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Shit. She’s right. I’m so busy staring at Simon like a lovesick puppy that I’m missing out on the show. I know I want both Simon and the competition, but the least I can do is focus on one at a time. I need to get my priorities straight right now.
Still, I can honestly say, “I was watching the judges' reactions. They’re staying stoic, but your ‘Fuck Me, It’s Friday’ outfit was awesome.” Molly seems appeased, especially that I remembered her outfit name, but there’s no way I’d forget things like ‘Make Me Monday’, ‘Tied Up Tuesday’, ‘Whack-Off Wednesday’, and ‘Thirst Trap Thursday’.
Beatrice’s group is up, and I’m doing the last-minute looks over my models as they’re lined up for our turn.
“Oh! Almost forgot,” Jeanette says, reaching into the bodice of the dress. She pinches her nipples, doing the same trick she recommended from the first show.
“I don’t think—” I start to say, but to my horror, the lace rips away from the silk, leaving a gaping hole in the top of my gown and Jeanette’s now-hard nipple poking out and completely visible.
I immediately start denying what’s right in front of me, “No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.”
Jeanette has frozen, letting me look at the damage. “I’m sorry, Autumn,” she says earnestly. “What can I do to fix it?”
“Turn time back two minutes?” I suggest hotly.
I finger the fragile fabric, trying not to panic, but it’s not working. At all. My heart is racing, my face feels hotter than the desert sun, and I can’t catch my breath.
Where’s Tobias? I could really use one of those Valium right now.
“What am I going to do?” I say, mostly to myself.
This is a competition. No one is going to help me. And beyond that, this is fashion. There’s no fairy godmother savior to come to the rescue with a magic wand when shit goes wrong. There’s nobippity-boppity-boofor me.
“Think, think, think, Autumn.”
But I’m wrong. The Sisterhood of the Sewing Pants has my back, offering a needle and thread.
“No time to hand stitch it,” I tell Yori.
Beatrice holds up a mini stapler from her emergency kit, a questioning look on her face. “It might tear the fabric more, though.” She shakes her head and sets it down.
“Take the lace off and fold the neckline under. Problem solved,” Molly offers.
In the end, it’s Katarina’s idea that I go with, albeit with a tweak. She has double sided tape and suggests taping the fabric together. But I’m afraid that’ll come apart on the runway.
“Jeanette? I’m sorry, but you might lose a bit of nip tonight, okay?” I tell her quickly. She might not understand what I’m saying, but she waves at me to do whatever I need to because Beatrice’s last model is walking out, which means there’s only my four models to go before Jeanette’s walking out there, exposed or not. Thank God I decided on Jeanette’s slow, panther-like walk for all my models. It’ll give me maybe thirty extra seconds.
Molly tries to joke. “It’s like a mustache wax... only for your tit.”
Another time, that might be funny. We all know women have hairs around their nipples and we handle them without making some big announcement about it. But I can’t laugh right now. Not when my big finale dress, the one I’m already worried about, is in tatters.
I get to work, placing long swatches of tape along Jeanette’s chest. “This isn’t fashion tape,” I say by way of apology. “It’s pure Gorilla Glue, double-sided, sticky tape. It might just become part of you. Like, you might be able to use it to hold your car keys and phone after this, to keep them safe.”
She doesn’t laugh, not willing to move. As she holds completely still, I line up the fabric carefully, pressing the lace and silk into the tape. I’ve only got one shot at this because there’s no time to re-do, and pulling the fabric from the tape would likely destroy it further anyway.
It’s... not perfect.
In fact, it’s puckered and folded in a way that makes her breasts look uneven and droopy... on one side.
“Let me just fix—”
Molly swats at my hands. “There’s no time, honey. You have to let her go.”
“I–I...” I stammer.
But it’s too late. Jeanette is walking the runway in a dress that looks poorly sewn, or fitted, or both. It was already the capstone of a potentially unremarkable collection, and it’s the final piece of the entire show. It’ll be the one people see last before going to the post-show cocktail hour to discuss hits and misses. They’re going to verbally tear me to shreds.
Peeking out from the curtain, I watch the crowd for their reaction. I feel faint, my vision nearly swimming, but as I blink and focus, I see something that gives me the tiniest shred of hope. Other than a frown from one woman, who looks like she has a dead cat on her head, nobody else seems to notice.
