Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
I go over to the hair and make-up zone, checking in on my models. “Hey, have you seen Jeanette? She’s late,” I ask one of the makeup artists.
She shakes her head, her hands never stopping their precise mascara application. I wish I could do that! “No, but did you hear about Marisol?”
Marisol is one of my other models, not a feature, but a gorgeous woman who’s done right by my designs the last two shows and is slated to walk in my first outfit tonight. Based on the makeup artist’s tone, I know she’s not about to tell me anything good. “No, what’s wrong?”
She moves closer to me to confide, “She’s tossing her salad.”
I tilt my head, trying to make sense of what she said because that is not . . . right. “You mean, tossing her cookies?” I make a vomiting motion with my hand and open mouth and the makeup artist nods. “Like . . . blech?”
“No, no, no, no,” I repeat. But that only makes her nod more emphatically.
What am I going to do? I’m missing one model and have another who’s sick. I’m doomed.
And that’s when I see Jacqueline. She’s walking around backstage with an air of ease, owning the room as she speaks with the other designers, models, and hair and makeup artists. Finally, after greeting literally everyone else backstage, she approaches me. “Autumn, may I have a word with you, please?”
I want to say no. I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff, my toes hanging over and holding on for dear life, and that’s with two missing models. Talking to Jacqueline can only bring more bad news. “Of course.”
“As I understand it, we’ve had a bit of a model mishap. Jeanette has been held up and won’t be able to make it, unfortunately, and Marisol is quite ill.” When she says it, it becomes real. I was stressed, but a tiny portion of my head hoped that it was all a mistake and Jeanette and Marisol would pop around a corner, say ‘surprise’ like it was some silly prank, and then be ready to walk. But no, that’s not going to happen, not when Jacqueline is smiling at me sympathetically. Not that I believe her sympathy for a second. “Do not worry, dear. We have found a suitable replacement. Her measurements are as close to Jeanette and Marisol as we could get on such short notice.”
As close to Jeanette and Marisol? What did they do, split the difference? Because Jeanette is curvy—for a runway model—and Marisol is the more standard thin. There’s no way one model could be close to both of their measurements.
She frowns, offering, “I will redo the order of designers so that you can show your collection last. That will give you more time to make any needed adjustments, especially given that Chloe will need to be fitted into both your first and finale outfits. She’ll have to walk twice. I hope that’s acceptable?”
She has me by the short hairs and she knows it. What am I going to do? Say no? Whine that it’s not fair?
“Of course. Thank you for making the emergency arrangements,” I grit out.
“You’re quite welcome, dear. Remember, a good designer can handle whatever is thrown at them.” Her brow lifts as she smirks, and if I had any doubt that this was her doing, it vanishes with the knowing look in her eyes.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
She told me there would be consequences to disobeying her, and I thought she was talking about disqualifying me from the competition. It never occurred to me that she’d humiliate me by making a successful show a near impossibility.
A moment later, a stunner of a woman steps up. She’s easily six feet tall, and her icy blue eyes and platinum blonde hair make her look like a beautiful goddess . . . but she has a haughty air about her.
This is a woman who would never, ever deign to ‘fart’.
Still, I have to be professional and give her a chance. “Hello. Autumn Fisher.”
“Chloe,” the goddess declares as if I should’ve obviously known that. She doesn’t give her last name nor offer a handshake, merely looking down at me. Okay, in her defense, there’s nearly a foot of difference between the two of us, but I get the feeling we could be eye to eye, and she’d still look ‘down’ on me.
I see how this is going to go, but it’s only for one show. The most important show of my life to date, but still only one. We don’t have to be besties and braid each other’s hair later.
“Oh-kay, well, let’s get you ready for the first outfit,” I tell her, taking control as I remove the shift that I had planned for Marisol from its bag and hang it on my rack.