The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  But while there was calm on one side of the catwalk, there was pandemonium on the other.

  “Amber, can you tell me what the fuck is going on here, please?” stormed Krystal.

  I looked to Maurice for help, but he was still clutching Wonder Winnie’s hand as though his life depended on it, showing his feelings without having to open his mouth.

  “Sorry if I’m talking out of turn,” Vicky chimed in, “but it strikes me that there’s very little time here and I think Winnie looks hot to trot as Wonder Woman so . . .” She shrugged at Krystal.

  “Can the next model please come to the entrance!” came an urgent voice over the Tannoy. Stan didn’t like being kept waiting. “Two minutes until the next girl walks. I repeat, the final model to the top of the stairs. Now!”

  “You’re on!” I turned to Winnie, avoiding Krystal’s line of vision. If I had thought she was an intimidating sight in her four-inch platforms, it was nothing compared to Wonder Winnie, a statuesque six-foot-eight in her red-and-white-starred boots.

  But Krystal wasn’t about to give up the gig of her life without a fight.

  “Where is she going?” she screeched, reaching for my arm but missing as I sidestepped out of the way.

  I climbed onto a nearby chair to straighten Winnie’s gold headband. There wasn’t time to argue with Krystal. Then I called Caroline and Sonny and their teams, who had been hovering close by watching the spectacle.

  “Give her the once-over!” I commanded, and Sonny sprang into action with a can of Elnett, while Caroline whipped out her tool belt, which contained an array of makeup brushes, to touch up Winnie’s hair and face. She enhanced her blue eyeshadow and added an industrial amount of gloss to her already cherry-red lips.

  Maurice carefully polished up the stones on the bra as I fanned out Winnie’s cape to ensure it hung just so and covered the bra extenders at the back. We both had to concede her ensemble was fantastically accurate to the original character and Winnie had an impressively waspish waist for such a tall frame. I added two gold cuffs from the Angel Wear accessories line.

  Perfect as she looked, my mind was in a spin as I desperately tried to imagine whether Ron was going to go ballistic when he saw Winnie instead of Krystal emerge as our Wonder Woman. She was hardly the traditional image of an Angel Wear Icon. “Where is the final girl? I need Krystal in position! Amber, what the hell is going on down there?” Stan called over the Tannoy again, his tone more than a little agitated.

  With seconds to spare, I herded Krystal upstairs and then Maurice carefully guided Winnie down a narrow set of steps leading under the stage, ready to pop through the door in the catwalk floor at the appropriate moment. I said a silent prayer that her broad shoulders would fit through the slim opening. By the time they were both in position, I gave a thumbs-up to Stan and the announcer informed the excited audience that the final Icon was about to appear.

  “We’ve got no choice. Winnie has to be Wonder Woman,” I told Krystal in no uncertain terms. “When you come through the trap door, she will replace you. Trust me, it has to be this way. You can rejoin her for the encore.” If there is one.

  And then the music blasted out and, after a gentle push, Krystal appeared to the audience. Excited cheers gave her the boost she needed and she was soon striding to the front of the catwalk in her sexy secretary getup, a Biro holding her hair in a loose bun. After a few moments, the lights in the theater went out, plunging the space into darkness, then flashes of bright red lit it up again. The Wonder Woman theme tune blared out loudly and Krystal ran back up the runway toward the trap door. In a flash of pyrotechnics she then began the famous Wonder Woman spin, turning faster and faster, until she was barely visible, seemingly engulfed in flames as an impressive firework display crackled around her. Finally, following a powerful blast of dry ice, an ear-splitting bang! rang out across the auditorium and the two glitter cannons shot out their loads at the exact same time.

  “Shit!” I screamed loudly backstage, and I gripped Maurice’s arm beside me. “The glitter cannons! I completely forgot to tell Rob we no longer needed the plan for the glitter cannons!”

  We peered out through a crack at the side of the stage and watched in horror as the two large cannons dumped their entire contents—at least half a ton of gold and silver glitter between them—into the premiere box, where Ron was supposed to be entertaining the execs. I froze in horror. The box was momentarily completely obscured there was so much glitter falling in and all around it.

  Back onstage, the mist had cleared and there was Wonder Winnie in place of Krystal, her arms outstretched, spinning around, her loose hair big and bouncy, limbs large and strong, her costume in place and red rubies sparkling under the bright lights.

  For a second there was a hush as the audience tried to make sense of Krystal’s transformation from sexy secretary into larger than life superhero. Then, Winnie’s facial expression turned into a broad smile as she put her hands on her hips, her legs apart, shoulders back, chest out and chin tilted upward—strong, confident and proud. Instantaneously, the audience erupted into the loudest cheers of the evening.

  Buoyed by their reaction, Wonder Winnie began sashaying down the runway, swinging her hips to the beat of the music as she let the stunned audience appreciate every inch of her womanly curves. When she reached the end, she stopped and adopted the power pose once more. She just stood there, looking around, breathing it all in, elated yet slightly bewildered; unsure what to do next, savoring every long second.

  And then something quite magical happened. Slowly but surely, like a wave spreading through the theater, the audience began rising to their feet and clapping in admiration; at Wonder Winnie—a vision of womanhood they certainly weren’t expecting to see at an Angel Wear show, or at any fashion show for that matter, but so captivating and so powerful, you couldn’t help but feel moved.

  Lapping up the attention, Winnie turned and wolf-whistled in the direction of the entrance of the catwalk and out skipped Krystal, holding hands with Astrid, who was leading out Roxy, followed by Leonie and Jessica, still wearing their costumes, onto the stage. When they reached Winnie, Krystal and Astrid each took one of her hands and clasped it tightly. They all stood there, a row of six women, joined together in a show of unity, sending the message that women, however they look, whatever their size or shape, their color or their history, make an unstoppable force when standing shoulder to shoulder together.

  Spontaneously, because none of this was something any of us could possibly have scripted, the six raised their clasped hands skyward, whipping the audience into an even greater hysteria. The front row followed suit—women and men took the hand of the person on either side of them and gripped it tightly, and then every row behind them did the same. There was a domino effect, until everyone in the whole theater was standing up and joined together.

  Distracted from the sight of the glitter still settling in the box, Maurice, Vicky, Noah and I—all huddled together, watching from the side of the stage—reached for each other’s hands, too, and, when I looked around, the rest of the backstage staff, glued to screens showing the action on the catwalk, were also holding each other’s hands.

  Tears sprung into my eyes. I squeezed Maurice’s hand and noticed that he was crying.

  “This is almost a religieux experience,” he wept, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Look, even Ron is crying!”

  I turned my gaze up to the balcony again. Inside it was a mountain of glitter. Thousands more tiny pieces were spilling over the edge, falling like a shimmering waterfall onto a section of the audience below. Whoever had been on that balcony was certainly not there anymore; they would have been flattened by the sheer weight of all that glitter.

  “Where? I can’t see him,” I said, panicked. I didn’t mean to actually kill Ron and the execs.

  “Over there, at the front of the stage.” Maurice pointed in the opposite direction from the box to a group of about ten people standing together at the foot of the end o
f the catwalk. I spotted Ron in the middle, clutching the hand of a suited man and a polished woman on either side of him, their mouths smiling and eyes visibly glistening with emotion. Thank God, Ron isn’t in there. He must have made a last-minute decision to take his guests to the heart of the action beside the catwalk.

  For a little while it felt as though we had brought the whole of Manhattan to a standstill.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. I dropped Maurice’s hand to check it.

  Text from Rob:

  Look at the box.

  The cascade of glitter had stopped and the box now contained a huge pile of tiny pieces of gold and silver. Looking more closely, there seemed to be a waving piece of fabric in the middle of the mountain. I nudged Maurice, who confirmed what I was thinking.

  “Cieux!” he exclaimed. “There’s someone up there—and they’re signaling for help!”

  Vicky and Noah were squinting in the direction of the box, too, and we all made out a polka-dot handkerchief held aloft by a disembodied hand, frantically waving to attract attention. I recognize that handkerchief. Instantly, I knew who it was—Dimitri.

  “Someone from the production team will be on their way to help, I’m sure,” I said, before turning my attention back to the runway, where the girls had turned and were strutting back down the catwalk. When they reached backstage, we flung our arms around them, screaming with joy. But the audience wasn’t going to let Wonder Winnie go just yet; the thunderous applause and drum of hundreds of feet stamping on the floor seemed to go on and on.

  “Encore!” shouted Stan over the Tannoy. “You’re wanted back out, girls! Quick!”

  “Come with us,” Winnie commanded, reaching for me and Vicky, taking our palms into hers.

  “Not without Maurice!” I yelled, grabbing hold of him with my other hand.

  “Or Noah!” screamed Vicky, as Noah rushed forward.

  This time the five of us took to the runway: a line of friends, unexpectedly thrown together this evening and celebrating something extraordinary.

  * * *

  Flash, flash, flash! Emerging on the other side of the partition wall, center stage on the catwalk, was like coming up for air in a whole new world. We were greeted by a wall of white light—it felt as though a flare had been let off in my face, blinding me momentarily. There appeared to be a black abyss where the audience should be—I couldn’t make out any faces as my eyes adjusted to the bright lights bearing down, heating me up. Winnie confidently led us down the catwalk until we reached the end, where we stopped and were at last able to take in the excited faces of the audience, still on their feet all around us. Everyone, that was, except for Mona Armstrong, who remained seated, quietly seething at one end of the front row. For a second I caught her gaze, but nothing could wipe the smile off my face this evening.

  The announcer called out my and Maurice’s names, introducing us as “the head stylist and designer behind the finale,” and we took a bow to a fresh round of applause.

  “And they are joined by some, er, friends,” he continued, on the hop, as caught off guard as the rest of us by this unplanned ending to the show. Vicky and Noah beamed and then stooped to bow, reveling in the fuss.

  As Vicky came up and took a moment to breathe in the excited faces around us, both of us noticed a face in the crowd, waving to attract her attention, right at the foot of the stage beneath us.

  “Trey?” she squealed, taken aback. “What are you doing here?”

  He cupped his hands around his mouth. “I love you, Vicky!” he cried. Fresh tears sprung into all of our eyes.

  Then we were skipping back down the catwalk, trying to keep up with Winnie as the five Icons reemerged to join her for the first of what became several more encores.

  * * *

  Finally, when it seemed as though the audience members were wrung dry, with no more claps or whoops within them and the theater lights had been raised, I allowed myself to collapse into a seat in Krystal’s dressing room, where we had all gathered.

  Rob appeared at the door and flung his arms around me.

  “Baby! That was incredible! Seriously, you’re a dark horse sometimes. I had no idea you were planning something as awesome as that!” he exclaimed. And then his expression changed. “But the glitter!”

  I shot him a look that screamed: Don’t mention the glitter cannons! Thankfully, he picked up the hint. Then Ron entered the room; with open arms he headed straight for Winnie. “That was an Oscar-winning performance!” he gushed, shaking her sweaty hand. “I have no idea who you are, but you can be an Angel Wear Icon any time.” Then he turned to me. “Amber, you surpassed yourself this evening and I can’t thank you enough. No one will forget this year’s Angel Wear show, and it’s all down to you.”

  I looked across to Vicky, Maurice and Noah.

  “With some help from my friends . . .” I beamed. “I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t have done it without them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As soon as I stepped outside the stage door, the gravity of what had happened in there hit me. I was immediately pounced on by an excited mob of photographers and journalists. Cameras, phones and Dictaphones were shoved in my face, as voices cried:

  “Hey, you, the stylist—tell us about your choice of model for the finale!”

  “Is Wonder Winnie the new transgender Icon?”

  “What was it like working with Maurice Chan?”

  Meanwhile #WonderWinnie zoomed around cyberspace as endless photos of her closing the show were posted and re-grammed on every available platform.

  For a few minutes, I was almost the most famous person in New York City—almost, because, as Winnie emerged from the theater not long after me, the crowd broke into loud cheers. Larger than life, big brown eyes, plucked eyebrows, cushiony cherry-red lips, huge hair and ample chest still encased in the priceless ruby bra, she was glowing with happiness and basking in her newfound fame. Larry and another burly security guard gently guided her elbows through the throng. When she reached me, via stopping to sign autographs and give a few exclusive quotes to some of the assembled press, she put her hands around my still tense-with-nerves body and bent down to kiss me on both cheeks. I was overwhelmed by the smell of makeup and hairspray, mixed with a whiff of nicotine.

  “Darling, you are absolutely fabulous,” she said, her deep voice loud enough for some journalists to hear. “Thank you for doing this for us.”

  “Us?” I asked.

  “The transgender community,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “It wasn’t just about me up there.”

  I smiled. “You’re the ‘absolutely fabulous’ one. You owned that catwalk, sister.”

  Winnie held out her hand and we fist pumped. Photographers captured the moment.

  “You’re coming to the after party, right?” she asked.

  “After party?”

  “Get in the cab, we’ll go together.”

  And before I could decide, she was pushing me into a yellow taxi waiting with its door open right in front of us.

  “Rob!” I yelled over my shoulder.

  “I’m here!” he called back, and squashed into the back seat on the other side of Winnie.

  She winked. “Plenty of room for a hunk like you.”

  “We’ll see you there!” another voice called out. It was Vicky, with Trey and Noah. And behind them were Dan, Max and Tina, who had all been watching the show from the audience.

  “We’ll all follow you!” Dan called.

  Finally, as the door was closed and the taxi horns began chiming away together on the busy road, I allowed myself to breathe a small sigh of relief.

  Rob leaned forward and reached across Winnie to squeeze my knee. He beamed. “You did it, baby, you did it!”

  “She didn’t just do it, honey, she blew the goddamn roof off that theater—not to mention the minds of most of the audience! My heart nearly failed on that catwalk, it was so amazing. I’ve never seen a venue go so wild. Seriously, I’m goin
g to party like it’s the end of the world tonight, and I want you dancing on the bar with me.” She put her hand on top of Rob’s and they both squeezed my kneecap.

  “Try to stop me!” I grinned. “But there is one thing I need to know—I need to know how you came to be wearing the bra, Winnie. I have my suspicions but I need to be sure. Who gave it to you?”

  “I had no idea it was stolen goods, I assure you,” she said, turning serious for a moment. “It was sold to me at the club last night. Come to the back room when we get there and I’ll show you the CCTV footage.”

  * * *

  When we reached the Purple Rain drag club in Hell’s Kitchen, a cabaret act was in full flow. A lively crowd was being entertained by a brassy blond sitting on a swing at the end of a small makeshift catwalk singing “Je ne Regrette Rien.” Winnie wasn’t lying when she said she walked a runway for a living, but it was miniature compared to the huge construction at the Winter Garden. Vicky, Trey and Noah joined us as Winnie led our party straight through the bustling club and into a dingy back room. There, she cleared the desk of empty beer cans with a swipe of her arm and we gathered around an ancient-looking computer to watch the CCTV footage. It didn’t take long for Winnie to find the right place.

  “I was on the door for most of last night, so I remember it well,” she informed us, freezing the screen at precisely twenty-two minutes past ten.

  We all crowded around the screen, necks craned to get a better view of the slightly blurred black-and-white still of a man entering the nightclub.

  “It was him,” Winnie said, pointing at the frozen image.

  A shaved head and a long trench coat with a polka-dot handkerchief in the top pocket gave away all the clues I needed to confirm the man’s identity. Then Winnie advanced the film a little further, so we got a clearer view of the side of his face.

  “That guy in the trench sold me the bra for fifty bucks,” Winnie confirmed. “And, by the way, so far no one’s mentioned when I get my hard-earned fifty dollars back?”

  We all peered at the image. I recognized the man instantly—Dimitri. Although shocked to have discovered the truth, at the same time it only confirmed what I already knew. No wonder Dimitri had relocated to the box in the theater; he wanted to ensure he had the best seat in the house, to watch my downfall unfold when Krystal emerged as Wonder Woman without the priceless bra. But now there was something ironic about the fact he had been caught red-handed on security footage, considering Dimitri had tried to have me fired, thanks to some other covert filming not so long ago.