“Ah,” Lauren said. She cocked her head to one side and then another, studying it. Meanwhile, I held the dress aloft. I was so much shorter than she, I had to hold it high, and my arms began to quiver as she circled me, assessing the gown.
“It’s stunning,” the stylist said finally, although she looked at Lauren for confirmation.
“Mmm,” Lauren said. “I might as well try it on.”
She stripped slowly, her eyes still on the gown, first untying the cloth belt that held her dress together, then letting the dress slide off her shoulders and fall to the floor. Under the wrap, she wore matching bra and panties I had seen at La Perla. The bra was sheer, clearly showing her high breasts and large nipples. The panties had tiny satin strings that held together two sheer triangles, one which barely covered her ass, and the other which broadcasted the fact that Lauren Stapleton waxed off all her pubic hair.
I immediately averted my gaze, laid the dress back on the couch and began searching for the tape measure and pins in my bag. But I couldn’t help wondering—had Declan slept with her while they were “dating”? Had he gotten an up-close and personal view of Lauren’s ultra-Brazilian? The thought made me sick. And then angry. By the time I turned around, holding a pair of large scissors and a mouthful of pins, I must have looked deranged.
“My!” Lauren said. “Ready for action, aren’t we?”
I grunted and gestured for her to try on the dress.
She slid it over her head, and once it had settled on her hips and she had stepped into a pair of shimmery ivory sandals, the stylist gasped. “I love it,” the stylist said.
Lauren stepped up to a full-length mirror that had been moved into the room for the occasion. “It’s nice,” she said, “but it hangs funky around the waist, don’t you think?”
I took the pins out of my mouth and pushed them back into their cushion, because the truth was, I didn’t think any tailoring was needed. The dress was flawless. The yellow of the gown made Lauren’s hair seem golden and angelic, the beads accentuated her breasts, and the hem gave flashes of her tanned, smooth legs every time she moved.
“I think the fabric hangs perfectly on your waist,” I said. There was no puckering of the fabric there; the seam was imperceptible.
“I don’t know.” She posed in the mirror, her eyes never leaving her lithe, Amazonian body.
“I think this is the dress,” the stylist said. “It screams glamour, and it’s so much better than the others we have.”
Lauren sent the stylist what seemed like a warning look. “I’m not sure. I mean, the hem has to be changed for sure. This slit thing in the middle needs to come higher.”
“If it comes any higher, you’ll be showing off your nifty wax job,” I said.
I regretted it immediately, because Lauren turned to me with a triumphant little smile. “Well, make it so it’s higher but not that high.” She giggled, a false laugh that seemed to trill through the living room and out the French doors to the sea. “Just make the changes,” she said, speaking now in a tone I was sure she used with her cook when ordering her soy smoothie in the morning. “I’ll let you know if I’m going to wear it or not.”
Hannah’s fitting was next. After leaving Lauren, I felt anxious again, unsure. What did I think I was doing designing dresses for the Academy Awards when I hadn’t held a steady design job in years, hadn’t sold a line in over two until just recently? The answer nagged at me. I was in this position because of Declan. It was that simple. I wouldn’t have been designing gowns for the stars were it not for my husband.
Some confident part of my psyche tried to rally, arguing that while Declan had provided the opportunity, I was here because I was a damn good designer. I tried to stay with this mind frame as I unzipped the garment bag housing Hannah’s dress. We were in her stylist’s office. Hannah was perched on the edge of a desk, wearing white pedal-pusher pants and a white blouse. With her white-blond Marilyn Monroe hair, she looked old-world and timeless, but it was that image I had decided that I wanted her to eschew, at least for a night.
“Now, here’s what I’m thinking,” I said as I slowly drew down the zipper. “It’s black, first off.”
“Hannah doesn’t wear black,” the stylist snapped. “I thought we told you that.” She stood to the side, a short, fit woman with spiky brown hair and a sleeveless T-shirt.
“Hear me out,” I said. “I know the image you usually go for is something classic and elegant, but I think you should shake it up a bit.”
“Shake it up?” the stylist said snidely.
Hannah held out her hand. “Go ahead.”
“I’m not suggesting you go goth or anything like that, but instead of your gentle, feminine look, I think you should be feline and powerful. Instead of your pinks and pale yellows, I think you should be in streamlined, daring black. And instead of ruffles and fishtail pleats, I think you should show a little skin.”
With that, I shook the dress out of the bag with a flourish. It was a sheer black gown with a nude lining. The deep V in front cut all the way to the navel, where a very large circle of Harry Winston diamonds rested. The skirt was flowing and fluid but with a thigh-high side slit.
“It’s fantastic,” Hannah said. She took the dress behind a screen and minutes later, she emerged. She had put on the black stiletto heels I’d brought with me in her size. She threw her shoulders back, stuck out a long, pale leg and put her hand on her hip. “What do you think?”
“Damn,” the stylist said. “It works.”
I beamed. It did work. Hannah had been transformed.
Surprisingly, the fittings for CeCe and Kendall went just as well. For CeCe, I’d designed a flirty, floral-print, Moschinoesque gown, a sure departure from the cargo pants and funky tops she usual wore. For Kendall, I went with a pink satin dress with a halter neck and the circle pin at the base of a very low back.
Lastly, I had to put the finishing touches on my own dress, a burnished-copper gown with tiny silver ribbons sewn through it for a shimmering effect. The bodice was corseted and the skirt had a tiny hoop under it so that my waist appeared minuscule. I thought the copper would complement Declan’s eyes, and when he first saw the dress, two days before the Oscars, he looked as if he might cry for a second.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said.
We were in my office and I stood before the window, the sunlight resting on my bare shoulders.
“You’re just emotional because you’re tired,” I said.
“No, love,” he said. “It’s you.”
The next day I heard from the stylists of Kendall, Hannah and CeCe. They would all be wearing my dresses.
Liz Morgan and I whooped and hollered and slapped high fives, practically dancing around my office. Uki clapped politely and watched us with wide eyes. Maybe I was good enough.
“Now you’ve just got to hear from Lauren,” Liz said.
But the hours went by with no word from her or her stylist. Liz called a few times, but she only got voice mail.
“I’ve left two messages,” Liz said. “Should I call again before I go home?” It was already four-thirty.
“No,” I said. “And you can go home to Jamey if you want. You’ve been working way too much.”
“I’ll wait with you.” She picked up a stack of orders that we had been neglecting.
I crossed the room and hugged her. “Thank you,” I said. “You’re a good friend.”
I turned to Uki. “What about you? Do you want to leave early today?”
She shook her head no. “Too much to do.”
I putzed around my office then, working on one task, then another, unable to concentrate on anything for long. Between my nervousness for Declan and my anxiety over the dresses, I was a jittery mess.
At six o’clock, the phone rang. Liz held up crossed fingers and snatched it up. “Kyra Felis’s office. Yes, how are you, Kathy?” she said, nodding at me. Lauren’s stylist. “Uh-huh. Sure. I understand. Okay, okay. Well, I’ll let her know.
Thanks.” She hung up.
“And?” I said.
“And,” Liz said, standing from the desk. She had a pinched expression on her face, but suddenly it broke into a smile. “She’s wearing it!”
This time, even Uki screamed.
chapter 27
Oscar night, it turns out, is really Oscar day. Declan and I were both up by six.
“Sleep?” I said to Dec, expecting to hear the now usual, “Nah.”
But he blinked at me and smiled. “It was brilliant. I didn’t wake up once.”
We both worked out in our new gym—Declan on the StairMaster, me on the treadmill. I missed the mornings when I would run around the Venice canals and down the beach to watch the surfers. There was something pointless about a treadmill, something inherently frustrating, but I needed to feel my best today, so I trudged through the half hour.
At eight, Graham stopped by to wish Declan luck. “If you lose, just smile and clap,” he said, “but you should know I think you deserve the statue.”
The two men hugged. For the briefest of moments, Declan turned his head to the side and rested it on Graham’s shoulder. It seemed as though Graham had become the father Declan always wanted—someone who was around, someone who was unconditionally supportive. Once or twice I had thought to point out to Dec that he paid Graham to act that way, but it seemed cruel, and I really did believe that Graham adored Declan just as much.
Graham left to do his own Oscar preparations, and within an hour after that, a team of aestheticians were at the house to give us calming facials, manicures, makeup jobs and a pedicure for me. Declan’s stylist arrived next. I’d selected Declan’s clothes for the evening—a black Armani suit with sharp lapels, along with a shirt and tie the color of heavy cream. The stylist, however, would make sure the tie was straight, the shoes buffed. She would help him decide about a handkerchief or maybe Declan’s pocket watch from his grandfather.
While Declan conferred with his stylist, I was having a princess moment. A representative of Harry Winston had set up shop in our living room and was displaying millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds. I could choose any of these baubles to wear for the evening. I would have to return them, of course, but that didn’t make the decision any easier. Should I, for example, select the three-tiered choker or maybe the serpentlike bracelet that snaked up the arm? A tiara seemed too much, but I couldn’t help trying it on. Finally, I chose teardrop diamond earrings and a platinum rope bracelet with inset diamonds. I resisted the necklaces, not wanting anything to compete with the circle-of-diamonds pin (also by Harry), which would sit at the shoulder.
At last it was time to get dressed and into the limo. “Ready?” I said to Declan, kissing him on the nose. We were in the foyer, and we were too dressed up and made up for any real contact.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I’m okay. You look gorgeous, love.”
“You, too.” He was, quite simply, dashing in the dark suit, the ivory shirt, his golden eyes gleaming and expectant.
There were two stretch limos outside the house. We got in the first one. A few of the publicists, who would maneuver us through the red carpet and the many interviews, rode in the second limo. The other publicists were already at the Kodak Theatre.
Declan and I held hands, squeezing them every so often. “I can’t believe I’m going to the Academy Awards,” I said.
“I can’t believe I’m nominated,” he said.
The ride swept along at a fast pace. In no time, we turned onto Highland Avenue, only a few miles from the Kodak.
“Almost there,” Declan said. “Shit.” He started bouncing one of his legs, then biting his lip. He squeezed my hand again and again.
But then the limo ground to a halt. The divider slid down. Adam, sitting in the front with the driver, said, “Get comfortable. It’s going to be a while.”
“Why?” Declan said.
“Traffic. Everyone’s lined up to get to the entrance.”
“Well, how long?”
Adam conferred with the driver. “Could be an hour, maybe more.”
“An hour?” Declan sounded anguished. “Let’s just walk.”
“You’re not walking,” Adam said, sounding very much like a parent. “We can’t cover you if you’re walking. It’s too crazy.”
Dec got on the phone and called the publicists in the other limo, who, in turn, called the publicists who were already at the theater, all of whom were adamant that he not get out of the car. They had to time his arrival exactly right so he didn’t compete with the other big stars.
“Shit,” he said. “What are we supposed to do for an hour?”
“Call your parents,” I said. “We were supposed to do that anyway before we left.”
We spent fifteen minutes talking to Declan’s parents and sister, but that still left lots of time.
“Let’s call someone else,” he said, looking at his watch.
I tried Emmie’s number. A man’s voice answered. “MacKenzie?” I said.
“Hello, Kyra!”
“Hi. Is Emmie having people over?”
“No, just the two of us.”
“Oh.” I’d never known Emmie to have single men to her place. It was as if Britton was the only man who could fill that role, and if he wouldn’t, then no one else would be invited. But apparently, MacKenzie was different.
Emmie got on the phone, thrilled to hear from us, flattered that we’d called. She talked to Declan mostly, and I’m not sure what she said, but he seemed calmer when he hung up. The phone rang again. It was the publicists who were already at the theater. Wait a little longer, they said. It was too early.
“Too early for what?” Declan said.
Believe us, the publicists said, you don’t want to be early. Just trust us. So we sat there. By the time they gave us the okay to get out of the car, I was already exhausted.
Pandemonium reigned when we opened the door, making most of our previous red-carpet encounters seem like church socials. This red carpet was huge and glutted with beautiful people, shouting reporters and looming video cameras. Above us, balconies had been built to hold the reporters from the entertainment-news shows. Strangely, some of the reporters on the carpet had little stations where they had to stand, their names written on a card at their feet. It was as if these people were museum pieces. I liked that they couldn’t move away from their card, couldn’t rush Declan, but the yelling flustered me, and they were all yelling. “Declan! Kyra! Just one question! Please!” It didn’t matter what they screamed, though, because Declan and I had little input in who we spoke to. That was the job of the publicists, who decided precisely who we would have a discussion with and for exactly how long.
Like the Golden Globes, there was a wall of photographers here, but this one somewhat resembled the Berlin Wall before it fell—formidable and imposing. The photographers shouted our names; they shouted questions—How do you feel tonight? Can you believe you’re here? Who are you wearing?
Between the overwhelming amount of people and lights, not to mention the heat and the fact that I hadn’t used the bathroom in over two hours, I started to feel light-headed. It was all too much. But I kept that smile taped to my face; I remembered not to smush my arms against my body; I remembered to put one foot in front of the other and follow Declan down the carpet.
We were being interviewed by Entertainment Weekly, and photographed by a certain section of the wall of photographers, when the reporter suddenly went wide-eyed. I turned to find Kendall Gold.
“Kyra!” she yelled. She pulled me into a tight hug. “What do you think?” She twirled around in her pink dress. The low back was achingly sexy and the halter neck showed off her tanned, toned shoulders. Her hair was twisted up in an elaborate updo.
“You look gorgeous,” I said.
“Dress by Kyra Felis!” she announced to the crowd, striking a pose with her arms outstretched.
The cameras flashed crazily. “Let’s get you two together!” the photographers yelled.
We posed, and I felt inordinately proud. My own fashion publicist must have seized the moment, because within minutes, she was at our side looking sweaty and harried, but with CeCe Springfield, Hannah Briscoe and Lauren Stapleton (along with all their publicists) in tow. “All these dresses were designed by Kyra Felis,” my publicist announced.
The photographers responded, hungrily shooting film, but I couldn’t smile, couldn’t even respond, because Lauren wasn’t wearing my dress. Instead, she had on a skin-toned gown with an ugly asymmetrical wing on the front, which, I supposed, was intended to be postmodern.
Before I could say anything, Lauren had beaten me there. “Oh, I’m not wearing Kyra’s dress,” she said mischievously.
The reporters and photographers near us seemed to sense something good on the horizon, and they all went silent.
“No, I’m wearing Mehta Vamp,” Lauren said, naming a new designer who had been written up recently in Bazaar. “I had to go with a true professional for the Oscars.”
I blinked. I licked my lips. Had she just said that? She had not only insulted me, but she’d insulted Kendall, Hannah and CeCe, who had worn my dresses. The photographers began snapping their cameras again, the reporters began shouting, most asking if there was a “feud” between Lauren and me. I glanced around for Dec, but he was standing four feet away with a reporter from People.
Kendall Gold stepped in front of Lauren, elbowing her out of the way. “The only feud going on today,” she said, “is the war between good fashion and bad. Here’s a sample of the good, boys.” She pulled CeCe, Hannah and me close to her. “Smile big,” she whispered to me. “I mean really flash those teeth.”
The Year of Living Famously Page 21