S'more to Lose

by Beth Merlin

  “I hope they started with Jamie.”

  “He isn’t here yet, either,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Is he okay? He’s never late. Did you call him?”

  “He’s on his way.” She looked me up and down. “Let’s just get you into a chair. It’s not really so much a question of want as need.”

  I pulled out my compact. “Do I really look that bad?”

  Jordana tousled a few rogue strands of my bedhead. “Not bad, just unkempt.”

  I couldn’t hide the smile that spread across my face.

  “What? What’s that look?” she asked.

  “What look?”

  Jamie walked up to greet us. “That look. You had a good weekend with the viscount, didn’t you?”

  “The who?” Jordana asked.

  “I’ll explain later. We should go inside.”

  Jordana shot me another confused look as we made our way into FIT’s main building and down the hall to the auditorium where the show was filmed. Just being in the space instantly brought back a million memories from my first day as a contestant.

  I remembered how we’d stood baking under the hot runway lights for what seemed like hours, when a production assistant finally appeared to tell us they were running behind schedule, dismissing the contestants back to the break room. The producers made it clear that we weren’t allowed to speak to any of the other contestants until the first challenge was announced. We’d already been lined up for almost two hours in silence, waiting for the show’s host to emerge from her dressing room.

  After the PA walked away, most of the other female contestants (and some of the male ones) headed straight from the runway to the bathroom to freshen up and redo their makeup. I wasn’t sure how much time we had, so I made a beeline over to the Nespresso coffee machine in the break room instead. Nerves had gotten the better of me, and I hadn’t slept more than a couple hours. In that moment, caffeine seemed way more important than lip gloss.

  “Show must have a healthy budget. That’s a good sign. It means they expect good ratings,” a male voice had said from behind me as I struggled to use the complicated coffee machine.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A Nespresso machine’s no joke. Those things cost a pretty penny,” he said, reaching around me to readjust the settings I’d just entered.

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had my own coffee machine in a while. I’m living with a friend while I try to become rich and famous on a reality television show.” I turned around and found myself face-to-face with one of the most impeccably dressed men I’d ever met. “Wow, did you design what you’re wearing?”

  “The suit’s Dsquared. The shoes,” he said, pointing down at his feet, “Louboutin. The shirt’s a Jamie Malone, though.”

  “A Jamie Malone?”

  He extended his hand toward me. “I’m a Jamie Malone. Nice to meet you.”

  “Ah. I’m a Georgica Goldstein, but everyone calls me Gigi,” I said, taking his hand. “Are we going to get in trouble for talking? I don’t think we’re supposed to yet.”

  “Georgica like the Hamptons beach?” he asked, ignoring my question.

  “Just like it, actually. It’s one of my parents’ favorite vacation spots.”

  He leaned in close to my ear. “Don’t tell anyone, but my real last name’s Johnson. Jamie Johnson—how pedestrian, right? So I changed it. Valerie Malone served as my inspiration.”

  The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “I’m not sure I know who Valerie Malone is?”

  “Tiffani Amber Thiessen’s character on Beverly Hills 90210. The quintessential bad girl.”

  “I think she just goes by Tiffani Thiessen now. She dropped the Amber after Saved by the Bell.”

  He flashed a smile, impressed with my knowledge of pop culture. He leaned in to examine my dress. “DVF, right? Spring collection? Word of advice, don’t ever attempt to design a wrap dress—you’ll never do one as well as Diane.”

  I grinned and nodded in agreement. I knew we’d be fast friends.

  “So, Gigi, where’d you go to design school?” he asked.

  “I’m pretty much self-taught,” I admitted reluctantly. “What about you?”

  “Here, actually—top of my class. One of the producers was in the audience of my final exam runway show and asked if I wanted to audition.”

  “My best friend, Alicia, saw a casting call and encouraged me to apply. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. This is very much outside my comfort zone.”

  He smirked. “What is? Being followed by cameras twenty-four hours a day?”

  “To start with.”

  “Small price to pay for a chance to show in fashion week and $100,000 to start your own line, though.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Joshua said.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Who’s Joshua?”

  “Nobody,” I answered without the smallest inflection.

  Jamie gave me a knowing look, as if to say he could tell there was more to that story, but let it go. A few minutes later, the same PA came into the break room and announced they were ready and we’d start filming in a couple minutes. I threw the rest of my coffee out and headed back to the runway with Jamie. The PA lined us back up on our marks and gave a breakdown of how the scene would go. Then, Charlotte Cross—a top model who’d graced the cover of at least five of Europe’s top fashion magazines that month—appeared. She looked flawless as all five foot ten of her came down the runway. When she got to the center, she proceeded to read our first challenge off the teleprompter.

  “Welcome, contestants, to Season One of Top Designer. I’m Charlotte Cross. We’re here at New York’s Fashion Institute of Technology, where over the next twelve weeks, the fourteen of you will be competing for a chance to show your collections at fashion week and $100,000-prize to start your own line. You’ll be taking part in design challenges meant to test your skills, creativity, ingenuity, and overall talent. Be true to your aesthetic, taste, and vision.” She paused for what I could only assume was dramatic effect and said, “And now, on to your first challenge, which we’re calling Episode Code Wed.”

  Jamie was smiling. I guessed we’d be designing some sort of wedding gown, and I could only assume this type of project fell right into his wheelhouse. I’d never designed anything on that scale and already felt out of my league.

  “But here at Top Designer, nothing is as simple as it seems,” Charlotte continued. “You will each be given a fabric budget of one hundred dollars to use at Ambiance Fabric. The rest of the dress has to be constructed using an alternative material.”

  She flashed a wicked smile and pulled it out of her suit jacket. “This is Charmin two-ply. That’s right, your alternative material is toilet paper.”

  Jamie’s smile quickly turned to dread. I had a feeling he was used to designing with more luxurious textiles.

  “You each get a dozen rolls and two days to make the wedding dress of your dreams. The winner of this challenge will receive immunity and their dress will be showcased in the storefront of Kleinfeld’s, New York’s famous bridal boutique. Best of luck, designers,” Charlotte said, waving to us. “See you at the show.”

  Charlotte walked off the set, and the fourteen of us were ushered over to Ambiance where we had 30 minutes to select additional materials for the challenge. Almost all the designers went rushing off to the section that had more typical wedding gown fabrics like taffeta, silk, and satin. They were beautiful textiles, but also very expensive. I knew the one-hundred-dollar allotment wouldn’t go very far if I stuck to just those fabrics. Instead, I pulled yards of tulle and organza, lighter and cheaper materials. I had no idea how I was going to utilize them yet but figured the more fabric I had to work with, the better.

  When we got back to FIT, the PAs led us to our workspace. Dress forms with each of our names were set up next to individual workstations. I took a seat at mine and waited for further instructions. None came. I
scanned the room and noticed everyone else already frantically scribbling in their sketch pads. Jamie was up on his feet, draping muslin around his form, and at least three of the other contestants were furiously ripping pieces of toilet paper from the rolls.

  Great. Not even five minutes into the competition and I was already ten minutes behind. I sketched out a few designs but wasn’t crazy about any of them and tossed them to the side. I stared off into the room, rolling squares of ripped toilet paper back and forth between my thumb and forefinger before dropping them to the table, not one bit of inspiration hitting. The other contestants were already deep into their designs, shredding, fringing, and weaving their toilet paper into wearable art.

  I’d be kicked off Top Designer. First. Maybe it would be considered more of a disqualification, anyway? Without a garment to show, I’d probably be spared the embarrassment of having to stand on the runway, and they’d just edit me out of this episode entirely. I laid my head down on my workstation.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the pile of rolled up paper I’d been nervously dropping to the table. I picked my head back up and scooped them into my hands. Instantly, I was reminded of the summer at camp when my cabin was put in charge of running the very popular wedding booth. Even though the “marriages” usually only lasted until the end of the carnival, a two- to three-hour relationship at camp was equal to a six- to seven-month romance in the real world. My bunkmates and I took our responsibility as camp wedding officiants seriously. We created every necessary prop from fake wedding rings made of aluminum foil and rhinestones to a veil constructed out of tulle covered in glitter-dipped toilet paper rosettes.

  There was the inspiration I’d been looking for. I’d construct the bodice for this gown using the allotted fabric from Ambiance and cover the skirt with larger hand-dyed toilet paper rosettes. I didn’t have time to second-guess my decision and went for it.

  Six hours later, I was half done with the dress and laying the roses out to dry across my workstation. I sprayed the top of each flower with glue and hand-dipped each one into my own mixture of iridescent glitter. If I could get the construction just right, I knew the lights would hit the dress in such a way that it would make a huge impact on the runway. I was feeling slightly more confident when I looked around the room and noticed nobody else had done anything remotely similar.

  Poor Jamie just looked lost. Unraveled rolls of toilet paper just about covered every square inch of his workstation, and there was nothing pinned to his dress form. I walked over to see if I could lend any moral support.

  “I was gonna go grab a coffee. Can I get you one?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” he replied without looking up from his sketch pad.

  I started to walk away but decided to double back. “You sure you don’t want anything?”

  “A loaded gun might be good.”

  “How ’bout a hot glue gun?” I said, holding one up.

  He smiled and looked up from the table. “Have you ever seen Gone with the Wind?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I replied.

  “That scene where Scarlett makes the dress out of the green velvet curtains keeps replaying and replaying in my head.” He stood up from the stool. “Let’s say I didn’t actually complete a garment, I’d just be disqualified and edited out of the episode, right?”

  I put my arm around him. “I think you should go with me to get a coffee from that fancy Nespresso machine I finally figured out how to work and then come back and look at this with fresh eyes.”

  A few hours later, Jamie pieced together a gown and was fitting it to his model. It was a mess, but at least he had something to show on the runway. My own dress came out better than I imagined. The sweetheart neckline and bodice gave way to a full skirt layered with hand-dipped glittering roses and rosettes. If you took a few steps back from it, you’d never know the dress was seventy percent toilet paper, thirty percent glue.

  After the models finished in hair and makeup, we fitted them into our designs one last time and lined them up to go down the runway. Looking at the other gowns, I was impressed with the sheer level of ingenuity. Some of the dresses were literally held together by a thread, but the results were amazing. Jamie’s, though, was a disaster. He’d used the squares of toilet paper almost like a patchwork pattern. It was a good concept, but the execution left a lot to be desired. He knew it. I could see it in his face as we sat down in the audience to watch the runway show.

  When the show was over, Charlotte Cross introduced the impressive panel of judges, including Naomi Campbell and Diane von Furstenberg, and announced the contestants with the highest and lowest scores. She invited those designers to join her on the runway alongside their models. Jamie and I stepped back onto our marks from earlier that day and waited for the cameras to be repositioned for critiques.

  The judges took their time questioning each of us about our looks. My whole body was shaking when Diane von Furstenberg asked me about my gown and inspiration. I had no idea if my scores had landed me in the top or bottom, and she wasn’t giving much away. It wasn’t until Charlotte Cross’s icy stare gave way to a half-smile that I finally felt confident I wasn’t going to be sent home first.

  Next, the judges turned their attention to Jamie’s design. Most of the toilet paper squares had fallen off his model during the runway show so that she looked like a half-naked molting bird. It was almost obscene, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the show had the budget to pixelate out what couldn’t be shown on network TV. Jamie was visibly sweating through his Jamie Malone original and looked like he wanted to die. I grabbed his hand for moral support. The judges dismissed us back to the workroom while they made their decisions.

  The other contestants on the chopping block headed outside for a cigarette. Jamie was pacing in circles. After his third or fourth lap, I pulled him over to the couch.

  “You’re making me dizzy,” I joked.

  He lowered his head into his hands. “Sorry. I just can’t believe this challenge is the reason I’m going home.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said supportively.

  He lifted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Let’s call this what it is. A total and complete disaster.”

  “For everyone. I doubt they’ll even air this episode.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “You don’t have to make me feel better. We just met.”

  “You’re right. I don’t have to, which is why what I’m telling you is the truth.”

  “Your gown was pretty spectacular, Gigi. You might take this whole thing.”

  “It was all smoke and mirrors. A little glitter goes a long way.”

  He sat back down on the couch. “Do you even get to be on the reunion show if you’re kicked off first?”

  The PA motioned for us to return to the studio. I turned to Jamie. “Hey, whatever happens, I’m glad to have met you.”

  “Ditto,” he replied, putting his arm around me.

  We went back to the runway and lined up next to our models. Charlotte Cross took her position in the center of the runway. She dismissed four of the designers as safe before announcing that I was the winner of the challenge and that Jamie was going home.

  Charlotte gave us a minute to say our goodbyes. Jamie gave me a hug and whispered in my ear, “Scarecrow, I think I’ll miss you most of all.”

  “I’m self-taught. I doubt I’ll be here past the next challenge.”

  “You have immunity. You’ll be here for the next challenge and a lot more after that.”

  “How do you know?” I said softly.

  He softened his eyes. “My bets are on you, friend.”

  “Friend?”

  “Oh yeah. For life.”

  Jordana tapped me on the shoulder to let me know she’d smoothed everything out with the producers. As it turned out, the other two guest judges were also running a few minutes behind. A PA ushered Jamie and me into hair and makeup and handed us the day’s schedule.

  Jamie f
olded the schedule into his lap. “When did Jordana tell you?”

  “On Friday, I swear.”

  “You didn’t want to warn me?”

  “She told me she was going to speak to you.”

  He picked up the schedule and held it in front of my face. “Operation Code Wed. Again? Really?”

  I scrunched up my nose. “Okay, but in Jordana’s defense, there’s something poetic about you coming back to judge this challenge. Look at where we are, how far we’ve come.”

  “You are such a liar. I saw your face when you walked into the auditorium. You’re just as freaked out to be back here as I am.”

  “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “Sure, you are. What about seeing Trini again?”

  Katrina Bower had started out her career at Vogue climbing up the ranks to editor-at-large. When I met her on Top Designer, she was serving as the Fashion Design Department chair of FIT and had been hired on as the contestant mentor on the show’s first season. Her catchphrase, “Figure it out,” quickly became synonymous with the show. She was tough but fair. Critical but supportive. Her advice and eye for fashion were always right on point. She was close friends with dozens of designers and was one of the few opinions Anna Wintour completely trusted. When I was a contestant, she’d constantly confronted me about my choices and designs, pushing me to create outside my comfort zone and challenge the boundaries of my abilities. Right before each runway show, I could tell just by the look in her eye if I was going to place in the top or bottom.

  During my season, Trini came to check on my progress for the final episode and runway show. Within seconds of her looking through the racks of unfinished garments, I knew I was in serious trouble. She asked me to have coffee with her without the cameras in an effort to salvage my collection and point me in some sort of direction. And at that meeting, I completely broke down. The pressures of the show and how big it’d all become paralyzed me in a way I’d never experienced before. She did her best to coach me out of my slump, but it was too late. I didn’t have nearly enough time to recover. I let my fans down, and worst of all, I let Trini down. Every few months I promised myself I’d send her a note or pick up the phone to give her a call, but I never did. It’d been years since we’d spoken, yet I still heard her voice in my head every time I put pencil to paper.