Fatshionista Page 3

  But damn it, that felt like a real curl the toes into the shoes moment back there when he was touching me. Must have been my own powers of hallucination trying to make something out of nothing.

  “I was hoping to check out the view from the stage but ended up running into this lovely woman along the way.”

  Grrr. Save your compliments, they only remind me of our lost love, of what we could have had…sigh. This is work, Millie. Put your workface on. Everyone else quiet down; it was only a drill—I repeat, only a drill.

  “Please, don’t let me keep you. It’s a lovely set design, and I hope you enjoy it. If you will excuse me.” And with that I turned on the heel of my oh-so-sensible shoes and exited stage left.

  Lizzie was backstage packing up the leftover place cards and programs.

  “Leave it, we have to be back here tonight to prep for tomorrow’s show; we can get everything then.” I stacked the leftover boxes out of the way and hung up my headset. My tote bag was brimming over with plans for the next show, but I made room for the clipboard and shoved it in the bag. I could sort everything out when we got back to the office.

  “Who was that fine-looking man you were talking to on stage?” I often wondered how Lizzie could have such excellent taste in men but be attracted to women. She explained that men were like art; she appreciated their beauty but had no desire to possess one.

  “I have no idea. I just ran into him when I was coming back here and he helped put me back together when I dropped everything.”

  “Yes, I saw. You looked a little shell-shocked; did you really hit him that hard?”

  “No, I was just paralyzed by that much blue on one person. I thought Prince was the only one with that outfit, or maybe Austin Powers.” That’s it, paralyzed by the outfit, not the piercing blue eyes, the sexy smile, and that oh-so-velvety voice.

  “I know, right? The only thing missing was the ruffled lace shirt.”

  Even from twenty feet, Lizzie could see what I couldn’t see from two inches. My blue boy…blew boys. Oh God, that was horrible. How could I think that? Must be the fourteen months with no sex and the raging war between my brain and my nether regions that was making me so bitchy. At least I managed to keep that all in my head.

  “All right, dinner, one drink, and then back to the office. Where’s Ryan?”

  “I’m sure he’s helping the models change back into their street clothes and pack up their things. He is ever so helpful when it comes to hot women.” Lizzie slung her backpack on and held the stage door open for me.

  “Why don’t you ever find a reason to head back into the dressing area, Liz? You would probably have better luck back there than Ryan.” The alley was bustling with techs loading up clothing, drivers picking up their clients, and a few TV trucks still hanging about.

  “I don’t need luck, my dear Millicent. I’ve got skills, mad skills. I’m a ninja lesbian; these models never see me coming,” she laughed as she sank into a classic ninja pose. The only thing ruining it was the backpack and the overalls. She looked more like a college student launching a hacky sack than a ninja.

  “Send him a text and let him know we’re eating dinner and that it’s on me. Just dinner, though, I’m not buying any drinks. I learned that lesson the last time when he ran up that $100 tab. What man orders a Brandy Alexander after having three apple martinis?”

  We piled into the waiting car; the one luxury Marta afforded us on show days was a car service. This was not out of the kindness of her heart; I had just convinced her that it might not look good to the TV crews to see her team heading down to the subway after every show. Of course no one even really knew who her team was or followed us to see if we hailed a cab or rode the bus. But Marta didn’t know that…

  CHAPTER 4

  Your mama heard that the Ram Patel show was a capital H-I-T. The only thing missing was a dying Nicole Kidman (cough cough) and the smell of 19th-century France (not upset about that at all). The lush but sophisticated offerings reminded your mama of Rochas circa 2005, all trains and high collars, but with the colors of the Indian subcontinent we have come to love and expect from Patel. The big surprise was the showstopper tangerine dream of a dress. Your mama expects to see the backward necklace trend all over the red carpet at next year’s Oscars. Until next time, bitches, keep it sharp, keep it real, and always keep it in fashion.

  --February 16th “It’s just fashion, bitches” blog--

  I was in Elvis’s jungle room. How did that happen? One minute I was snuggling down in my bed still covered in paperwork, hoping that my skin wouldn’t break out from my lack of makeup removal, and the next minute I was reclining on a zebra print couch, anxiously waiting for…something. My boobs looked huge in this sweater set, and I was obviously sporting some vintage undergarments, as my chest looked like two rockets getting ready to take off. Hold on…yep, saddle shoes.

  And to the strains of “Can’t Help Falling in Love with You,” in walked Elvis. No wait, not Elvis. It was blue suede shoes man. What was he doing in my dream? What was he doing in my dream looking like the sexiest man I had ever seen? Gone was the ridiculous outfit from earlier today, and in its place was a black silk shirt, and fitted—oh-so-fitted—black jeans. And those eyes—just as blue as they had been this morning.

  He slid down next to me on the zebra sofa, crowding me a little so I had to lean back. Wow, that really made my rockets soar. How did anyone ever wear these things and not bust out laughing? I looked up at him; he did not seem to share my amusement with the rockets. Now don’t get me wrong, he was staring, but not in amusement. It was as if he thought at any minute now they were going to launch…in his direction.

  Waves of testosterone were coming off of him. He was a mix of Elvis and Zorro (what was wrong with me that my fantasy was based on 1960s film stars?). He smelled like that perfect combination of man and sex. You know that smell that could wind its way into your brain and forever define what a man should smell like? Houston, we were go for launch.

  He leaned in, and for some reason I kept leaning back, but now I had hit the arm of the couch and there was nowhere for me to go. His hands reached for me and I tensed with anticipation, but alas, it was just to unhook my sweater clip and remove my cardigan from around my shoulders. Even without the sweater, I was still clad in a fitted sweater shell and fifty pounds of undergarments.

  My fingers were inching to pop open those buttons on the silk shirt. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands to resist the urge. With only one tiny shirt to my mountain of clothes, I was determined to wait for him to strip first.

  “Millie, my dear Millie. You look like a sweet cupcake all wrapped up in this sweet little pink sweater.” He leaned in to nuzzle my neck and inhaled. “You even smell like sugar. Do you taste as sweet as you smell?” He lightly licked right under my ear.

  On one hand, I was trying to dissect the food metaphors; what did it say that even in my dreams with a hot man I was thinking about food? On the other, yeah, I was all right with any analogy that consisted of his mouth tasting my body.

  “Millie, sweet Millie. Tell me what you want.” He moved over to the hollow of my neck, the crewneck of the shell limiting his ability to discover more skin.

  “More”—it was the only word running through my mind. More lips, more warm touches, more, more, more.

  “Please, please tell me you have a degree in mechanical engineering and know how to get me out of these undergarments.”

  The feel of him chuckling against my skin somehow resulted in my legs stretching out on either side of him and him slipping down between them. At least from the waist down I wasn’t encased in Lycra. Nope, nothing but silky panties, capri pants, and bobby socks. The saddle shoes were lost in the shuffle.

  “As a matter of fact, I have a master’s degree in ancient American foundation garments. I have just the right tools to extricate you and your bounteous assets from this ridiculously constraining contraption.”

  “Tools? That sounds a little industria
l.” The way this dream was going, it wouldn’t surprise me if I looked up and he had morphed into Edward Scissorhands and was cutting me out of my unmentionables.

  “Mmmmmm,” he sighed against my collarbone. “Nothing of the sort, my dear. These will be all I need to get the job done.” He held up two lovely hands lightly sprinkled with dark hair and long lean fingers that were itching to get to work.

  “Please, please put them to work.” And with that, he quickly lifted my sweater over my head, revealing what could only be described as the most unattractively hideous white monstrosity of an undergarment. What was wrong with me that I had this gorgeous specimen of manhood and I couldn’t even dream myself into a modern-day Playtex, let alone something from the Victoria’s Secret catalog? One of the few perks to being a plus-size woman was the plus-size bosom that usually came with the package. You would think my subconscious imagination would house these beautiful babies in something soft and lacy, something that would entice this sexy beast of a man to rip it off with his teeth.

  But sadly, no. I conjured up something out of a 1950s Good Housekeeping ad.

  “Millie, I must insist in removing this horribly confining garment from your person. Your beautiful breasts are practically crying out for liberation, and I am not a man who can sit idly by while there are damsels in distress,” all of this being said while he slowly made his way down the front of my chest, coming to rest at my naval, where the offending garment finally stopped.

  “Yes, please. Please. Let the removal begin.” At this point, I could barely keep my eyes open. I was already anticipating the feel of that black silk shirt against my breasts: silky smooth and warm from his skin.

  He pressed one hot kiss on my nipple, hidden deeply under the padding, but still there. I could feel his hot breath and the tip of his tongue. I couldn’t stop my toes from running up and down his legs and parting my legs a little farther, making room for him to settle more firmly against me.

  “Millie, I can’t stop tasting your skin; you taste like spun sugar, like sweet, warm woman.” He pressed his hips deeper into mine, and I could feel just how hungry he was for me. And my pleasure was barely tempering the frustration I felt at the layers of clothing between us.

  He slid his arms around my back, searching for the hooks while gently biting down on my earlobe. “Yes,” I sighed, leaning up so he could make quick work of the hooks.

  “Millie, I can’t seem to find the hooks. Do you have hooks on this thing?”

  What? Was it possible that somehow I had imagined myself in an impregnable undergarment that the sexiest man I had ever met found impossible to remove? What the hell was wrong with me? It must be him, it must be. He wasn’t trying hard enough.

  “I’m sure it’s back there, look around. Come on, it’s a bra, granted one that should be on display in a museum, but those tools you were so proud of should be able to make short work of anything, right? Come on, come on!” My voice rose as my desire level fell. What kind of dream man couldn’t even get my clothes off?

  “Don’t snap at me! This is your dream; you put yourself in this ridiculous contraption. Look at me: shirt, pants, and underwear. Easily removed. What do you expect me to do, cut you out of this?”

  His temper now matched mine. How did we go from hot, sexy, steamy sweetness to snappy sarcasm?

  “Just do it! Just get it off; my God, how hard is that? Do I have to do everything myself? I can’t even count on seduction in Elvis’s jungle room, for God’s sake. Just shoot me now, shoot me now.”

  I woke up face down in the pillows with my hands behind my back, trying to unfasten the imaginary undergarment.

  Oh God. What was wrong with me? I dreamt of a gay man seducing me while I was wearing an upper body version of a chastity belt? I was completely insane. And horny. And insane. And horny.

  And the refrain continued as I stumbled into the shower and started my day.

  ****

  The next four days passed in a blur of shows. Thankfully New York Fashion Week was coming to a close, and with that, my team and I would have a chance to look back on our triumphs and our failures of the past week. It was during those times of reflection that I made the necessary changes and adjustments that would culminate in an even better week next season.

  It also meant I had a chance to relax and catch my breath, even if it was just for a few short weeks. Fortunately, or unfortunately if you were asking my social calendar, resort wear had become much more popular over the last ten years, and those collections took almost as much effort to display as the traditional fall and spring. When designers first introduced resort wear, it was mostly through look books and private viewings, but in the last few years, many popular designers were presenting their collections in traditional runway shows. I was grateful the fall/winter ready-to-wear collections had moved on to Paris and Milan, taking with them the media, the critics, and the spectators.

  We seriously needed some time to regroup, and I needed a break from sixteen-hour workdays. Thankfully there had not been a repeat of the Elvis jungle room fantasy. Maybe my poor, affection-starved self would also cut me a little slack and let me catch my breath before sending me back down that particular rabbit hole.

  Another blessing bestowed upon me this time of year was Marta’s yearly tradition of following the shows to Europe and then spending time there reconnecting with old friends. Although their numbers were shrinking, her peers from her days on the catwalk still loved to get together and reminisce about the old days and how fashion back then meant something and how now it was all shock value and children prancing around in outfits that cost as much as some developing country’s gross national product.

  She was to leave tomorrow morning and would be gone for a glorious four weeks. It was as if I had won the lottery: spring in New York and no Marta. This was my Shangri-La; this was what I waited for every year. It was like Christmas and my birthday all wrapped up together.

  We had one final staff meeting with her before she headed out. Hopefully it would be short and sweet. As we all gathered in the tiny conference room for the weekly staff meeting, there was a new face at the table. A beautiful face; a beautiful, young, and extremely chiseled face. If she wanted to, the new addition to the table could cut glass with those cheekbones. She looked familiar, but I wasn’t able to place her.

  I leaned over to Lizzie on my right. “Who’s the Kate Moss wannabe? And why does she look so familiar?”

  Lizzie was trying to stuff the rest of her mini-muffin in to her mouth and answer me all at the same time. “Whell. Shweh isth.” Muffin = 1, comprehension = 0.

  “Swallow first; everyone is still piling in. Just curious to know who she is. Don’t choke trying to tell me.” It never paid to be the last one around here to know something.

  “Scarlett Marshall. She modeled for a few years before she got bored and realized there were bigger and better ways to take advantage of her father’s position at Marshall Publishing.”

  Ahh, that was where I recognized her. Not the runway; most of the models tended to blur together from one season to the next. It was the society pages. Scarlett wrapped around some gorgeous new man or being escorted around by her publishing giant of a father, C. Marshall. No one knew what the “C” stood for. Rumor had it he was named after a body part and didn’t think Colon demanded the level of respect he felt he deserved as the president and CEO of one of the largest publishing companies in the world. So Colon Marshall disappeared and C. Marshall was born. I had yet to hear of anyone with the balls to call him Colon to his face, but it was routinely bandied about behind his back.

  So, C. Marshall’s daughter had wormed her way into our staff meeting, but to what end? We already had all positions filled, and every position had one intern behind it. What possible reason could Marta have found to add this charming socialite to our weekly staff meeting? As Marta swept into the room (always, always the last to make an appearance, even at her own meeting), I was anxious to hear the reason.

  “Ever
yone, settle please. We have successfully completed all shows for the fall/winter ready-to-wear season. I am sure Millicent will slap your hands and pat your heads, and I hope you all listen and make note of your failures. As for your triumphs, I saw very few. Everything went well, but nothing was truly achieved. I have yet to understand how we can continue to offer a mediocre level of service and remain in business. My only guess is that every other production company out there is worse, but really, ladies and gentlemen, we need to raise the bar higher. We need to make ourselves the production company of choice in New York. Millicent has let you all skate by with an appalling lack of professionalism, and I take full responsibility for letting it happen.”

  As Marta paused to look around the room, trying to catch the eye of any team member who was not resolutely staring at their notepad, their iPad, or the table, I was fuming. I could not believe after all these years she was laying every failure of her company at my feet. Normally her post-fashion week speeches were along these lines, but she had never come out and blatantly accused me and my lack of standards for being the reason she thought we are never up to par.