The golden man in the white suit reached into his coat pocket and removed an old-fashioned pocket watch that hung from a gold chain. "Time."
When Bliss looked up at the mirror again, he was gone. She'd spent the next hour staring at the glass, waiting for him to appear again. Only when she'd finally wrenched herself away did she realize she was running so late.
But when she checked her cell phone, there were no angry messages from her model booker, no anxious harangues about how the designer was having a fit because she wasn't there. She was doubly confused to find the entrance to the show completely empty, save for a few miserable-looking fashion victims shrouded in black, being held behind police sawhorses. This was fashion week?
Where was the mad carnival of editors and photographers, celebrities and stylists, the fashionable and the fashionably distressed, crowded around, elbowing each other, pushing and shoving to get into the Rolf Morgan show? Rolf's show was the biggest ticket of the season and the hardest invitation to score. And yet, here it was, thirty minutes before showtime and there was hardly anyone around.
She found a lone minion, a production assistant wearing a black T-shirt with ROLF MORGAN emblazoned on the chest, and asked to be directed backstage.
The Armory housed the 69th Regiment of the National Guard, and several soldiers in dress uniform saluted her as she entered. The building was cavernous, and encased in glass cabinets lining the walls were hundreds of firearms and munitions. She followed the directions through a grand atrium, a space as large as an airplane hangar, which was set for a runway show. There were rows of bleachers leading up to the ceiling, and a stage had been set up at one end, where a band was tuning up.
During rehearsals, Rolf had explained that the models would walk on a giant runway suspended above the stage, and Bliss looked forward to the challenge.
She entered the makeshift backstage and was flummoxed to find that instead of the usual frenzy of preparation, thrumming with the adrenaline of fear and excitement, the mood was completely relaxed. She found Schuyler reading a magazine in a nearby chair, her hair pulled back into an extreme ponytail high on her head, her face already runway-ready, with dark kohl smudges lining her blue eyes, and her lips painted a pale, rosy gold.
She was glad to see her friend; they had yet to talk about what had happened the other night. Both of them had been avoiding the subject, almost as if they were embarrassed. She hadn't seen Dylan since then, although he had left her enough messages on her phone, asking for forgiveness and beseeching her to visit him. She had deleted them all.
As for Schuyler, since that evening she had floated around Duchesne in a cloud. Bliss knew Schuyler was seeing Jack, and she couldn't help but be jealous of her friend's newfound happiness. Sure, it sucked that they couldn't be out in public together, because of Mimi and all. And yeah, it totally blew that Jack was basically betrothed to someone else. But still, Bliss could see Schuyler was in love, and her love was returned. It was more than she could say about Dylan and her.
"Where's everybody?" Bliss asked. "There's no one outside even."
"Oh, hey." Schuyler put down the latest issue of French Vogue. "Yeah, it's closed. Show isn't starting until midnight, if we're lucky. They told everyone to go away and come back."
Bliss slumped into a nearby seat. "Are you serious?"
"Is this your first time walking for Rolf?" another model asked, overhearing their conversation. Bliss recognized her as Sabrina Sorboba, the Eastern European giantess, who was the current designer darling.
Bliss nodded.
"He's always late. Last year Brannon Frost actually left the show without seeing it, she was so annoyed to be kept waiting," Sabrina told them. Brannon Frost was the Blue Blood editor of Chic, the most powerful fashion magazine in the world. Brannon snaps her fingers, and suddenly everyone's wardrobe is out of style. Snap! Volume and pouf. Snap! Wasp-waists and skinny pants. Snap! Shifts and round heels! Snap! Crochet and platforms! Snap!
"Midnight? That's in three hours!" Bliss complained. What were they supposed to do, just wait around? She noticed some of the models were playing cards, although most were on their cell phones and BlackBerries.
"Champagne?" Sabrina offered, lifting a magnum of Laurent-Perrier and pouring two glasses for Bliss and Schuyler without waiting for an answer. This was the answer to waiting: drink, smoke, and wait. As a concession to the latest are-models-too-thin scandal, there was a delusory spread of stale crackers and moldy cheese to provide "healthy" foods for the girls. As if! Models lived on fumes: smoke and air.
"Anyway, because of what happened last year, this time they called all the editors of Chic, Mine, and Jeune and told them to go get a drink or dinner and come back later."
Bliss nodded. "So who're those people outside, then?"
"Nobodies."
Figured. Of course all the important people would be warned, but as for the lesser echelons, they had to fend for themselves. She tucked her bag underneath the counter and was about to ask Schuyler a question, when a harried man— finally someone who looked and acted like they had to put on a show in a few hours—burst into the models' waiting room.
"Bliss! There you are. We need you in hair and makeup."
Bliss flipped through the latest issue of Arena Homme, smoked a few cigarettes, and drank too much champagne while a curt hairstylist and his equally tense assistant teased and brushed her hair into a huge billowing creation, and a mellow makeup artist slathered on the spackle. It always amazed her how little effort modeling was. All she had to do was sit there. Then she had to stand. Then walk. That was it. Of course, one had to be breathtakingly beautiful to make it all "work." Still, it wasn't enough to be jaw-droppingly gorgeous. The best models had a certain air of languor and mystery that was innate to their personalities. There was only one Kate Moss, after all.
When the beauty team was satisfied with their work, two eager design students, who were part of the large volunteer army that shouldered the actual physical labor and made fashion week happen, accosted her next. "We have to get you into your first outfit. Rolf wants to see it."
The two students helped Bliss into the tight black corset dress. One of them pulled and tied the ribbons in the back while the other helped Bliss into a pair of ankle-length velvet boots that crisscrossed in the front. The dress hugged every curve, and the peekaboo black lace lent the dress a smoky sexiness. The corset bodice dipped so low in the front, Bliss blushed at how much of her skin was exposed.
"What's that?" one of the students asked, pointing to the shining emerald necklace nestled in her cleavage.
"It's mine."
"I don't know if Rolf is going to like it," the other student said hesitantly.
Bliss shrugged. She didn't care what Rolf wanted. She would never take it off.
At exactly five minutes to midnight, Mimi and Jack Force entered the Armory to a torrent of flashbulbs. Mimi leaned on Jack's shoulder, pulling her fluffy zebra-striped sable coat closer and hiding behind a pair of extra-large sunglasses, as if the excess of photography could harm her.
"Watch it," Jack said sharply to an overeager paparazzo who came a little too close and jostled Mimi.
"Mimi! Right here," a young publicist wearing a headset said, sweeping them into the main room and leading them quickly through the fashionista sea to the very first row. "We're a minute to go-time. You're here next to Brannon."
The room buzzed with excitement, every seat in the house was full, every celebrity was accounted for (Mimi was one of the last), and even the aisles were full of the black T-shirt-wearing volunteers who crept out from backstage and into the main room to watch the action. Onstage, the band thundered through a raucous alt-rock anthem.