“Yoga, huh? So when you came to my place, you were doing yoga with that guy?”
“Are we seriously going to have this conversation right now?”
“Yeah.”
I stare at him. “He’s a guy in my class, James. This is the first conversation I’ve ever had with him.”
“You were holding hands, Jess.”
“He took my hand to console me. It barely even registered.”
“That makes no sense. This makes you nervous… you and me, I mean.”
What do I have to lose? “Yeah. It does. Very.”
He shakes his head, still standing above me. I feel like I’m being ganged up on by him, by Brittany, by this whole situation. Is it supposed to be this hard? I can see he’s confused, too. This is a big mess we’ve gotten ourselves into. Neither of us says anything. I roll my eyes and look over at a hopping bird who’d love to know if bread came with my salad. We both aren’t getting what we want.
“Shit,” says James, angry and defeated.
I look back, surprised. “What?”
“She’s just spotted us and is heading this way.”
Fear grips me, but I adopt an apathetic expression, as if I couldn’t be less interested in what James has to say. The opposite is true. Regretting I have to do this, I look at my phone and dismiss him with a wave of my hand.
“I’m not okay with this,” he whispers.
I whisper back, trying not to move my lips, “And I am?”
My attention is glued to my phone as he storms off. With each angry footstep he takes, my head clears. I become very calm inside of my heart. I know something now and it feels as if I’ve always known it. I don’t want to lose my job.
I hear her footsteps getting louder, and wait for the attack. This is the first time where she’s snuck up on me that I knew she was coming. Huh. Should I fake jump when she speaks?
“Jessica! What the fuck is going on?!”
I real jump.
The Bitch has a phone dangling in each hand – a Samsung and an iPhone – and her gorgeous Birkin bag is hanging from her shoulder. She’s got on a different pair of D&G shades than the ones she wore yesterday, plus she is rocking a gorgeous Donna Karen suit that probably cost more than two months rent of my little shoebox. None of that is nearly as impressive as the fact that her perpetual ponytail… is gone! Gone! Her hair is hanging very long and very, very straight. She looks fantastic.
“Wow,” I blurt out.
Taken aback momentarily, she asks, “What?”
I check her out, head to toe, in disbelief “You look amazing.”
“Don’t change the subject!” she hisses, talons back out.
“Oh! What was the question?”
“Why were you and James talking about?”
Think, Jess, think! My gut screams, I don’t want to lose this job. “Have you talked to Brittany?”
“Who is Brittany?!” she yells. People look over. Neither of us cares.
“Oh, uh…” So she doesn’t know. Brittany hasn’t told her. That’s right. The meeting with James’ boss is tomorrow. She’s planning her attack. I still have a chance!
“Spit it out!”
“Brittany has the hots for James.” I can’t believe I just said that!
The storm begins. She gets very, very still. Oh God, what did I just do? A cold chill forms around her, wafting my way in icy sheets. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. The rest of the world disappears around us. Wolves howl painfully in the distance. A troll cackles. And she, The Bitch, in a voice that would frighten Medusa, says, “Who THE FUCK is Brittany.”
“One of the minions.” Sorry Britt.
“The blonde with the small boobs?”
“The brunette…with the perfect ones.”
She sucks in a breath. “I see. Is he interested in her?”
I won’t throw James under the bus. I won’t say he’s interested, too, but I do have to intimate the threat is real, right? After a thoughtful grimace that tells her she’s not going to like this, I answer with, “Not really… but what guy wouldn’t be interested, after what she told him. It’s only a matter of time, you know?”
“What did she tell him!”
“‘I’m going to ride you like the poles I rode while stripping my way through college.’”
The Bitch’s eyes glow demon-red and her head pops off. “She WHAT?!”
“I told her you guys were dating.”
“What’d she say?” she demands.
“She called you a name I can’t repeat, out of respect… to you.”
“That little CUNT!”
“That was it.”
The Bitch explodes with a primal sound I couldn’t explain if I tried. I’m not exaggerating (this time). I hear it and my eyes bug out. She spins around and I have to admit, I’m more than a little nervous Brittany is about to be killed.
The Bitch halts and spins back to ask, “What did you tell him? He looked angry.”
I swear I’m not planning any of this. The lies are falling effortlessly off my tongue. “I said he should pick on someone his own age? I mean, what is she… twelve?”
Another explosion! But this one is laughter, which shocks the hell out of me and all I can do is blink. So that’s where The Bitch’s funny bone is. Age jokes. Huh. Who knew? I watch her march off chuckling to herself, far more contained. I may have just saved Brittany’s life by being funny. I knew that skill would come in handy. Still, I’m curious, so I call out, “What are you going to do?” No answer. She’s gone.
I jump at the sound of my phone ringing. It’s the offices of Michael Kors. Still watching the space where The Bitch just vanished into, I answer the call, but say nothing. I am on pins and needles, expecting her to jump out and shout, “I am the Devil! Boohahahhahah!”
“Jessica?” the show coordinator asks on the other end.
“…Yes.”
“I made it happen. She can sit in Maggie Von Turle’s seat now.”
“…Good.”
“It wasn’t easy,” he confides.
I look down at the water bottle Chris gave me. “Yeah. We do what we have to do, though. To survive.”
“Yeah.”
We hang up.
Last Show of The Day
Running in high-heels is a great time. I have to get to the next show, pronto. I jog past the Bryant Park Grill, and then past a slew of civilians on 40th Street (people not in the fashion industry). I am running as fast as my shoes will allow, which means I have to balance with outstretched arms to avoid falling as I zip around the side of the New York Public Library building to get to the front door. As soon as I enter the lobby, I skid to a fast walk. Diego waves me over.
“Jess! Did you hear what happened?”
“I don’t have time right now, Diego,” I catch my breath, and I ask, “What are you doing out here in the lobby? Aren’t you supposed to be backstage? Wait, did something happen to your camera?”
“I had to get more batteries from my roommate,” he explains as he joins me and matches my pace. We’re moving fast, like we’re in a T.V. show doing one of those walking/talking scenes.
“Your roommate has your batteries? Did you go home? I’m confused.”
“No. He got some and brought them to me, because I couldn’t leave.”
“Ahh. How was Project Runway’s show?”
“Pretty cool, actually. The pics I got are re-tweeting like crazy!”
“Wonderful!”
“Have you heard what happened to Brittany?”
I stop in front of the closed door, my hand on the handle. “What happened to Brittany?” As he opens his mouth, I hold up my hand and stop him. “You know what? Tell me after. I have work to do.”
He shrugs and laughs, turns, and heads to another door over to the side. It’ll lead him backstage, whereas I have to watch as a member of the audience. “It hasn’t started yet! You’re fine!” he calls over to me.
“Yeah? Great! Thanks!” Walking into pitch-b
lackness, I still easily find my predictable seat next to The Bitch. I could navigate this room in a blizzard; it’s so familiar to me now. I wave as I pass familiar faces. Now that I know I want to one day get promoted, it’s time to do a better job. I take my seat just as the stage lights blast a fantastic spiraling strobe. Showtime!
“Sorry I was almost late,” I whisper to my boss.
“It’s not a problem,” she whispers back, as the first model’s high heel hits the stage.
That’s an odd thing for her to say. I sneak a peek at her face to see her smiling. Odd again. She blocks me asking why, by holding up her iPad. Fine. Cool. I happily start tapping away into it. I take notes on patterns, fabrics, detailing, accessories, hairstyles, makeup – all of it. I do this in a short hand I’ve developed over the years. If I tried to spell out everything I see in a grammatically correct fashion, I would lose my mind. It’s too much fabulous information.
During the show I lose myself in the clothes and forget about Brittany. The models are gorgeous. They are beautiful walking hangers. It’s not a bad way to make a living, if you think about it. I’d do it… if I had a better body and a better face. Nicole could easily have been a model, but she chose the painting route, instead. She has very little interest in her looks, which makes her prettier.
When the last gown is revealed, it’s worn by The Mutant. Brittany’s sister glides along the stage, two feet in front of me. She spots me and her eyes flicker ever so slightly. Nobody sees it but me. I can’t feel badly for what I did. If they hadn’t ganged up on me, two against one…Still, writing notes on her gown, I have to work very hard not to write mean things about her beautiful face. I manage to contain myself.
She struts off. The lights come back on and we break into enthusiastic applause as the designer proudly takes several bows and then retreats backstage again. I hand The Bitch her iPad and we get up and start walking, me two steps behind. While she talks to various V.I.P.’s, everyone is polite to me. They always are, because they think I have her ear. I do not have her ear. If she listened to me, that would be a miracle. I usually don’t talk, and since this is a habit, I’m doing it now. I’m following her and staying quiet, watching and learning. Next season I will schmooze my little heart out, but I’m out of practice and there’s no rush. “Slow and steady wins the race,” they say.
So, wow. I want to be fashion editor one day! I can’t believe it. I’ve been so busy being miserable, beaten down day after day, that I forgot my dreams. I won’t do to The Bitch what I just did to Brittany, though. That was purely self-defense and not my normal style. She left me no choice. But The Bitch? She’s worked hard to get where she is. I’ll wait, work hard too, and earn it. I think it can be done that way. As I watch my boss now, I wonder how she got the way she is. She’s a woman, underneath all that molten lava. She’s got to have some kindness and nurturing in her body, doesn’t she? Maybe that’s what she got from dating James – why she called herself Mommy. It was the only time she got to be soft? I will never know, nor do I really want to know because the thought makes me ill. It’s like thinking of your mom having sex with your brother. Ew.
One time a friend told me that at her law firm, there was one woman at the top. There would only ever be one woman there, and when she retired, she’d pick another woman to take her place. Why? Because it took her forever to get there. She would not share the coveted space she’d won in a man’s world. She’d clawed to get up there, and she would claw to stay there. Alone. Interesting to note – these women are often not married. This, while being an interesting observation by my friend, made me feel ill.
Wait. Whoa. I’m a huge hypocrite. What did I do to Brittany today? It was self-defense, yes, but I don’t know what happened to her. I need to find Diego. Over the shoulder of a woman wearing a really ridiculously awful fur coat, I mouth to The Bitch, “Diego?” She frowns, ignores my question and continues talking to the fur-beast.
People mill around, dramatically discussing the show’s failures and successes. This lobby is insanely packed, so it’s impossible to see Diego. I stand on my tiptoes, but it doesn’t help. He’s not the tallest guy. Maybe he’s backstage, still? Probably. I make a beeline for it, squeezing through the crowd, smiling to everyone and planting seeds for my future.
As soon as I walk through the door I run smack into The Mutant.
“You!” she hisses.
“You were beautiful,” I counter.
She yells, “Fuck off. My sister got fired because of you!”
“She did? How is that possible when she was never hired?”
The Mutant hauls off and punches me in the face! My head swings, knocked to the side and I almost fall over. The pain shoots through my jaw, up my nose, through my eyeballs and to the back of my head. Wide-eyed, I stare at her, holding onto my cheek.
“What the hell?” It’s Diego. He saw the punch but missed the accusation.
Through the rainbows of pain slamming through my brain, I hold my hand out for protection, in case she wants to punch me again, and say, “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. Misty hit you! She hit you hard! I’m calling the police.”
MISTY???!!
And… this is the second time he saves me this day. As he pulls out his phone to dial, Misty The Mutant cries out, “No! Don’t call the police! I can’t go back there!”
Both Diego and I react. She looks at each of us, then back to the phone in his hand, and bursts into tears, which oddly makes me feel bad. “Back there?” I ask, incredulously.
She nods and squeaks, “Uh-huh.”
An idea comes to me. “Diego, can you give us a moment.”
Hesitating, he mumbles, “Sure,” but protectively stands off to the side, just in case I need him. Men are so wonderful that way.
Mascara sprints down her perfect cheeks and she manically implores me to understand. “I can’t go back! I can’t! I’m sorry! I have anger issues! I’m working on it, I swear! Please don’t send me back there. Do you know what they do to girls like me?”
“They take away your lipstick? Look, Misty, we won’t call the cops if you and your bitch sister leave me the fuck alone. I’m not kidding. I’m not taking this anymore.” I rub my jaw. This is sure to leave a mark.
“Fine. Fine. Whatever.”
“No ‘whatever’!”
“Sorry! I meant YES. I promise!” Fresh sobs say she means it. Today, anyway.
“And don’t think that when time passes, and this mark on my face heals, it’ll be okay to come after me again now that the evidence is gone blah blah blah – because this whole crying thing you’re doing, what you just said about not wanting to go back to jail, all of that was caught on video.”
She gasps and turns around. One of the male models from the show is holding up his phone, grinning as he records.
“No! Oh my God, nooooooo.” She covers her face in her hands.
“We have a deal?”
“Promise me that won’t end up on YouTube!” she whimpers. She’s not asking, she’s begging.
“I promise if you promise.”
“I promise! I promise!”
“Good. Diego, would you mind escorting Misty (I still can’t get over her name) out and past the crowd. We don’t want a scene, if we can help it. If anyone asks why she’s crying, say she loved the show so much, it moved her to tears.”
“You got it, Jess.” He puts his arm on her back to make sure she leaves. I watch them, thinking two things. 1.) I am the luckiest girl on the planet. 2.) Ouch, my fucking jaw.
“Hey, can I have that?” I ask my unwitting accomplice, the male model.
“What are you going to give me for it?” he asks.
“Who do you want to walk for next season?”
“Really?”
“Really.”
We coordinate a deal and, after I promise to get him into his favorite designer’s shows, he emails me the video. I watch as he then deletes it from his phone. I don’t know if there’s a way to re
trieve a deleted video from a phone, but I doubt he knows either. Also… I smell pot on him. There’s no way he’s going to work that hard, for this. Views of himself on stage are way better than views of someone else, on the Internet.
I walk back out to the lobby and marvel at how quickly all that just went down. There are still loads of people congregating here, which means I was gone, punched, blackmailing for silence, and back – within minutes. Whoa. I lean against a wall, to rest a second and gather my wits. I pull out my phone. Amber made a move in Scramble With Friends. I open it and see she’s found ninety-two words. How does she do that? Is she an alien?
“Jess, I have to... Hey, what happened to your face?”
I look up and James is standing in front of me, looking very guilty and nervous. My mind is distracted though, by everything that just happened. “Umm…Ran into a very tall ladder.”
“Oh. Jess, I’m so sorry. Shit. I don’t… I have to talk to you.” He looks to his left and says “Dammit. I’ll call you later.” He dashes away. The look on his face was so odd.
What was that all about? I look to my right. The Bitch is walking in my direction with her back to me, talking with the owner of the magazine. I wonder what James wants to talk about? Is he still mad about Chris? The thought of Chris does something to my spirit. A calming sensation flows over me and I drop my phone in my bag as I get off the wall to stand up straight. I give both my boss and grand-boss a big smile. I don’t have to fake it anymore. I want to make a good impression. Is my hair okay? I rake my fingers through it, and wait.
“It’s sure to be a brilliant. The R.S.V.P. list is longer than the invitations,” The Bitch gushes in a purposefully lazy manner. They’re talking about the party.
“Really? Jessica, is this true?” He turns to me.
Gulp. The Bitch is not happy the question was deferred to me. I have to answer though, so I smile, “Yes, sir, it is. People have asked if they could come, when they heard we were throwing a party, despite the fact they weren’t on the invite list.”
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