Fatshionista Page 2

  Casting all dreams of sunning the day away aside, I threw back the covers and swung my feet over the edge of the bed. It was a good thing that I actually liked what I did. As miserable as it made me, I would never be able to face the day if I didn’t truly like the work. Like, not love. And this job gave me access to the world I needed. The real breadwinner in this tiny studio was not the “assistant producer,” but the Sherlock Holmes.

  ****

  “Millie, where the hell have you been? Marta has been yelling your name for the last half hour!”

  Marcus, our stage manager, was completely incapable of dealing with Marta. He froze like a deer in the headlights whenever she approached. His M.O. was to duck his head and mumble something while briskly walking past her. For years, Marta believed he was deaf and couldn’t understand how I was able to communicate with him, let alone produce a high-quality production. She told everyone she was an industry leader because of her hiring of the handicapped.

  “I’m here now, Marcus. It was the best I could do. She wanted me to drop off the newest proposal at Ram Patel’s office, and they don’t open until eight o’clock.”

  “She couldn’t have sent that over with a courier?”

  I couldn’t get the words out before he beat me to it: “At M. Spencer Productions, we are the face of our company, not couriers.”

  “Yes, who knew that I was the only face?”

  “Hang in there, girl, fashion week is almost over.”

  And not a moment too soon. Every season, we pushed ourselves to the brink; we booked too many shows, and some on the same day, and there was little sleep to be had for months at a time. I loved fashion, I loved the clothes, I loved hearing the designers discuss their collections and their inspiration. I loved taking their ideas about how to present their wearable art and make it a reality.

  I loved seeing the top names in fashion publications sitting in the seats that I arranged, holding the programs that I designed, discussing the set décor that I approved. While Marta’s name was the name on the door, her involvement in the day-to-day operations had tapered off in the last few years, except, of course, for the shows themselves. Marta was always around for every rehearsal and show.

  I pulled out my list of things to do and walked around checking that all the place cards were in the chairs, the floors were swept, and the runway was sparkling. There was nothing like a stray button on the runway to trip up a model stomping down in a seven-inch heel. Shows with a downed model were remembered for all the wrong reasons and were not good for business.

  As I headed back into the dressing, makeup, and hair areas, it was still relatively quiet. The show didn’t start until 7:00 p.m., so the stations were still neat and tidy with kit bags and curling irons as far as the eye could see. Interns were wheeling in the racks of clothing, each outfit numbered and bagged up with the corresponding accessories.

  This was always my favorite part of the show. Not the flashing of the cameras on the runway or the press interviews post-show, but this quiet before the storm—when it was all about the clothes and the ideas and visions of a few very talented individuals. This was what I loved about fashion.

  I admired art. I admired anyone who could create something out of nothing. I couldn’t draw a straight line, couldn’t sew a seam, and couldn’t knit a scarf. My mother used to make fun of me when she attempted to teach me knitting. My scarf would slowly become lopsided as I dropped stitches on one end and added them to another. How anyone could dream, draw, and then create out of fabric these beautiful works of art was beyond me. The least I could do was create a fabulously exciting venue in which they could market and showcase their art. I thought of fashion shows as mini, mobile art museums. They took months to prepare for: the concept, the music, the lights, the hair, the makeup, the set decoration, the look books…and were over in a heartbeat. But they lived on in print and digital publications. Some groundbreaking shows even achieved immortality, forever captured in some book discussing the history of this ever-evolving art form. And I could be a small part of that. I was very lucky.

  “Um, Millie? Marta’s still looking for you,” Marcus said from behind the curtain. “Something about the drapes not looking right. Oh, and she wants to know what the contingency plan is if Paris Hilton’s dog decides to get out of her purse and shit on the floor.”

  Right, “lucky.” Hmmm. Maybe I need to rethink my definition of that term.

  “Thanks, Marcus, go back to hiding. I have it under control.”

  ****

  The show went off without a hitch. No dog poop, no downed models, and thankfully, no Marta. She stayed in the back of the hall and only emerged when the lights came up and the video cameras came on. She was the face of the company, and it certainly was a lovely face. Her Russian heritage was evident in her sharp cheekbones and steely blue eyes.

  I sighed with just a slight bit of jealousy. Even at seventy-two, Marta was more accepted by the media types covering fashion than I was. How in this day and age can a young, hip, relatively attractive twenty-eight-year-old be usurped by a tall, thin, bony septuagenarian? Oh, right. The fashion industry: where one could grow old, but never fat.

  Oh, well. It was never about the fame for me, although I certainly wouldn’t turn my nose up at the fortune. Money had a special way of making you accept the things about yourself that you didn’t like. Enough money and it didn’t matter how big your butt was.

  God, I was becoming as jaded as everyone around me. When did that start? Oh, right, about two weeks after you started working here…which would be five years ago tomorrow. How should I celebrate my anniversary? Hmmmm… Dancing? Drinking? Partying into the wee hours of the morning with my friends?

  Oh, yeah. I would be prepping the Ram Patel show. If I was lucky, maybe this time I could keep my ass off the ladder.

  CHAPTER 3

  At least I wasn’t on the ladder. Thankfully, Ryan couldn’t run fast enough this time, and he was now teetering at the top of said ladder, adjusting the silk saris that hung down around Ram Patel’s name and logo. While I was glad to not be sugarplum-fairiying it at the top of the ladder, it unfortunately meant I was out in the audience taking note after note from Marta.

  “Really, Millicent. I fail to understand why it feels as if with every show, you and I begin anew. One would think that by this time you would understand my vision and be able to recreate that on the stage. This décor looks like it came straight out of the Hindu dance scene in Moulin Rouge.”

  It never ceased to amaze me how something I found so fantastic, Marta simultaneously found revolting.

  “Marta, it is the Moulin Rouge set from the Hindu dance scene. This is what Ram asked for specifically. He even had pictures of it at our first meeting, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember,” she snapped at me. “What are you implying?”

  Sigh. “I’m not implying anything, Marta. I was simply reminding you that what we created is to the exact specifications of the client. While I respect your creative input, I don’t see where we can be critical when he has been quite specific about his vision.”

  “Yes, but does it have to be so literal?”

  Sigh. “Yes, it has to be literal. He said, ‘I literally want it to feel as if the audience is expecting Nicole Kidman to walk down the runway and join hands with the waiting Ewan McGregor.’ That didn’t leave us much room for interpretation”.

  “Hmmm.” When Marta wanted to hide the fact that she had forgotten something, this was her go-to sound. It was meant to convey deep thought and intense consideration of the preceding conversation. All it usually did was break the conversation off and allow her to change the subject, thus saving face. We were honestly becoming like an old married couple, set in our routine and having the same argument in the same way every show.

  I read somewhere that when you find yourself falling into a routine argument with someone, a spouse, a friend…an employer…you needed to physically alter yourself to break the mental path your mind was taking
. Since your mind was so used to having the same argument the same way every time, you began to fall into that rhythm, paying little attention to why you were having “this” argument, and just had the same argument.

  My favorite suggestion was to put on oven mitts any time you found yourself falling into this pattern. I smiled as I imagined trying to juggle my clipboard and my coffee while wearing bright red, plaid oven mitts. At least this relationship would prepare me for a boyfriend. I had to believe that one day I would have enough time to meet the perfect man who I could argue with while wearing oven mitts. Ahh, a girl could dream.

  “I think the set looks splendid, Millicent.” Wow, that opinion changed quickly. God bless what might be the onset of short-term memory loss. “My only concern is that the saris are too…I don’t know…colorful.”

  Yes, because the last thing you wanted in a sari was exotic, beautiful color. Maybe we could just hang white bed sheets over his logo and be done with it.

  “Well, Marta, with the show coming up tomorrow and these being the specific saris that Ram flew in from Mumbai for this show, I think we might just have to learn how to live with them”.

  “Hmmmmmm.”

  Oven mitts…oven mitts…oven mitts.

  ****

  Normally I sat either in the very back of the venue or at the front left corner of the catwalk. I always needed to be able to see if the cues were coming on time, if the overall flow of the show was timed correctly, and it gave me a brief moment to enjoy the fruits of my labor. My headset kept me connected to the chaos of backstage while also being able to take in the production as an audience member. I loved fashion. Loved fashion. But I couldn’t sew and I was not a size zero, so I found another way to participate in the industry.

  The long nights, the frustrating conversations with Marta, the numerous other volatile personalities I had to interact with on a daily basis, and the complete lack of a social life seemed almost, almost worth it when I was able to see a show go off without a hitch (or at least one noticeable to the audience) and a talented artist get the attention they deserved.

  Sometimes the attention was good, sometimes…not so good. But as in most things, any publicity was good publicity. Even a show the critics hated was still a show that had garnered the attention of the fashion world long enough to be critically massacred. While it wasn’t easy for a designer to face that kind of criticism, I had seen it make them stronger or make them go home. There was little room in this industry for people who weren’t confident about their vision. It was that confidence and that willingness to design their way that kept them in the business. Everyone liked an underdog. There was nothing better than a designer triumphing one season after being critically annihilated the season before.

  The Ram Patel show was exquisite. The Moulin Rouge Hindu dance scene-inspired stage was the perfect backdrop to his Indo-Victorian creations. Tight waists, high collars, color, color, color, and decadent jewels created a look that would be seen in cities all over the world. The final piece was a ruffled, high-neck tangerine dress with mutton sleeves. Very Victorian from the front, but when the model turned around, the dress was backless. Hanging down the middle of her back was an elaborate kundan-inspired necklace straight out of a maharani’s jewelry box.

  Were this a football game, I would be sporting a giant #1 on one hand and a foghorn in the other, cheering at the top of my lungs. But alas, I merely slid my clipboard under my arm and politely clapped along with the rest of the crowd.

  I could not wait to get back to the office and download all the stills from the show. At every show we produced, we hired our own photographer to shoot each look as it came to the head of the runway. We used this in our print and web advertising, and I used it…well, for the real work that I did on my own time.

  Marta appeared at the most concentrated gathering of video media. She had a sixth sense about where to position herself to gain the greatest amount of publicity. She was one of those over-seventy women who were featured in the “great at any age” section of Harper’s Bazaar. I tried not to think that the lack of food over the years was what made her so challenging to work with, but I had to believe that a life of self-denial could make for one ornery woman.

  I certainly dabbled in self-denial when I younger, but it just never took. I was a maximist in the greatest sense of the word; if one was good, more was greater, even more was better, and tons more was best. Now don’t get me wrong, I was not Biggest Loser contestant-size just yet. Living in New York and missing plenty of meals kept me from tipping the scales quite so heavily in that direction. But I had always been in between a size sixteen and eighteen. And I was perfectly happy with that.

  I worked out, I did yoga, I was more healthy than most of the models I worked with every day. But in this industry, thin was the brass ring, not health. So I girded my proverbial loins every day to take the subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle digs that came with being a plus-size woman in a size-zero world.

  Marta didn’t make things any easier. As they age, most women put on a pound or two, developed a grandmotherish little stomach paunch. Not Marta. Years of self-deprivation had created a hardened shell of a woman. I liked to think of her as the older, female version of Ichabod Crane. Which meant, yes, at times I was the plus size, fabulously chic version of the headless horseman.

  As everyone began to filter out of the hall and the press continued their interviews, I gathered my things and headed backstage. This was another successful feather in our cap, but I needed to go back, meet with Marcus, and find out what went wrong backstage, since inevitably something always did. Post mortems always happened back at the office, but getting the feedback right after the show was invaluable in helping me discover best practices and learn what to avoid next time.

  As I pushed past the hanging saris, I ran straight into a wall of blue. My clipboard fell, my headset was knocked off, and I found myself staring at a genuine pair of blue suede shoes. As I gathered my things and my eyes made their way back up, I took in the blue velvet pants, the gold waistcoat, and the blue silk shirt with the slightly open collar. All framed by the blue suede jacket trimmed in gold. My God, it was as if Carl Perkins and Liberace had created a love child.

  “I’m so sorry, my dear, I didn’t know anyone was going to come barreling around the curtain. Where’s the fire, darling?”

  And it spoke. The Perkins-Liberace love child had a soft British accent with just a hint of something else to it. For a minute I was reminded of how I sounded when I first moved to New York. Of course, my soft accent was more Scarlett O’Hara than Hugh Grant.

  And also, I never had a deep sexy baritone voice. Or stubble, or an Adam’s apple like the one I was currently staring at.

  “They’re blue, too,” I said as I tilted my head to the side.

  “What’s that, darling?” he said, matching my head tilt.

  “Your eyes, they’re blue like…well, like everything else.”

  “Well now, not much is getting past you these days, my dear,” he said with a grin.

  Wow, the grin just put him over the edge. He was handsomer than most of the male models I had seen, and his muscles were clearly outlined in the very fitted jacket. His skin was a dusky light brown, like the lightest caramel. My mouth watered just thinking about it. And he was shaped like a yield sign, that pleasing combination of broad shoulders narrowing down into the perfect set of hips. My mouth was practically hanging open at all that masculinity…wrapped up in blue suede and velvet.

  Wait a minute. I could literally hear the needle scratch across the record.

  Why was this wrapped up in blue suede and velvet? Please tell me that he was a model wearing some gay costume designer’s idea of what today’s man should be wearing. Please, please, pretty please?

  “Here, let me put that back on for you. I feel like a giant ox for having gotten in the way of your charge backstage,” he said, taking the headset out of my sweaty hand and putting it back on my head. Then he pushed a stray piece of
hair that had escaped my bun back behind my ear. His fingertips gently brushed the back of my ear and I caught myself before I actually shivered at his touch. I could not, however, stop myself from staring into those blue eyes. They were dark blue, almost black around the iris. And he seemed equally fascinated by my green eyes. Oh, a moment. We were having a moment.

  “Uh, thank you,” I mumbled. My brain was so confused that I couldn’t trust myself to say anything more than that. Everything about him screamed gay: the outfit, the dears and darlings, and the fact that he was backstage at a fashion show. But my heart and other areas a bit farther south were screaming something completely different.

  “Darling, there you are; I’ve been searching endlessly for you. What in the world are you doing on the stage?” Another equally impressive-dressed man grabbed my Liberace love child around the waist and scolded him.

  Question asked, question answered. Obviously my parts farther south were on the fritz. Normally I had excellent gaydar and should have trusted my initial visual examination as proof to which way my blue suede shoes man…swayed. I blamed it on exhaustion.