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“It’s like a hurricane was let loose in here,” I say and offer her a quick hug. She shoves a granola bar into my hand and I peel it open, taking a bite.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I remember it’s Valentine’s Day, too. We’ve been so busy, taking care of business, I haven’t even thought about the day that celebrates love.
It’s a good thing, too. I don’t like Valentine’s Day. It reminds me how single I am right now. And last year this time, I was still trying to patch things up with Jean-Pierre.
When I think about the mess that was, I shiver and take another bite of the granola.
“Look, over there,” she nods with her head in a direction to a man wearing a pink cardigan, talking to the models. They’re listening intently.
“Is that…”
“Tadashi Shoji,” Michelle confirms. “We’re on just before him.”
“Oh, God,” I groan. “Luckily, it’s notafterhim, or we’ll be the disappointment of the show.”
“You’re just as good as he is,” Michelle says firmly. “You guys are at the same fashion week.”
She’s right. I can’t compare myself to the others. I have a very unique style, and Iamhere.
While we wait for our models to get ready, I set out the clothing packets for them to get into. I check and double-check that everything is where it needs to be. Michelle goes over the jewelry.
When the show starts, the dressing rooms only get more chaotic. Models have mere minutes to get into new outfits and get new jewelry on before they have to head out again. Designers shout at their assistants who do more than what’s humanly possible as they run around. No one has time to eat or drink anything. Servers with water bottles do the rounds when they get a chance to push through the throngs. We grab them as they come through and down them, trying our best to rehydrate and stay on schedule.
By the time we’re up, my first models are ready and they walk out onto the ramp on the beat. I peek through the curtains at the crowd out there. The front row seats are occupied by celebrities who look at my outfits with expressionless masks, leaning toward each other, whispering. Cameras flash, editors and reporters make notes and take photos for social media, and my stomach turns.
I feel sick.
“You’re doing great,” Michelle says, appearing behind me.
As the first models come back from the ramp, it’s a matter of coordinating them right to get them into new outfits and back in line to go out again. Michelle checks the hair, makeup, and jewelry to make sure it works. Twice, she has to scold a model for not changing her shoes.
When they reach me, they’re ramp ready and I give them a once-over to be sure it’s all come together. And then they’re out there, flaunting my designs for the world to judge.
Time passes in a blur. I’m exhausted, feeling like I’m on autopilot. But it’s successful. Somehow, no model trips and falls on her face, no design tears when a model yanks it on. There are minimal smudges on their clothes from the makeup—nothing a wet wipe can’t take care of.
I feel like I’m going to collapse when it’s over. I stand in a stupor as Tadashi Shoji does the same thing I did, except he makes it look easy.
“Eat this,” Michelle says and stuffs a sandwich into my hands.
“Where did you get this?”
“Amy brought it with her. She’s waiting to see you.”
I open the sandwich and take a bite. When I chew, I groan. It’s possibly the best sandwich I’ve ever had.
Amy stands to the side of the commotion with a tablet in her hands, working when I reach her. She wears round glasses that look perfect on her slim face, her dark hair is combed flat against her head, and she wears a dress suit that looks like it came from one of the designers here. When she sees me, her face lights up.
“That was incredible,” she gushes.
“Really?”
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you; you’re going to hit it big if this is what you do.”
I relish the compliment.
“Thank you, again, for all your help,” I say.
