“No, no, that’s not it. Let’s take a break. In fact, I think that will be it for today.”
It was definitely time to stop. His frustration level with this girl was rising out of control. They’d been at this all morning, and she still could not master the simple mechanics of getting from one end of the runway to the other without loping along like a clumsy oaf. And they hadn’t even begun to work on removing jackets or carrying props.
Diego left in search of Greg von Ulrich. It was time to break the news to him that there was nothing more he could do for Gabrielle. No matter how much the camera might love her face or how terrific she might appear in a fashion video, when it came to the runway, this girl was bound to stick out like Rodney King at the policemen’s ball.
“So you’re telling me it’s hopeless?” Gregory asked after hearing Diego’s diagnosis.
“There is no way that even I can perfect that walk. I understand why she’s only done print work up till now.”
“What am I going to tell Scarborough?”
“I’d tell him that in every other way, the girl is fierce. There’s got to be a way to make this work in her favor.”
“Well, let me get Maynard on the phone and get this over with. Show Week is in six days,” Greg replied, referring to the busy week when the designers show their ready-to-wear collections to the retailers and press. “This is something he has to know.”
“Baby, if you roll that piecrust any thinner, we’ll be able to see through it,” Doug remarked as he added another pinch of cinnamon to the apple slices.
“I’m sorry. I can’t seem to keep my mind off this afternoon.” Gabrielle swept up the dough, squished it into a ball, and in a fit of frustration dropped it into the bowl with a thud.
“I take it the lesson didn’t go so well,” Doug commented, waving away a cloud of flour. “You want to talk about it?”
“Let’s just say that if Maynard even lets me backstage, Diego Santana will put a handicapped-parking sign at my makeup table. I swear, Doug, you don’t know what humiliation is until a man wearing three-inch heels leaves you standing in the dust.”
“I think you’re worrying too much. This is your first fashion show, after all. Maynard has to know you’ll be nervous.”
“The show is a week away. How can I not worry?” Gabrielle asked, making another feeble attempt to roll out her crust.
“By switching gears for a moment and thinking about something else—like your twenty-first birthday. You’ll be in town to celebrate, won’t you?”
“I’ll be wherever you want me, whenever you want me.”
“Good answer. Now, what would you like for your birthday?”
“A new walk,” Gabrielle requested, trying to brush away the flour on Doug’s forehead, but only depositing more.
“Seriously. If you could have anything in this world, what would it be?”
“For every birthday from now on, I want you and one of your famous apple pies—preferably one I didn’t help bake,” she said, poking a finger into her pitiful crust.
“That certainly makes shopping one hell of a lot easier. Here, let me do that,” he said, commandeering the rolling pin. “You know, sweetheart, if you’re still worried about that walking thing, I think I can help.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, Doug, but what do you know about runway walking?”
“More than you think. Why don’t you take off all your clothes and strut around the room so I can check out your form?” Doug suggested with a wicked smile.
“And that’s going to help me?”
“I can’t speak for you, but it will do wonders for me.”
Greg dialed the designer’s office and waited for him to pick up. He hoped Maynard would take the news well. They’d all come too far for this to blow up over Gabrielle’s goofy gait.
“Maynard, I need to speak with you about Gabrielle,” Greg began.
“She’s so marvelous. Have you seen the response to Scarborough Jewels? The holiday numbers were unbelievable, and sales are still so hot we can’t keep the stores stocked. It’s because of that glorious ad campaign. It was genius to do the ads and trunk shows first. Do you know what a coup it is to have her exclusively working my runway?”
“About the show,” Greg began reluctantly.
“Yes.”
“We have a little problem. Gabrielle can’t walk.”
“She’s injured?”
“No, just clumsy-looking when it comes to the runway. I’ve tried to teach her. I even hired Diego Santana to coach her, but she just can’t seem to get the motion down.”
“I don’t care if she isn’t perfect. Let her walk like she’s on the street. People aren’t going to care if she comes down the runway on her hands and knees. Gabrielle Donovan is incredibly hot. Her presence will fill up the catwalk as only a star can.”
“I agree with you totally, but I wanted you to know.”
“Now I know, so let me get back to work.”
Gabrielle hurried through the rear entrance of the white tent set up in Bryant Park. The atmosphere inside was electric, as crews prepared for the annual spectacle of New York’s week of fashion madness, known as Seventh on Sixth. The huge tent was divided in two by a lengthy runway, broken up at the end by three low pedestals. On either side of the runway, chairs were set up for the viewing audience. Several assistants from Maynard’s office were busy placing a small writing pad embossed with the Scarborough Designs logo and a gold pencil on each seat. On the rear stage wall, visible from every corner of the room, hung the same huge logo.
“Gabrielle, let’s go. I want to do a quick run-through,” Del, the show coordinator, yelled out.
Within minutes Gabrielle was joined by the other models, still dressed in their street clothes for a short rehearsal. As Del briefed the group about the show, Gabrielle’s brain and eyes remained locked on the seemingly endless length of the runway. You could land a 747 on this puppy! How was she ever going to make it down and back without embarrassing herself and the man who’d hired her? She tried to imagine the now-empty tent full of people watching her every step. The image made her stomach flip.
“Everybody understand?” Del asked.
“What pedestal am I supposed to use?” asked Eva G., one of two supermodels booked for the event.
“You, Roya, and Gabrielle, will use the center pedestal every time you go down,” Del answered. Eva, Roya Kirsten, and Gabrielle were the designated “stars” of the show and would take solo runs down the catwalk. This would give greater emphasis not only to the clothes they’d be wearing but also to the girls themselves. Though the other two well-known models were hired to lend the show prestige, Maynard had saved his best designs for Gabrielle, ensuring that much attention would be paid to his star.
“Okay, now that everybody understands the drill, let’s give it a try.”
While the girls practiced, Diego Santana and Gregory von Ulrich stood watching in the back of the tent. Both were there to give Gabrielle moral support, as well as witness with their own eyes this potentially career-threatening situation. Despite Maynard’s strong feelings that the quality of Gabrielle’s runway strut did not matter, both men knew that in this room full of fashion folks, whose love of gossip was second only to that of the tabloid tattlers, Gabrielle’s skyrocketing career could get shot down in a matter of moments.
Stephanie walked through the Forty-first Street entrance of the tent. She scanned the area, looking for Gregory von Ulrich. Felicia had requested that she fax him Gabrielle’s interview schedule for the month, but Stephanie had decided to deliver it personally in order to find out firsthand what all the fuss over this week was about.
Stephanie spotted Greg on the other side of the tent speaking with a man she didn’t recognize. She made her way over, stopping a short distance away to allow them to finish talking. Their conversation ceased when Gabrielle stepped onto the runway for her practice walk. The three of them stood watching as the young model ventured down the
length of the runway, posed, and then walked back and disappeared.
“She definitely stands out,” Stephanie overheard Greg say. “What do you think?”
“Let’s face it, Gabrielle’s walk is absolutely wretched,” Diego stated. The mention of the model’s name caused Stephanie’s ears to perk up. She moved two steps closer in an effort to hear their conversation better. “Compared to the other girls, she’s very klutzy, but—”
Wretched? Klutzy? You mean Gabrielle isnt perfect after all? At last, a little justice in this world, Stephanie thought happily.
“But what?” Greg asked, hoping for some salvation.
“But it’s an endearing kind of klutziness. She doesn’t have the clean elegance of Eva G. or the smoldering prowl of Roya, but still, Gabrielle manages to mesmerize you when she moves. Maynard is right, even in her jeans she owns the runway. She has a commanding presence that forces you to notice her, and once you do, the clumsiness just doesn’t matter anymore.”
“I hope you’re right. She’s got a lot riding on this show. I hate to say it, but this could make or break her.”
Interesting concept, Stephanie thought as she turned around and headed for the door. She decided to fax Greg the information after all. She needed to make a stop by Star Diary before heading back to the office. This little discovery was much too juicy to keep all to herself.
Backstage, the models, dressed in their first outfits, walked up to be inspected. One by one, Maynard checked each ensemble against the appropriate Polaroid, to ensure that every girl was wearing the correct accessories with the right outfit and that everything was fastened correctly.
“I thought this was fixed. I need pins,” Maynard bellowed, finding one model’s dress too big. One of the assistants ran over with a box of straight pins, and Maynard proceeded to take in both sides of the dress.
Before returning to the inspection site, Maynard walked over to Gabrielle. One of the dressers, after consulting the model’s “look board,” was putting the final touches on Gabrielle’s first outfit, a tomato-red knit and suede jumpsuit. Maynard, not wanting to crush the material or disturb her makeup, took her hands into his and brought them to his lips.
“I know you are nervous. Don’t worry, you look divine. Go out there and have a good time,” he encouraged, sounding like a coach before the big game.
Gabrielle smiled slightly and nodded. She was going to give this her best shot and pray like hell it was enough.
“May I have all the girls in lineup?” Del called out, clapping his hands.
At thirteen minutes past noon the music blared and the production showcasing Maynard’s Fall ’96 collection began. From the very first group, Maynard’s designs were welcomed with loud approval. Gabrielle, the fourth model in line, waited nervously for her turn. She was scheduled to go out behind Brooke, a popular Eurasian-looking model. As Brooke made her entrance, Gabrielle stepped up, only to be snatched back by the stage manager.
“Too soon,” Del told her.
“Just forget everything they told you,” whispered the model who followed Gabrielle. “Just walk to the music. You’ll do fine.”
“Thanks,” Gabrielle replied, appreciative of the support.
“Now,” the manager whispered, releasing Gabrielle’s arm.
Gabrielle stepped onto the runway and looked out into the crowd. The excitement was palpable and contagious. She pushed her chin up, took a breath, and began a star’s saunter down the ramp. Brooke was zipping down the runway with an easy glide. Instead of trying to duplicate her style, Gabrielle walked naturally, relying on Diego’s much-touted “attitude” to get her through. As Gabrielle approached the end of the runway, Brooke was on her way back, leaving Gabrielle standing center stage, commanding the attention of every eye in the room. She stepped up onto the pedestal and posed as flashbulbs and applause erupted around her. With a coy smile, Gabrielle did a sassy pivot with a slight kick, snapped her head around at the last minute, and took herself back up the ramp and backstage to get into her next outfit.
Each time she went back out, Gabrielle felt stronger and more confident. Bolder with every entrance, she played with her audience, appearing openly flirtatious at times, nonchalant and distant at others, whatever the mood of the clothes dictated. The obvious admiration and approval of the spectators was liberating, removing any self-consciousness Gabrielle harbored because of her less-than-perfect stride. Before she knew it, it was time for the finale, and all the girls, wearing silver and cream, walked out onto the stage with Maynard. After taking several bows, he walked back to the group of models and retrieved Gabrielle from the mob. Arm in arm, the designer and his muse walked up to the center pedestal to take a bow. This time Gabrielle glided down the runway, her feet barely touching the ground. She was ecstatic. The fashion show was finally over, and she hadn’t fallen, tripped, or otherwise embarrassed herself.
Greg von Ulrich managed to work his way backstage. The area was a mob scene of well-wishers and press people trying to get a word with the designer. Photographers were busy snapping away as the models and crew people packed up to go home. Greg found Gabrielle standing by her dress rack with tears of satisfaction welling in her eyes.
“You did good, kid,” he told her with outstretched arms.
“I’m just glad it’s over,” Gabrielle admitted as she met Gregory’s arms with her own. The two hugged warmly, and Greg gave the model a congratulatory kiss on the mouth, as cameras captured the touching moment on film.
“Harry, you don’t look so good,” Stephanie observed as she sat in the reporter’s office.
“I’m fine,” he answered gruffly. “Why did you stop by?”
“I have a little scoop for you. I just left the rehearsal for the Scarborough fashion show this morning. You won’t believe the scuttlebutt.”
“I’m listening,” Harry prompted brusquely.
“According to Diego Santana, Gabrielle’s runway coach, she’s really wretched on the runway. I heard him tell Greg von Ulrich that, compared to the other girls, Gabrielle is a klutz,” Stephanie repeated gleefully.
“What was von Ulrich’s reaction to that news?”
“He loves her dirty underwear, so he wasn’t too upset, just concerned that the press receive her well.”
“Something going on between those two? I thought she was all lovey-dovey with the journalist.”
“She is, but who knows what else she has simmering on the side?”
“Interesting. How would you like to write a story about all the behind-the-scenes happenings between Gabrielle and her boss?”
“You got it,” Stephanie said, excited that she was going to finally have her own byline. Wait. I can’t write this under my name, she suddenly realized. I’ll not only get crucified, I’ll lose all my sources, Stephanie thought. “I have to use a pen name.”
“You can call yourself Snow White for all I care. Just have my story in by five.”
“Okay,” Stephanie said, turning to leave. Why not tease the public with a little romantic speculation? she thought. Doug, of all people, would know that this was just idle gossip. And if he didn’t, Gabrielle would just have to convince him otherwise.
32
“Happy birthday,” Doug announced, placing a tray of Belgian waffles smothered in fresh raspberries over Gabrielle’s lap. In addition to the food, the breakfast tray also held a pitcher of mimosas, a single orchid spray, and a rolled-up newspaper.
“This smells delicious.”
“Thank you. Breakfast in bed happens to be my culinary masterpiece,” Doug said, pouring the orange-juice-and-champagne drink into crystal flutes. “Happy birthday to the most fascinating woman I know. May you live a long and wonderful life, and may I have the good fortune to share it with you,” Doug said, raising his glass. The two gently touched glasses and slowly drained the contents.
“I brought you Women’s Wear Daily so you can read the review of yesterday’s show,” Doug said, unfolding the paper. “You and Maynard are on the f
ront page.” Under the bold headline THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES was a large picture of the show’s finale, with Maynard Scarborough and Gabrielle surrounded by the other models.
“You read it. I’m not interested in knowing how badly they skewered me.”
“It’s not like you tripped or fell down or anything.”
“No, but you didn’t see me out there. Compared to the other girls—”
“You didn’t want me there, remember?” Doug interrupted.
“It’s not that I didn’t want you there. But had you come, I would have been even more nervous. I’d have worried about embarrassing you on top of everything else.”
“That could never happen. I’m always in your corner. You should know that. Now, let’s see what WWD has to say about your walk on the wild side.” Doug scanned the article, skipping all the details of the show and collection until he reached the part about Gabrielle. “Looks like you and Maynard were a big hit.”
“Really? What did they say about me?”
“ ‘When Scarborough’s featured mannequin, First Face model Gabrielle Donovan, took the stage, one had the feeling that at that moment a lovelier creature in New York City did not exist,’ ” Doug read with pride.
“What a relief.”
“Just one more thing to celebrate tonight.”
“About this celebration … How long am I to remain clueless?”
“Everything will be revealed to you in due time.”
“Okay, I won’t push. I guess everybody has a right to keep a few secrets.”
“Just be back here from your lunch with Beatrice by five. Now, you hit the showers while I do the dishes. Call me if you need help washing your back,” he volunteered as Gabrielle disappeared into the bathroom.
Read Between the Lies Page 24
