“Ow,” the model in my grips murmurs with a flinch.
“Sorry,” I reply as my lip disappears behind my teeth and I assess the damage. I may have superficially nicked her, but damn, I practically stabbed my finger.
“Let me help,” Chantilly says as she comes toward us. “I think you should stick to the clipboard and let the wardrobe assistants handle the sharp objects.”
I lift my hands in defense, only a small dribble of blood visible. “You’re probably right. She’s all yours.”
Yes, I also find it hilarious that the lead coordinator of a lingerie show is named after lace.
Brocade, guipure, knit, or alençon...I suppose it could be worse.
“Jenese,” Chantilly says, reaching for my hand and assessing the damage, “needs your help with the French briefs.” Her eyes meet mine as she tilts her head toward the entrance. “Band-Aids are in the cabinet by the door.”
Did you know that Band-Aid isn’t a universal term? I didn’t know that until I was in London working. There they’re called fabric strips or plasters. Simple things like that make me happy to be back in the States.
Nodding, I forget about the language idiosyncrasies and recall Chantilly’s first statement. “Jenese needs my help with a pair of panties?” I ask, wondering what happened to miniskirts and lo-lace tank tops from the junior line.
I know what happened. Two weeks ago, while working in London, I received the call, the one offering me a chance to advance from juniors to ladies’ lingerie. It is more than I ever dared to dream, and yet in the middle of this pandemonium that by tomorrow needs to be a finely tuned tranquility, I’m questioning my sanity as much as my ability.
Grabbing a fabric strip—which isn’t even the Band-Aid brand— from the small cart near the door, I make my way through the sea of satin and lace until I find Jenese. As one of Saks’s top models, she’s stunning and at least ten inches taller than me—and that’s without the five-inch heels she’s currently wearing.
“See right here?” Jenese says with a frown as she points to the top hem of the French briefs.
“Yes.”
“Maybe I should wear something else?”
“Why?” I shake my head. “Maybe I’m not seeing what you’re seeing.”
“The way it makes my skin bunch. It will be all anyone sees.” Her tone and the way her words are clipped by her accent create a mix of irritation and disappointment.
“Jenese, your skin isn’t bunching.” Hell no. I don’t think this woman standing nearly a foot over me has skin to bunch. If anything, I’d like to feed her a sandwich.
She sighs. “I don’t know.”
“They fit perfectly.” I look up to my eye level and quickly move my head back. The black lace front of the bustier stretched across her breasts is sheer enough to be transparent, leaving two very large, round boobs inches in front of me. Chantilly was right—they’re everywhere.
I take a step back as I return my gaze to Jenese’s big blue eyes. “I don’t think anyone will notice the briefs.”
Jenese smiles.
It’s then that I notice the edge of the bustier is precariously close to her nipple. “As a matter of fact.” I speak louder. “Can someone be sure we have a little body glue on here?”
“They’re not easy to contain,” Jenese quips with a grin.
“Then maybe a lot of glue. Let’s try our best to keep them covered today and tomorrow.”
She gives me a wink as she walks over to one of the assistants already armed with the roll-on bottle.
“Ladies. Final number in ten,” I say loudly, garnering everyone’s attention. “I’m going out to talk to the sound guys. Does anyone have any questions?”
Every model’s gaze stares my way, all wondering the same thing: will I be able to pull this off?
It’s the million-dollar question.
“We’ve got it in here,” Chantilly assures me with a smile. “Grab a Band-Aid on the way out.”
“I already have one,” I say, wiggling my wounded middle finger in the air. As soon as I do, I realize my unintended gesture.
“Hey!” Her smile grows.
Quickly, I wiggle all five fingers, waving as I step out of the room.
Opening the door to the stage, I’m met with the rush of cool air and at the same time, the heat of stage lights. It’s a strange combination causing goose bumps and perspiration to materialize simultaneously. Wiping my brow while shivering, I’m now thinking about each possible piece of lingerie and how these lights and cool air will accentuate the models’ attributes that won’t be hidden with glue.
I make a mental note: nipple tape.
Skin colored, it stops the pebbling of nipples. Okay, it doesn’t stop it. The tape hides it. Nipples harden. It happens. However, it’s not always produced by endorphins as books make it out to be. A simple cold chill can change the way the lingerie hangs. And, like in the books, certain buyers can be all too easily distracted.
“Stephen!” I call out into the lights. “Remind me to check on nipple tape.”
Since I can’t see anything past the stage, I hope that I didn’t just yell nipple tape to a room full of buyers. I squint into the sea of light. If I were a model, I think I’d appreciate the blinding fog. I could imagine that no one is out in the audience, that I am alone on the runway. After only a few seconds, the first few rows of seats become visible.
Moving forward, my flat ballet slippers slip on the smooth surface causing me to rear backward, nearly falling on my behind and losing my clipboard. A few windmill moves with my arms and I’m steady to go.
“Grace personified.” My assistant laughs, his deep voice cutting through the light-induced fog until I see him moving toward the edge of the runway.
I can’t help but laugh too. “Hey, I didn’t fall.”
“Lucky that quick move didn’t land you on your nose or better yet, cause you to take flight.”
“Fine. That’s why I’m not a model.”
“Yes, the only reason.”
“Shut up,” I quip. “And offer me a hand to help me down.”
“I’m not sure that’s in my job description,” Stephen says, stepping forward and giving me a steady hand just as he’s done ever since we met in London.
Nearly two years ago, I was transferred from New York to London and named as head of the junior clothing line of Saks Fifth Avenue. With that move, I acquired Stephen. As with Chantilly’s help backstage, a great assistant can make or break a career. When I was offered the possible opportunity to move back to New York, to move up from juniors into lingerie, I made one request: I asked for Stephen to mirror my move.
Of course, I asked him first, and even though this is a trial run, he said yes. Thankfully, so did the powers that be.
Stephen is more than an assistant. Over the last two years, he’s become one of my best friends.
Yes, you can have more than one.
“What was that about nipple tape?” he asks with a cheesy grin. “Max ran a marathon once and had tape to avoid bleeding nipples.”
“Eww,” I say, the image he’s describing not what I need in my head right now, not with the memories of my injured finger.