“If I see her, I’ll ask.” I caught sight of my reflection in one of the million Lacy’s mirrors. There were dark circles under my eyes that concealer couldn’t quite cover up, and I was too thin, my coat hanging off me. The unfamiliar angles in my face that made me look like a stranger. All those nights of forgetting to eat or being too emotionally exhausted to make dinner had taken a toll. Hopefully, with a few more trips to Plunkin’ Donuts, I’d look like myself again soon.
“You’re too modest. But seriously, Katy, I was so sorry to hear about your mom.” There was a catch in Veronica’s voice, and I found myself blinking back tears, too. “What an absolute icon. There are so few women who have true style, and she had it in spades. I’ll never forget the dress she made for my quinceañera.”
I smiled. I wouldn’t, either. Manhattan high society had been shocked when the Veronica Lodge had chosen to eschew an established designer label for the most important dress of her life and had gone instead with some nobody who had a tiny little shop specializing in alterations on the Lower East Side. Well, they’d been shocked until they saw the dress—it was stunning.
“Thanks, V.” I smiled. “She always said you had a great eye.”
“Coming from the Audrey Hepburn of Delancey Street? Now, that’s a real compliment.” Mom would have loved that comparison. Funny Face had been one of our favorite movies to watch together. “How are you coping, Katy? I hope you’ve still got that extremely handsome set of broad shoulders to cry on.”
“Of course.” KO seemed to be on a mission to find the ugliest sweaters in Lacy’s history. He marched over now, holding a new one trimmed with gold fringe and covered in rainbow pom-poms. Laughing, I waved him away. “KO’s been amazing.”
“Good. You deserve nothing less. Now, I’ve got a bit of news that I hope might help you feel a little bit more amazing. If I’ve learned anything since I turned my talents toward all matters entrepreneurial, it’s that keeping busy can be the best thing for a broken heart.”
Busy. Busy would be good. Busy with a paycheck would be even better. When KO headed back out to the boxing gym in Queens, I resolved to head home and really dedicate myself to finding a job.
“What’s the news?” I asked.
“Hold on to your chapeau,” Veronica said. “Lacy’s is hosting a fashion show.”
“A fashion show? Here?! I didn’t think they did those anymore!”
Back in the early and mid-twentieth century, Lacy’s had two fashion shows every year so designers could show off their fall and spring lines to the Manhattan elite, but they had become extinct with the rise of fast fashion in the ’80s. An in-store fashion show was so charmingly old-school, and such an awesome way to really bring the designer to the consumer.
“Yes, isn’t it just too retro-chic for words?!” I could tell Veronica was as excited as I was. “But I haven’t even told you the best part yet. Or, best parts, I should say. You know Rex London?”
“Of course.” Who didn’t? Even if you weren’t part of the fashion world, everyone knew Rex London. He’d become famous as a contestant on Project Catwalk, the reality TV fashion design competition show, which had then led to his own show, What We Wear Now with Rex London. Plus, he now designed red carpet gowns for celebrities, had his own couture line, and sold less expensive ready-to-wear versions of those couture outfits, and he even had his own fragrance. Last I heard he was releasing a cookbook. Rex London was everywhere.
“Well, believe it or not, sweet little Rex used to be the best personal shopper at Lacy’s, and I was his number one client.”
“Really?!” I couldn’t believe Veronica knew Rex London! Well, I could—it was Veronica—but even for V, that was really something. Wow. Rex London, a personal shopper at Lacy’s! What a way to get started in the fashion industry. That must have been a dream job.
“Yes, really! Of course I haven’t seen him in ages, but we’re still friendly. It’s always so important to have someone you can text for a completely honest opinion on your outfit.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” I didn’t want to be rude, but I was dying for Veronica to get to the point about what Rex London had to do with a Lacy’s fashion show, and what any of it had to do with me.
“Anyway, Rex just called me with the most incredible opportunity. He’s hosting the fashion show at Lacy’s, and he’s going to feature a bit of his fall collection. But primarily, it’s going to be a preprofessional show for emerging talent. He’s handpicked the absolute best of the best—the people who are going to be the next big thing—to each showcase one outfit on the runway. Except one of them just dropped out—something about a necessary move back to Europe or something, I’m not sure—and you know Rex, he must have even numbers for perfect symmetry.”
“Uh-huh …” Was Veronica really asking what I thought she was asking?
“Rex just called me to ask if I knew anyone fabulous who might be able to pop into his show at the last minute, and of course, I told him I knew the absolute best of the best: Katy Keene. I was shocked he hadn’t found you himself already!”
“Well, I mean, how could he—it’s not like I’ve ever shown my designs anywhere before—”
“I know, Katy, and that’s a crime! It’s time to change all that! So I told Rex you’d do his fashion show at Lacy’s, and it’s going to be the most amazing exposure for you. It’s in less than two weeks, but I’m sure you’re still sewing as quickly as ever. I assured him it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Wow, Veronica. I don’t even know what to say.” What could I say? I was in such shock, I could barely string a sentence together! Me, exhibit one of my designs? In a real fashion show? At Lacy’s?! This was like … the kind of once-in-a-lifetime, dreams-do-come-true moment that I thought only happened in the movies. Not in real life. Not to a girl who grew up in a fifth-floor walk-up apartment on Delancey Street.
Not to me.
“Say yes, silly!”
“Yes, of course, yes!” I closed my eyes and did a little happy dance. Unfortunately, when I opened them, an old woman with a tiny dog in her purse was looking at me like I’d lost it. “Sorry!” I whispered. “Life-changing opportunity!” I pointed at the phone. She seemed unimpressed.
“Katy?” Veronica asked.
“Yup, still here!” I did one more tiny happy dance. The woman with the dog would just have to deal. “Thank you! Thank you so much. Seriously, Veronica. You have no idea how much this means to me.” That was the thing about V—it didn’t matter that I hadn’t spent much time with her recently. She was one of the most loyal people I’d ever met. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. Just save me a front-row seat at Lacy’s—and on Spring Street when you’ve got your very own show in Fashion Week.”
Right now, that future didn’t seem quite so far off. Who knew what could happen with this fashion show! A Lacy’s buyer might want my designs. Or an investor might see the show and offer up seed money to get my line off the ground.
If nothing else, I’d see one of my designs go down the runway.
Mom would have loved this so much.
I said good-bye to Veronica and thanked her again, my mind already whirling in a thousand different directions. What was I going to make?! It had to be something perfect.
“Good news?”
I turned around. I’d been so distracted while talking to Veronica that I hadn’t noticed that KO was now wearing the bleeding cactus sweater. And a pink suede fedora. And a dalmatian-printed silk scarf.
“The best.” I burst out laughing, wrapping my arms around KO’s waist. “The absolute best.”
This really was going to be the most perfect fall ever!
LOOK AT ME, I THOUGHT, flexing my right foot for the gods as I kicked up toward my ear, I’m the king of New York.
Some king. My jazz pants were easily three inches too short, and my brother Mateo’s old NYPD T-shirt was easily two sizes too big. Even for someone jumping his way through Newsies choreography, I was serving less ragamuffi
n realness, and more disheveled diva on laundry day. I needed a wardrobe update, STAT. But the pittance I made slinging bacon-egg-and-cheeses at my family’s bodega wasn’t exactly keeping me in Capezio’s finest.
Still, if I knew how to do anything, it was sell it. Look at me. I flashed my brightest smile at Jason Bravard as I pulled up into a piqué turn. It may have been just a class, but in the New York theatre world, and especially at Broadway Dance Center, there was no just anything. Jason Bravard taught Advanced Musical Theatre, but he was also a Tony-winning choreographer. There was always a chance he’d stop the class, shouting, “You! The skinny Latinx kid who ripped the sleeves off his brother’s old NYPD shirt so I couldn’t see his pit stains! You’re exactly who I need to star in my latest Broadway show!”
Okay, it wasn’t a big chance, but it was still there.
The song ended, and that was the end of class. Wiping the sweat off my face with the bottom of my T-shirt, I followed the crowd of dancers toward the stack of bags slumped against the wall, hoping I’d remembered my water bottle.
“Hey. Jorge.”
I turned, and Jason was beckoning me over. Me? Seriously?! I didn’t even think he knew my name. Maybe this was my Puerto Rican Peggy Sawyer moment! I came into this class a youngster, but Jason Bravard could make me a star!
“You looked good out there.” Jason crossed his arms, looking me over like I was an orange at Fairway he was considering buying. “Seriously good. This has been a strong summer for you. You’re done with school now, right?”
“Yeah. I graduated this spring.” Surreptitiously, I tried to dab at my forehead. I wished we could have had this conversation when I was a little less sweaty. That Newsies choreography did not mess around. You’d think they’d be too tired from delivering all those newspapers to jump so much, but apparently not.
“Working at all?”
“No.” I was pretty sure he meant performing, not flipping chopped cheeses for people on their lunch break. “I had planned to audition for stuff, but—”
“Summer’s dead, anyway,” he cut me off. “The real work starts now.”
I nodded. Jason rubbed a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard, like he did when he was reading us for filth for messing up his choreography.
“I assume you heard about the Hello, Dolly! open call,” he said eventually. “You and every other Suzy Q who just got off the bus from Wichita with a suitcase full of hair extensions and character shoes.”
“Washington Heights is not Wichita,” I retorted.
“You’re a native?” He raised an eyebrow. “I should have recognized a fellow New Yorker. It’s that city grit that helps you stick your landings.”
Usually, all the city grit did was make my shoes look busted, but sure, let’s say it helped me stick the landing.
“But unlike those Suzy Qs, I think you’ve got a real shot,” Jason continued. Hope rose in my chest. If Jason Bravard thought I had a shot, then I actually might have a shot. In all the years I’d been coming here, I’d only ever heard him give one compliment, and it definitely hadn’t been to me. “Get there early. It’ll be a madhouse. But make sure you get seen. I’ll tell Ethan to keep an eye out for you.”
“You know Ethan Fox?”
“Oh yeah.” Jason rolled his eyes affectionately. “We were at Juilliard together, back in his boy genius days, when I was just a run-of-the-mill hoofer.”
Jason Bravard had definitely been a boy genius, too—I was pretty sure I remembered some story about him leaving school to choreograph the On the Town revival at Lincoln Center that went on to win a Tony—but I didn’t want to be some kind of creepy fanboy who recited his own résumé back at him.
“I don’t know what he’s thinking with this Hello, Dolly! idea … I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love me some old-school Broadway, but this is definitely not his thing,” Jason mused. “But knowing Ethan, it’ll be interesting. This could be your shot, Jorge,” he said seriously. “And shots like this don’t come around that often. Don’t blow it.”
“Thanks.” I was pretty sure that was as close to an inspirational speech as I’d get from New York’s most notoriously critical choreographer, so I’d take it.
The pressure was definitely on. As I walked into the entry hall, the chatter from the other dancers in class was about nothing but the Ethan Fox open call. I was pretty sure every aspiring actor in the city—and every aspiring actor who could get to the city—was going to be there. A good word from Jason Bravard might help me get noticed, but to really stand out, I’d have to bring it. Plus I’d need an absolutely perfect, career-defining audition look. Something that screamed “I’m the Barnaby of your dreams!” without being too costume-y.
There was only one person I could turn to.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket to text Katy Keene.
I HAD NEVER CARED MUCH FOR MADELINE.
True, she pulled off a blunt bob, which is never easy, but all of that “two little girls in two straight lines” business gave me the willies. Plus, kind and considerate as Miss Clavel may have been, she was running a fairly bleak operation, what with all those tiny beds crammed into one room.
Me? I need my space.
No, I had never had any patience for Madeline. Eloise, however? Eloise was an icon. Even at six years old, she understood one of the most fundamental truths of existence: There is no better residence than a luxury hotel.
“Welcome to the Five Seasons Hotel New York.” The concierge’s smile was as cool as her ice-blonde hair, smooth and pulled into an elegant French twist. Understated pearls gleamed on her earlobes, and a silk scarf was tied in an elegant knot around her neck. The Five Seasons may have been old-school, but every bit of the operation was pure class. “How may I be of assistance?”
“I do hope you can help me.” I answered the concierge’s smile with a cool one of my own. “I believe the reservation is under my father’s name, but he’s been unavoidably detained in Hong Kong on business. The rainy season, you know. Absolute murder on the international market.”
“Of course, Miss Smith.” Even with my enormous cat’s-eye sunglasses, she’d recognized me. It couldn’t be helped. Then again, I’d never understood those LA actors who wandered through the airport in their grubby baseball caps and hooded sweatshirts. If one was going to be incognito, one should at least do it with style. “I believe we have a card on file for any incidental charges, under the name P. Smith. Is that the card you’d like to use?”
I nodded, smiling as I remembered some of my school chums, who had had access to their daddies’ credit cards “in case of emergencies.” Silly girls. The only proof against emergency was to have unrestricted access to a healthy line of credit.
“I do hope I’ll be able to check in early?”
“Of course, Miss Smith. We have you in the Luna Suite. I hope that will be satisfactory.”
“More than satisfactory.” It wasn’t the largest suite in the Five Seasons, but it had a lovely view of the park. Besides, my dear friends—more like a beloved aunt and uncle, really—Michelle and Barack were currently in residence in the largest suite for a much-needed getaway, and lord knew they deserved the Presidential Suite far more than I did.
“I hope you’ll be able to relax here in New York, given your recent …” I watched her look for a word, fail, and then eventually settle on “situation.”
Ah, that pesky royal affair. This had been one of the most persistent rumors to dog my heels in recent memory. It was rare for a rumor to follow me across the Atlantic, and even rarer for one to pop up like this, so completely unexpectedly and without my knowledge. Of course, one only had so much control over one’s press, but usually I at least had some idea of what was going to be said about me and where it was coming from. Especially if it was as wildly untrue as this.
The royals. Only a lunatic or a fool would try to throw their lot in with that band of rascals. The tabloids had been so oblique, I couldn’t even fathom whom I was meant to have seduced. Breaking up
a marriage was not my style, nor was attempting to worm my way into a family situation that required its women to be permanently panty hosed. I was happy to have my bare legs firmly planted on American soil, thank you very much.
Silently, a bellhop glided over to take my bags as the concierge slid my room key across the desk. The very air in here felt better than it did anywhere else: cool and lightly floral. With each inhale, I felt like I could breathe a little easier.
It was good to be home.
I’LL SAY THIS MUCH FOR Comfort Motel corporate—they had the whole formula down to a science. I’d lost track of how many we’d stayed in, but no matter what state we were in, each motel had been exactly the same. Each lobby boasted blue couches with pop-of-color orange throw pillows, a big dark wood reception desk with a white counter, and a breakfast buffet off to the side, where I knew the same chafing dish of rubbery scrambled eggs, tiny yogurts, and individual packets of oatmeal would be waiting for me in the morning. If I was really lucky, there’d be a mixed-berry yogurt and a maple-and-brown-sugar oatmeal, instead of just blueberry and plain.
Oof, Josie. I shook my head. I should not be getting this excited about mixed-berry yogurt. I was pretty sure Beyoncé never stepped off her tour bus dreaming about yogurt flavors. She had bigger things on her mind, like world domination. And that was exactly what I needed to keep at the top of my mind, too.
But first, snacks. We’d finished another great show at the Stranahan Theater about an hour ago, and I was starving. Our hotel was in a parking lot just off the highway, the better to hit the road bright and early in the morning, but it wasn’t so great for the late-night dining options. There was nothing around us, not even the neon lights of a fast-food joint or a gas station with a nice big chip selection. And, of course, Dad had insisted we come right to the motel after the show, no stopping for food allowed. So there was only one option. But if the Comfort Motel Toledo was exactly like all the rest, the vending machine would be down the hall and past the elevators, tucked into a nook by the ice machine. And of course, it was. In a world full of uncertainty, at least these Comfort Motels were reliable.
Restless Hearts Page 3