The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan Wiggs

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      —ISAK DINESEN

      

      NEW YORK CITY

      Fashion Week

      A plume of vapor from a garment steamer clouded the backstage section where Caroline was working. She and a couple of others from the Mick Taylor design team inspected, tagged, and hung each item in readiness for the show. The area was overheated with makeup lights, klieg lights, and too many bodies crammed into the space.

      When an elite designer was about to unveil his work to the public, the bustling pre-show energy was palpable. Caroline loved it, even the stress and drama. Today’s event was particularly exciting for her, because several of the designs she’d created for Mick’s label would be featured. It wasn’t quite the same as having her own line, but it was definitely a step in that direction. Although she labored long hours for Mick, she used every spare moment to work on her own collection. She gave up lunch hours, social time, sleep. She was a striver. She did what it took.

      This was a key show for Mick Taylor, too. The past couple of seasons had failed to impress the fashion critics and influencers. Investors were getting nervous. Buyers for high-end stores wanted to be blown away. Mick and his design director were on edge. The whole industry was watching to see if he would climb back to the top of the food chain.

      Everyone on the design team had been told to focus on the wow factor that would carry the designer to even greater heights. Rilla Stein, the design director, was dogged and demanding of her staff, and her loyalty to Mick was absolutely ferocious. Most of the team members were terrified of her. Though she favored pointy glasses and Peter Pan collars and looked like a cartoon librarian, she breathed fire in the design studio and had the personality of a pit viper.

      “Hey, Caroline, can you give me a hand over here?” called Daria. She was a model on hiatus due to pregnancy, and was now working as a stylist. Her girl-next-door looks and growing baby bump contrasted dramatically with Angelique, Mick’s longtime favorite model, who stood on an upended crate. Angelique had become the hottest runway model in the city. She hadn’t even gone through casting. Mick had anointed her as his muse.

      She was sought after for her innate sense of drama and her ability to switch looks at lightning speed, sometimes in as little as thirty seconds flat. She had dramatic chiseled cheekbones, bee-stung lips, and the slightest gap between her teeth. Her wide-set eyes held a shadow of mystery. Daria had styled her with a bold palette of makeup and a swirling updo, bringing the model’s features into sharp relief. To those who didn’t know Angelique, there was something vaguely frightening about her, a trait that commanded attention. She was one of Caroline’s best friends in the city, though, and rather than being scared of her, Caroline was inspired by her.

      Orson Maynard, a Page Six reporter and fashion blogger, introduced his newest intern, Becky Barrow, to Angelique. “She’s working on a blog post for me, and she’s been wanting to meet you,” Orson said.

      “And now you have.” Angelique’s expression softened as she shook hands with Becky, who regarded her with worshipful eyes. Angelique had avid fans in the fashion world. She’d been discovered in her native Haiti by Mick himself, who had been on a shoot on one of the island’s dramatic beaches. The cutting-edge designer was known for going to third world countries and using local talent in his fashion shoots. He’d even won humanitarian awards for his contributions to the places he’d visited.

      “You must have been so excited when Mick discovered you,” Becky said. “I’d love to hear how it came about. And is it okay to record?”

      Angelique nodded. A mention on the right blog was good business. “Ah, that. It is not such a big story. I was just sixteen and as green as saw grass. I thought I was prepared, of course, because I was so keen. Haiti has some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. Every time I heard of a shoot going on near Port-au-Prince, I made myself useful, doing odd jobs and absorbing everything like a sponge. I learned to walk, to pose. I learned styling and makeup. I started asking for work. Any kind of work—fetching and carrying, running errands, translating because the people who came from the U.S. always needed an interpreter.”

      “And that’s when Mick Taylor discovered you.” Becky was starstruck.

      “Discover is not quite the right word. He noticed me on a shoot when I was too young to work. Then on another shoot a year later. By that time, I had my son, Francis—he’s six now. Yes, I was a teen mom,” Angelique said.

      “You’re a fabulous mom, and Flick is amazing,” Daria said.

      “A year after that, I had Addie and we were able to come to New York.”

      “He changed your life.”

      “Speaking of change,” Orson said, giving Caroline a nudge, “I hear you’re exhibiting your original designs for the Emerging Talent program.”

      “I am indeed,” Caroline said, aiming for a casual tone. Deep down, she was wildly excited about the opportunity. She turned to Becky. “Don’t put that in your blog post, though. It’s not my first rodeo, and I’m a dark horse.”

      “So you’ve exhibited before?”

      “Several times.”

      The Emerging Talent program, funded by a consortium of established designers who had formed a nonprofit in order to nurture new artists, was the most prestigious in the New York fashion world. A panel of industry experts would view the work of several designers. The chosen one would be given a chance to exhibit their collection at the biggest runway show of the season.

      If the featured designs impressed the right people, it could be the start of a successful career.

      “Five minutes, everyone,” called a production assistant.

      “We’ll find you after the show,” Orson said. “Get the rest of the story.”

      The energy in the room heightened a notch. With a critical eye, Caroline studied a cutout jersey dress she had designed. The look featured an experimental serape made of yarn from recycled sari silk. Rilla had raised objections to the woven pieces, but Caroline had held her ground. Regarding Angelique in her show-ready hair and makeup, she was glad she had. The look was arresting, otherworldly, a stunning way to lead off the show.

      “You’re a fantasy woman,” Caroline said. “People are going to be picking themselves up off the floor when they see you.”

      Angelique laughed softly. “I wouldn’t want to cause an accident, chère.” She tilted her head at a haughty angle, then stepped down and took a few practice strides.

      “Amazing,” Caroline said. “You’re like a master class on how to walk past your ex in public.” She hesitated, then said, “Speaking of your ex, what’s going on with Roman?”

      A few weeks before, Angelique had fallen in love. Roman Blake, a fit model for a big athletic brand, had seemed like her perfect match. He was stunningly handsome, with tattoos in all the right places, a shaved head that somehow made him even better looking, and—according to Angelique—mad skills in the sack. The few times Caroline had met him, she’d found him intimidating, with СКАЧАТЬ