Falling for Grace

by Kate O'Keeffe

After successfully navigating my way through breakfast, I pop a couple of tablets and walk cautiously to the bathroom. I regard my reflection in the mirror. Other than the scratch on the side of my face I look perfectly normal. Good. Time to meet my big sis and act like nothing’s happened.

  Which it hasn’t. Right?

  * * *

  I walk into the café downtown where I spot Brooke waving at me from a table by one of the large windows.

  She jumps out of her seat—well, I say ‘jump’ but really, it’s more of a lumber, thanks to her being eight and a half months pregnant—and hugs me tight.

  “It’s so good to see you, Grace. Let me look at you.” She holds me at arm’s length and looks me over from head to toe. “You look okay. Mum and Dad rang to tell me about what happened.”

  “I’m sure they did,” I reply with a sigh.

  “Cute top. Another one of your creations?” she asks as I gingerly remove my jacket and hang it over the back of my chair.

  “Yes. It was the least tricky thing to put on this morning in my state. Hey, Logan. How are you doing?” I give my sister’s hunky American boyfriend a kiss on the cheek before sitting down with them both.

  “I’m great, thanks. Sounds like we missed quite the spectacle last night,” he replies, smiling at me.

  I shake my head, as the now familiar feeling of humiliation hits me again. “Believe me, you didn’t miss anything. It was just me being me, making a fool of myself.”

  “Well you are kind of a klutz, sis,” Brooke comments, rubbing my arm.

  “Yeah, I know, a hippo on roller-skates, right?”

  Logan laughs. “Most importantly there was no harm done, either to you or any visiting Scottish TV stars.”

  Sam Montgomery’s Scottish? That explains the sexy accent. An image of Sean Connery in his heyday pops into my head.

  “All right, let’s move on. What’s done is done and now I just want to forget about it.”

  “That might be a little hard,” Brooke comments, digging in her bag.

  “What? Why?”

  “Read the headline.” She holds out her phone to me.

  “Do I want to?” I ask uncertainly.

  “Just do it,” she commands.

  Being my bossy older sister, Brooke is one of those people I don’t want to mess with. I do as she says, taking the proffered phone.

  Oh. My. God.

  I swallow hard. “Local girl falls for Sam Montgomery at WOW,” I say out loud, barely believing what I’m reading.

  I scroll down and take a sharp intake of breath as I’m met with an image of myself in mid-flight, rubber monstrosity of a bra up around my neck, my legs and arms flailing like a long-legged bug.

  My head spins. I look about as elegant as a drunk giraffe.

  Luckily, they blurred over my breasts. That’s something. But you can see my panic-stricken face clearly. Although a little out of focus, Sam is pictured half way out of his chair, eyes trained on me, preparing to catch the flying ‘Local Girl’.

  “No no no no no. This can’t be happening,” I say, looking up at Brooke and Logan. “It was embarrassing enough last night in front of all those people, but for it to be spread across the news like this is . . . is—”

  “I know,” Brooke replies, squeezing my arm in support. “On the plus side the bra designer’s raving about his new ‘bungling Kiwi muse’. You’ve made his day, in the very least.”

  I bury my head in my hands. “Oh, god.”

  “Is your modelling job secure?” Logan asks, ever the pragmatist.

  A fresh wave of panic washes over me. “I hadn’t even thought about that. Do you think they’ll fire me? Oh, this just gets better and better.”

  “There’s no need to worry, Grace. You would have heard from the WOW organisers by now if you were fired. Wouldn’t she, honey?”

  “Absolutely,” Logan replies, reassuringly. “And as they say, all publicity is good publicity. Your fall kept the Wearable Arts on the cover of the paper, Grace. They’re hardly going to fire you for that.”

  My heart sinks. “It’s in the paper too? What am I saying? Of course it is.”

  “Yep.” Logan reaches down and pulls out a copy of today’s Dominion Post, the city’s daily. He passes it to me.

  Same headline, same cringe-worthy photo.

  My phone beeps—yet again. Maybe one of those gazillion messages is from WOW, firing my sorry ass. I scroll through them quickly, scanning the names. They’re all from friends and fellow models, ribbing me about last night, checking in on me, telling me I’m now famous.

  No message from WOW. Phew.

  “And they don’t have your name, either, sis. You’re just ‘Local Girl’, as far as anyone’s concerned. You’re going to be fine. This will all blow over in no time.” Brooke shoots me an encouraging smile.

  I try to look on the bright side. “You’re right. It’s all just a storm in a teacup, right? Today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chip wrapper.”

  “Atta girl,” Logan replies. “Now, shall we order? I’m starving and the food here is so great.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Brooke replies with gusto.

  Logan and I order a burger each and Brooke orders enough food to feed the homeless for a week.

  “What? I am eating for two, you know,” she pleads, stuffing a handful of fries into her mouth.

  The fact is Brooke used to be Miss Control Freak with her diet and exercise regime: high protein this, low carb that, run, run, run. Boring, boring, boring, if you ask me. Since she’s been with Logan she’s been infinitely happier and relaxed. He’s good for her.

  Lunch done, I begin to feel better about the whole catastrophe. We’re about to leave when Brooke’s best friend, Laura, walks into the café, pushing a buggy with a sleeping baby. She spots us, waves, and works her way through the tables.

  “I’ve just got her off to sleep so no one touch her, got it?” she commands.

  She’s a little stressed.

  “Sit down, we’ll order you a coffee,” Brooke says, moving her handbag from the seat next to her.

  “God, Brooke, you don’t know how good that sounds to me. I was going to get take out, but this is much better.” She sighs. “I’ve had a morning.”

  Logan leaps up to pull the chair out for her.

  She sits down heavily with a sigh, smiling at Logan.

  “I can tell,” Brooke comments.

  “Probably not as bad as yours though, Grace. Are you all right after last night? It’s all over the news.”

  “I’m fine. Just embarrassed, humiliated, mortified. You know how it is.”

  Laura laughs. “I can imagine. But really, of all the people to land on, you sure chose a hottie. Sam Montgomery is cute and he’s so good in Portal 51.”

  “Well, he’s—”

  “What’s he like up close?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but before I have the chance she cuts in with a fresh wave of questions.

  “Is he tall? He looks tall, but you can’t always tell from TV, can you? Are his eyes really that blue, or do you think they’re lenses? What did he say to you?”

  I laugh. Laura doesn’t need any more caffeine, that’s for sure.

  “He just checked to see I was all right. He seems like a decent guy.”

  “Really?” She sighs, a dreamy look in her eyes. “Vanessa Howard is a lucky girl. I’d trade Kyle in for a night with Sam Montgomery any day of the week.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell Kyle that when I meet him for our tennis match later today,” Logan comments, winking at Laura.

  She laughs. “Oh, you know I don’t mean it.” She grins. “Okay, I do.”

  “I’ll order you that coffee. Cappuccino?” Logan asks.

  “You’re a doll.” Laura turns back to me. “Is it fun modelling in the Wearable Arts?”

  “Yeah, it is. When I can stay on the catwalk, that is.” I give her a self-deprecating smile.

  Laura and Brooke both laugh. I can make a joke out of wh
at happened: this is progress.

  “It only runs for a few more nights and then I’m out of a job,” I continue.

  “You’ll find something, Grace,” Brooke comments.

  “What do you do again?” Laura asks as Logan returns to the table.

  “Well up until a month ago I was a fashion buyer for Bella. You know, the women’s clothing chain?”

  “That’s right. I forgot you work in fashion.”

  Her baby gurgles. Laura shoots her a fearful look. “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up. Please, please, please,” she whispers, her eyes wild.

  She notices us all watching her and smiles in embarrassment. “We’ve had a rough morning after a rough night. And a rough day yesterday, come to think of it.”

  “Poor you. She’s beautiful.” I smile at her little girl. “Such long lashes and pretty curls.”

  “Thanks,” she replies, breaking into the smile I’ve noticed mothers have when they gaze at their offspring—particularly when they’re asleep.

  “What do you think you’ll do when the show’s over?” Logan asks.

  I shrug. “Find another job, I guess.”

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Laura says. “You know about fashion, right?”

  “Yes, that was kind of part of the job description.”

  “Well, I’ve got this friend. She’s a personal stylist, really successful. She was telling me just last week she needs an assistant. She’s writing style sections for magazines, has loads of high profile clients, and even does TV appearances.”

  “Sounds like a great job.”

  I’ve always thought I would make a great personal stylist: I love fashion, love to make my own clothes. It’s the one thing Tiffany can’t rib me about.

  “Who is it? Anyone I would have heard of?” I ask.

  Laura clears her throat, looking uncomfortable. “Ah, it’s Jessica Banks.” She glances at Brooke.

  Brooke waves her hand. “It’s fine, Laura. We’ve put it behind us and moved on.”

  I look from Brooke to Laura and back again. “Put what behind you?”

  Brooke shakes her head. “Nothing that means anything anymore. She had a fling with Scott Wright while we were together. That’s all.”

  “She’s the one? Well there’s no way I’m going to work for her, then.” I cross my arms. It took Brooke a long time to get over Scott, so working for the woman he cheated on my big sister with doesn’t exactly appeal.

  Brooke laughs, clearly appreciating my loyalty. “Scott didn’t tell her about me. She thought he was single, so I can’t hold it against her.” Her face breaks into a wicked grin. “Much.”

  “She’s really nice,” Laura says. “Why don’t I talk to her about you? I think you’d get on.”

  I’m sorely tempted by the opportunity of an exciting job. I turn to Brooke. “As long as you’re sure?”

  Brooke laughs, her hand on her belly. “I’m sure.”

  I shrug. “All right. That would be great. I haven’t got anything else going on.”

  “That’s settled then. I’ll text you her details once I’ve spoken to her.”

  I say my goodbyes and leave the café. Time to face the music at WOW—only this time, keep my feet firmly on the floor.

  Chapter 4

  I WALK THROUGH THE backstage door with trepidation, not knowing what reaction I’m going to get from the WOW team. Will the organisers be angry? Will they be pleased for the free publicity, no matter how embarrassing it was for me?

  “Here she is!” someone shouts and all eyes turn toward me.

  For a second it’s as though we’re frozen in time. The place is instantly so deathly quiet you could hear a bra strap snap.

  Not that I want to go there again.

  Before I have the chance to mutter ‘sorry’, the room erupts into spontaneous applause, people whooping, a sea of faces smiling at me.

  I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath until I expel it, a relieved grin spreading across my face.

  Tiffany appears at my side from nowhere, lifting my hand in the air.

  “Thank you!” I shout over the din to more cheering and foot stomping.

  Holy guacamole! I did not expect this.

  Several of the models approach me.

  “What was Sam Montgomery like?” one asks.

  “I bet he felt amazing,” comments another.

  “Is he all strong and muscular?” asks yet another.

  Sam Montgomery. I’ve been trying all day not to think about him, not to think about how it felt to be held by him, to gaze into those incredible eyes. How his voice flowed over me like warm honey.

  Yeah, I haven’t exactly done a great job of it.

  Everyone I’ve come in contact with today has wanted to talk to me about him and I’ve been bombarded with images in the media of him catching my half naked body as I descend into his arms.

  “He’s, ah—” I begin. What can I say? He’s perfect. Mr Sexy Knight.

  The crowd hushes the moment Sally-Ann Baxter, WOW Managing Director, walks over to our group. “Grace. A word?” she says without preamble.

  I swallow hard. It’s one thing to become an overnight sensation with your peers; pleasing the mighty Sally-Ann Baxter is quite another matter.

  She turns on her heel and walks into a room. I follow, tail between my legs, like a lamb to the slaughter—I know what’s about to happen next.

  The assembled masses return to their work, some shooting me encouraging looks as I do the death march.

  “Close the door.”

  I nod and do as she says. Hell, she’s Sally-Ann Baxter—she’s as good as God around these parts.

  My tummy twists into a knot.

  She smooths her hair, tied up into a tight bun on the top of head, and removes her signature hot-pink glasses. “I saw the news. You were in it.”

  I nod. So far so factual.

  “Grace, we are creating art here. What we do is important creatively, not just to Wellington, to New Zealand, but to the world.”

  I nod again.

  Am I about to get fired?

  “Every movement you make when you are wearing a work of art becomes part of that work of art. That’s why the choreography is so crucial.”

  More nodding. I’m beginning to look like one of those bobble creatures in the backs of people’s cars.

  “You made quite the statement last night, Grace.”

  I steal myself. Here it comes.

  To my intense relief, a grin teases the edges of her mouth. “I’m hoping we won’t have a recurrence tonight.”

  My face breaks into a grin. She’s not firing me?

  “It won’t happen again, you have my word on that, Ms Baxter.”

  “Good. You’re part of the WOW family, Grace. We look after our own.” She opens her arms, pulling me in for a hug. It’s so unexpected I stumble and have to grab the table’s edge to stop from toppling over.

  “Sorry,” I mutter as I steady myself and accept her hug.

  She laughs, shaking her head. Releasing me, she adds, “Get it out of your system before tonight. All eyes will be on you.”

  My tummy twists in a fresh knot—one I doubt even the Boy Scouts know.

  “I will, Ms Baxter. I promise.”

  * * *

  And I deliver on my promise. This time ‘Racy Rubber’ stays in place, I follow the finely-honed choreography to a T, giving it all this ‘Local Girl’ has got. And the monkey I’ve been carrying around on my back all day jumps off in search of someone else to torment.

  “Good to see you managed to stay on the stage tonight,” Tiffany comments as we’re changing into our regular clothes after the show. “And managed to keep the girls inside your bra.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Rangi comments. “I only wish I’d seen it.” He takes a step closer to me. “Maybe I could get a private viewing sometime.” He grins, raising his eyebrows suggestively at me.

  “Rangi!” I slap him on the arm. “Gross.”

&nb
sp; Although Rangi is a really hot guy, he’s too much of a ladies’ man for me, flirting around the models, taking it anywhere he can get it. He’s got a reputation as a bit of a male slut.

  I may not have had sex in a long—way too long—time, but I don’t want to be another notch in his belt.

  Tiffany shoots Rangi an irritated look. “Some of us are heading out for a drink, Grace. Want to come? I’m suddenly not sure if Rangi will be there.”

  Rangi sidles over to her. “You know you want me there, Tiff. You’re the one, babe.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “You are such a floozy, Rangi.”

  He shrugs, grinning, clearly happy with his choices in life.

  I shake my head. “Thanks, for the invite, Tiff, but no. After the craziness of the last twenty-four hours, I need some serious sleep. You go, have fun.”

  “Oh, I intend to,” she replies, winking at me. “Come on, you.” She grabs Rangi by the hand and pulls him along behind her. “I’ll consider forgiving you if you buy me an embarrassingly large drink.”

  “I love it when she’s bossy,” he comments to me, following Tiffany like an eager puppy.

  I shake my head, watching them leave. They’re a perfect match for one another. Shame neither of them seem to be able to see it.

  * * *

  I surprise myself by waking up the next morning feeling refreshed and well rested.

  Taylor is up and dressed, ready for work when I wander into the kitchen to make some breakfast.

  “Morning, sunshine. I see you’re up at the sparrow’s fart.” She flashes me her brilliant smile before returning her attention to her tablet on the kitchen bench. “Nothing in the news about you today, chicken. In fact, I would go so far as to say you’re about as interesting as a cow in a field full of bovines.”

  I regard her quizzically. Bovines?

  “Not interesting at all,” she clarifies for me.

  “Right, got it. Well, thank God for that. I am more than happy to slink back into obscurity, I can tell you.”

  Life can go back to normal now, my almost-brush with fame done and dusted.

  “Coffee?” she offers.

  “Thanks, you’re an angel.”

  I take in Taylor’s short black skirt, showcasing her great legs, a snug pink sweater, and a pair of killer heels. Her face is perfectly made up, her hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s voluptuous and gorgeous, like some sort of red head ‘Fifties sex siren.