Wish You Were Eyre

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “The street, chérie, always the street!” she shouts back. “Is there anything else that’s relevant?”

  I nod like I understand what she just said, and jot it down dutifully. Gigi takes my arm and we make our way through the crowd to the door, and one more taxi.

  Back at the hotel, I collapse in a heap on my bed. “That. Was. Amazing.”

  “I’m so glad you think so, darling,” says Gigi. She’s humming that tune again, “La Vie en Rose.”

  “I can’t believe I have four more days of this!” I close my eyes, hardly able to comprehend such bliss.

  “What are you going to write about first?” asks Gigi.

  I shake my head. “I have no idea.” My stomach growls, and I sit up and grin at her. “Can I order a snack? I’m hungry.”

  “Mais bien sûr,” she says. “But of course. And no wonder, after watching all those poor starving girls all afternoon.” Crossing to the ornate desk, she passes me the menu. “Order whatever you’d like. Dinner’s not for three hours.”

  We’re invited to a party at eight o’clock at a restaurant called Le Soufflé, which sounds promising, but no way will I last until then. And Gigi is right about the models. They were all about nine feet tall and looked like they could use a trip to Burger Barn. They were beautiful and everything, but some of them were scary-skinny. There were way too many ribs visible. A good stiff breeze would have sent most of them tumbling into the stands.

  When I’m a designer someday, I think, I’m going to make clothes for normal people. People like me and my friends, not just clothes designed to be worn by the underfed giraffes hired for the fashion runway.

  In fact, I decide that’s part of what I’ll blog about tonight. I order croissants and fruit and yogurt for me and cup of tea for Gigi, then work a bit on my blog post for the day. Afterward we both take naps, and when we wake up, it’s time to change again. Gigi selects a beautifully cut red silk cocktail dress she tells me is vintage mid-century Balenciaga, while I’m torn between mimicking the kind of urban vibe I saw this afternoon at Bix or going with classic elegance. I opt for classic elegance. Like Coco Chanel once said, “A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous.”

  Putting on the black strapless minidress that I made for the cruise last Christmas, I loop a long, narrow turquoise silk scarf around my neck. I leave my hair loose around my shoulders, skip the earrings, and put on my black leather jacket and black knee-high boots for a dash of attitude. One last glance at Mirror Megan—perfect.

  Since we’re allowed to bring escorts to the soirées, Gigi asked Monsieur de Roches earlier if he wouldn’t mind driving us. He’s waiting in the lobby, and his eyes widen when he sees us.

  “Vous serez les plus belles femmes a la fête!” he tells us. “You will be the most beautiful women at the party.”

  Gigi laughs and swats him with her sequined clutch.

  The restaurant is jammed—and loud. We squeeze our way in and find Wolfgang and Isabelle by a table piled high with mini cheese quiches.

  “DARLINGS!” cries Wolfgang, bestowing air kisses all around. Even Sophie’s grandfather gets some, which doesn’t seem to phase him in the least. “What did you think of the shows?”

  “FABULOUS!” I reply, swiping his signature adjective.

  He grins. “And Bix? A little different from Chanel, I expect?”

  I nod. “I’m going to blog about it tonight. It was over-the-top.”

  “May I borrow your granddaughter?” he asks Gigi, who nods. “I can see I’m leaving you in good hands,” he adds, with a nod toward Monsieur de Roches.

  Wolfgang tows me over to meet the fashion critic for The New York Times and a bunch of other fashion writers, photographers, designers, assistant designers, models, and various hangers-on and paparazzi. I’m intimidated at first, but eventually I start to relax. I’m starting to get the hang of this, I think. All you have to do is look like you belong, and say “fabulous!” a lot.

  I glance over at Gigi at one point, grateful that Sophie’s grandfather came along tonight to keep her company. I’d hate to have her feel left out. Not that she would—my grandmother is really good at talking to people. But still, it’s nice he’s here.

  It’s late when we get back to the hotel, but I stay up a bit longer to check my e-mail. Simon’s is brief; all it says is: Four more days! I’m laughing about it when an IM message from Becca pops up.

  HEY! she says.

  HEY BACK! I quickly type.

  HAVING FUN IN PARIS?

  MAIS BIEN SÛR, I tell her. OF COURSE. HOW ABOUT U?

  DREAMY, she replies, which isn’t the response I’m expecting. Becca’s tried really hard these past few months, but I know she was envious of my trip to France.

  YEAH?

  YEAH. CHECK UR E-MAIL. JUST SENT U A PICTURE.

  I do, and there it is, obviously taken on the sly with her cell phone. It’s of a guy—a very cute guy who looks a little like Zach Norton.

  OOO! I type. WHO IS HE?

  GRANDSON OF GRAM’S FRIEND FRANNIE. YOU’LL NEVER GUESS HIS NAME.

  ZACH?

  HA! NOPE—THEODORE ROCHESTER.

  It takes me a minute, then I start to laugh. LOL! MR. ROCHESTER? NO WAY!

  YES WAY! AND I THINK HE LIKES ME. GOTTA GO. WE’RE HAVING DINNER AT HIS HOUSE.

  We sign off, and I finish the blog post I started earlier, then head to bed.

  Tuesday is even busier, with two shows in the morning and two in the afternoon. Plus, my blog post last night has somehow put me on the Fashion Week radar screen.

  “It’s Fashionista Jane, Flash’s new teen blogger,” I hear someone behind me whisper as I settle into my seat at the Stella McCartney show. So much for anonymity, I think, wondering how word leaked out.

  The attention continues all morning. It’s a little unnerving. Cameras turn my way; critics ask my opinion; designers take the time to seek me out after both of the shows. It’s flattering, but I’m kind of bewildered, too. All I did was write a few brief paragraphs summarizing the Chanel and Bix shows, toss in the Lost in Translation quip about “Paris, she will like you,” and allow myself a tiny rant about the super-skinny models. (“You could grate cheese on those ribs” was my exact quote.) Oh, and I showcased one Fashion Faux Pas—a picture I snapped at the bistro near Bébé Soleil. Reader, one should not allow oneself to be charmed by the thought of carrying all of one’s belongings around one’s waist, I wrote, under a shot of a tourist wearing one of those fanny-packs that my mother used to be devoted to, before I got on her case. It is most unbecoming.

  When we ducked back into our hotel to freshen up at lunchtime, though, I saw why people were talking.

  “A thousand comments? Gigi—check this out!”

  My blog post has gone viral.

  I do a quick Google search, and all over the Internet people are responding to it—tweeting and writing blog posts and articles and debating and commenting like crazy. Not everyone is happy with me—the size of models is clearly a hot button in the fashion industry and public opinion alike, and I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest with my criticism of the underfed catwalk models.

  I get a text from Wolfgang: FABULOUS! UR LIGHTING UP THE FLASHLITE WEBSITE!

  At least he’s happy, I think.

  Later that afternoon, after Gigi and I stop for tea at Ladurée, a totally awesome patisserie that sells macarons in about a zillion flavors, I get a brainstorm. It might not endear me to the fashion industry, but too bad. I decide to throw caution to the winds. Fashionista Jane has a backbone, just like Jane Eyre. She speaks her mind, and so will I. Time to get my Jane on.

  NEED A HUNGRY MODEL! I text to Wolfgang. CAN U FIND ME ONE?

  He does, and after the next show the three of us duck behind a curtain and set up the shot I have in mind. Handing Wolfgang my camera, I get him to take a picture of me removing the pink ribbon from Ladurée’s signature green and gilt box, and feeding a stack of the macarons it contains to the celery-stick slender girl in the daz
zling couture ensemble.

  “She might get in trouble for this,” I warn Wolfgang. “Does she know it’s for Fashionista Jane?”

  The model’s eyes light up when hears those two words, and she nods vigorously. Wolfgang says something to her in rapid-fire French, and she shrugs and says something back.

  “She’s willing to take the risk,” he tells me.

  I smile at her, and try out a little more of my infant French. “Comment vous appellez-vous?”

  She smiles back at me. “Albertine.”

  “Megan Wong,” I tell her, sticking out my hand. “Also known as Fashionista Jane. Merci beaucoup.”

  In my blog post that night, I cover the day’s shows in the same kind of admiring and (I hope) Fashionista Jane–worthy detail as I did yesterday, and then I take a deep breath and plunge into another rant, winding it up with something I suspect will make Mrs. Hawthorne proud. I also wonder if maybe I’m more like my mother than I thought I was.

  FASHIONISTA JANE’S MODEL FUN FACTS

  (OR MAYBE NOT-SO-FUN FACTS)

  1. Most runway models today meet the body mass index criteria for anorexia.

  2. Twenty years ago, the average model weighed 8 percent less than the average woman; today’s models weigh 23 percent less.

  3. Research shows 90 percent of women are dissatisfied with their body image in some way.

  Reader, Fashionista Jane cannot help but wonder if perhaps there is a connection between this dissatisfaction and what is presented in the media and on the fashion runways. Shouldn’t both industries take responsibility for promoting healthy body images? Fashionista Jane herself has always been told she is beautiful (thank you, Mom and Dad! Thank you, Gigi!), and to satisfy the curious she modestly reveals that she is an entirely normal size and eats entirely normal food. Including, here in Paris, macarons from Ladurée and chocolat chaud from Angelina. All things in moderation, oui?

  I close with the shot that Wolfgang helped me take earlier in the day of me feeding the model. Underneath it I add a caption: YOU TOO CAN END FASHION WORLD HUNGER!

  I read it over, take a deep breath—and post it, hoping I haven’t just bought myself a one-way ticket home from Fashion Week.

  The next morning there are nearly double the number of comments waiting.

  Emma leaves me one: Go Megs! The MDBC is behind you 100%!

  So is your mother! says another one, signed Handcuffs. I show it to Gigi.

  “And she didn’t think a trip to Paris would be educational,” she scoffs.

  Wolfgang calls to tell me that both Flashlite and Flash are getting tons of calls and comments, both pro and con.

  “We think you’re FABULOUSLY brave, darling!” he says. “Keep up the good work!”

  Wolfgang thinks any publicity is good publicity, I remind myself, not feeling particularly brave. In fact, this morning I’m feeling downright foolish. It’s painful to read the flaming comments from people scoffing at my ignorance—some say I don’t understand the industry’s “unique demands,” while others tell me point-blank to go back to high school, where I belong.

  Have I scuttled any chance of a fashion career by opening this can of worms, I wonder?

  Gigi’s arranged for us to have the afternoon free, so we cram in three shows back-to-back in the morning. Oddly enough, the designers seem to be falling all over themselves trying to court my favor. Maybe Wolfgang is right—any publicity is good publicity? It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s genuine. Are they fawning over me because my blog is suddenly in the spotlight, not because they agree with me? Just hoping for some free publicity themselves? This is all more complicated than I ever thought it would be.

  When we come back to the hotel before lunch, we find our room flooded with swag—boxes and bags from just about every Fashion Week designer and sponsor. There’s makeup and magazines, T-shirts and jewelry and silk scarves and even underwear, and larger items, too.

  “Oh my goodness,” says Gigi, opening one of the bags. She pulls out a gorgeous Bix black leather mini-duffel, a shoulder bag that’s the hot item of the week.

  “Am I allowed to keep this stuff?” I ask her, incredulous. “Isn’t it kind of like bribery or something?”

  “We’ll talk to Wolfgang,” Gigi replies. “I suppose you can always bring it home to give to your friends.”

  Ashley and Becca would love it, I think, eyeing the loot.

  At noon on the dot, we’re down in the lobby to meet Monsieur de Roches, who tucks us into the Rolls and drives us out to Versailles. Gigi sits up front with him this time, while I sink into the buttery leather seat in the back with a sigh of relief. It will be good to get away from all the hubbub for a few hours.

  Later that night, I blog about our excursion after wrapping up my descriptions of the morning’s fashion shows.

  Readers, of all the glorious spots in Paris, is there any so glorious as Versailles? Fashionista Jane likes to think that perhaps in a former life, she might have lived at this glittering chateau, complete with royal courtiers and servants and—oh, never mind. Alas ’tis but a dream, and she must return to reality! Reality is no hardship, however, for the outing included a fabulous lunch (fabulous except for the escargots, which Fashionista Jane did not know was a fancy word for snails, and which in her humble opinion can simply go-go-go), after which she and her gentle companions toured the fabulous palace and its fabulous gardens and fountains, where she was sorely tempted to wash all the cares of the last few days away.

  What? Have you not heard, reader? There is much hue and cry over Fashionista Jane’s plea for hungry models to be fed. Cheeseburgers for all! Alas Fashionista Jane was saddened to hear tonight that a lovely (if too slender) young woman by the name of Albertine was fired for posing for a certain photo on a certain blog, and sincerely regrets any unhappiness she may have caused.

  There are another round of comments waiting for me when I get back to the hotel at lunch the following day, but I ignore them in favor of the e-mails. My parents have written to tell me how proud they are of me, and Simon’s says simply TWO DAYS LEFT!

  Becca’s e-mail is a little weird, though.

  There’s something mysterious about my Mr. Rochester. Gram’s friend lives right across the street from him, and my bedroom here faces his family’s house. Theo’s bedroom is on the top floor, and his light is on all night. I mean seriously, all night (I checked). I know it’s his room; I borrowed Frannie’s binoculars and I can see him moving around in there.

  Does that seem creepy to you, or is he just afraid of the dark? What could he be doing over there all night? It’s like Thornfield or something.

  I laugh at the mental image of Becca peering out the window in the middle of the night with the binoculars, but she’s right, it is a little creepy.

  Plus, I think maybe he has a girlfriend, she writes.

  I’m sure there’s some logical explanation for the light, I e-mail back, reminding her of what happened with Simon. Why don’t you just ask him? And while you’re at it, ask his grandmother about the girlfriend situation. Get your Jane on!

  On Thursday, we spend the morning at more fashion shows, followed by a special luncheon for journalists. Some people openly snub me, which is awkward and uncomfortable, especially when a couple of models as tall as pro-basketball players corner me to tell me that what I did to Albertine is très horrible. Wolfgang has to finally come rescue me from their scolding.

  “Don’t you worry about Albertine,” he consoles me. “Isabelle has already talked to her about coming to work for Flash.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “We like her spirit, and we could use another Paris correspondent, one who knows the ins and outs of the business.” He pats my shoulder. “Now put your game face on and let’s go back out there. That’s all it really is, darling, just a fabulous game!”

  I’m not so sure about that, but I do what he tells me, sticking to him like a burr for the rest of the time we’re there. I look over to see what Gigi’s u
p to, hoping she’s not bored, but she’s deep in conversation with Sophie’s grandfather and looks perfectly content.

  That afternoon I get the shopping itch again. Fortunately my grandmother has carved out time for it in our schedule. I still need to buy souvenirs for everybody back home. We head to a couple of off-the-beaten path neighborhhoods on the Left Bank, hunting for fun boutiques. I end up taking tons of pictures for my blog—everything is so picturesque here! The narrow cobblestone streets, the buildings with ivy growing up the walls, the window boxes, the little parks and sidewalk cafés everywhere—I seriously want to take it all home with me to Concord.

  Two stores in particular catch my eye. The first one we stumble upon is Trinket, where I find cute little sterling silver Eiffel Tower earrings for everybody. The other is my favorite. It’s called Aubergine, the French word for eggplant, which has nothing to do with the clothes inside but everything to do with the shop’s color scheme. The walls and the trim around the doors and windows are painted dark purple. It’s gorgeous.

  So are the clothes—an eclectic mix of elegant and funky. I spot a pair of shoes in the window that I absolutely have to bring home to Cassidy, especially now that I know we wear the same size, and a really gorgeous silk scarf for my mother. It will look great with the red suit I made for her.

  “Au revoir!” calls the shopkeeper as we’re leaving, and I have a sudden flash to the future: a store of my own right here in Paris. I even know what I’ll call it—La Vie en Megan Rose, a little play on words for the song that Gigi and Monsieur de Roches keep humming. Wanting to capture the moment, I plunk down on a bench outside and sketch it in my notebook.

  “It’s perfect,” says Gigi, watching over my shoulder as I explain my drawing. “I can see it clearly—you, living here in Paris, me, coming to visit.”

  “We’ll go to Angelina’s for hot chocolate—”

  “And Ladurée for macarons—”

  “And be happy as kings at Versailles!” I finish.

  The first thought I have when I wake up Friday morning is: Simon comes to Paris tonight! I don’t have much time to think about him, though, because today is the next-to-last day of Fashion Week, and Gigi and I cram in six shows, which turns out to be too many because my head is swimming by the time the last one finishes. Tonight is the night that Monsieur de Roches has arranged for our dinner cruise on the Seine, but I’m feeling a little under the weather so I send Gigi by herself.