Elan closes the door behind him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He’s in a soft gray T-shirt and jeans, his hair wet, slicked back. Like he just got out of the shower.
I am extraordinarily overdressed. “It’s not exactly what I think of as your style,” I say.
He looks a little taken aback. A small tuft of chest hair peeks out of the V in his shirt. I want to touch it. “What is my style?”
I’m thinking that it looks happy and carefree, which would imply I don’t think he’s happy and carefree, which would be rude. “Why don’t you center it more? It’s such an important piece . . . It’s lost, on this wall, with the others.”
He looks mildly surprised. “I like it there.”
My face is burning. I’m sure he can tell. “I took a class on surrealism.”
“At college?” Subtext: Wh
ich you obviously graduated from five seconds ago.
I nod. Stop trying so hard.
“I love the surrealists.” He comes to stand next to me. I thought he was a few inches taller than me, but we are almost exactly the same height. “Miró said that he conceives his work ‘with fire in the soul,’ but executes it ‘with clinical coolness.’ That always resonated with me.”
“It sounds like you,” I say. “Your work is passionate but very technical, too. All the drama is carefully curated.” I stop myself, although I have much more to say.
“Thank you.” He says it like he means it, and I relax a tiny bit. “Shall we sit?”
He is far more normal than I expected, pulling out a chair, settling in, and yet there is a palpable energy about him. Something just left of center that marks him as special. Confidence, I suppose. He is both more and less attractive in person. Up close, I see a small scatter of acne scars. His bottom teeth are a little crooked. But his proximity is thrilling, and my body is responding in kind. It’s excited; starstruck. The line between this being a meeting and a date feels wafer-thin. It unnerves me further.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks. “Tea, coffee. Or something stronger?”
First rule of fairy tales. Never eat or drink anything.
“No, thanks.” I inhale a waft of sweetness from the desserts on the table. I can almost taste the honey-soaked flakes of pastry. “I thought we’d start with Emilea Panzetta. She’s one of my favorites.”
The Bucket List Page 8