“Yeah, but unless you’ve changed up the numbers or speed of the show—like the models are now going to run the runway—I don’t see that being an issue here.”
Chapter Two
Shana
My nose scrunches at the thought of men I’ve seen running the New York marathon and the image of bloodstained shirts. Apparently, nipples aren’t only a woman’s problem. Shaking the unwanted images away, I say, “No. No blood. Yuck! The tape is for this cold air. We don’t want the models to look cold, if you know what I mean?”
Stephen shakes his head. “Sometimes I question my life. You know, when I woke this morning, I never thought... hmm, I hope that sometime today I’ll have the opportunity to talk about nipple tape.”
“You didn’t?”
“Did you?”
“Well, it’s more like when I wake, I wonder what crazy-ass stuff is going to be thrown my way. I’d say I’d rather avoid subjects like nipple tape, body glue, and boobs, but that would mean I don’t love this.” I wave my arms around. “All of it. And you know what?”
My best friend’s smile broadens, lifting his cheeks and making the little creases appear by his eyes. “You love every minute of it.”
“I do...nipple tape and all.”
“Speaking of nipples and boobs and this...” He mimics my Vanna White gesture showcasing the room. “How’s the madhouse backstage?”
“Certifiable! Chaos at its finest. A second ago, I was telling someone to glue lace on boobs. There are so many boobs!”
Stephen laughs. “Boobs are good. Nipples bleeding or showing, not so much.”
One more scrunch of my nose. “Not to the buyers and definitely not to the designers.”
“No wardrobe malfunctions!” we say together, repeating what seems to be my current mantra.
“Honey, that’s for sure,” he says. “You don’t need anyone going Janet Jackson on you.”
I rub my hands over my arms, the air conditioning roaring from somewhere above. “Why is it so damn cold out here? We’re showing lingerie not parkas.”
“Tomorrow this place will be packed to the gills with shoulder-to-shoulder people and filled with bright lights.” He points to the rafters where the rays of light shine at intervals. I squint as I follow with my eyes.
“Currently,” he says, “only about half of the lights are on. When they’re all shining, even without the people, it’ll raise the temperature by at least fifteen degrees to at least seventy-five.”
“Fahrenheit, I hope.”
He laughs.
Different systems of measuring temperature were part of our adjustment to living in London. When an American hears the temperature will be thirty-eight, he or she thinks cold. It doesn’t take long to learn that assumption is wrong.
“Better be,” he says. “If it’s Celsius, we’ll be broiling the models, not showcasing them.”
“I still think the tape is a good idea.” My whole body shivers as we make our way to the light and sound booth. “Tell me you have everything set out here.”
Stephen’s head bobs on his broad shoulders.
“Have I ever told you how much I appreciate your confidence and decisiveness?”
“No, Ms. Price, you have not. Maybe you have. I’m really not sure.” Sarcasm dripping from his friendly tone is why I’ve grown to love him. He can invoke humor in a way that takes off the edge while still being ever so competent in his job. If I had to narrow it down, I’d say that Stephen’s ability to make me smile in the face of a challenge is why we work so well together.
For two years he’s been my right hand. Heck. He’s been my right arm and probably the right side of my brain. He’s very creative yet also extremely well-organized.
Maybe he’s my entire brain?
“So,” he begins, changing the subject, “I’m finally going to meet my new bestie?”
I playfully punch his arm. “You can’t have her. She’s mine.”
“Well, you’re mine and she’s yours...and I’m yours, so technically...”
Despite all the worries about the lingerie show, thinking about my two best friends finally meeting makes me grin.
When I was first transferred to London and overwhelmed with everything from the cute red phone booths and double-decker buses to learning how to navigate the tube, Stephen was right there beside me. Being also from the States—he was born and raised in New York—he’s been there for me. I’ve been there for him. Together for the last two years, we’ve seen life’s and love’s ups and downs.
Recently, he ended his relationship with Max. Not as in Maxine, but as in Maximilian, a sexy investment banker with a to-die-for British accent and posh flat. Two months ago, I would have said Stephen and Max were perfect for one another. That was before Max did him wrong. Now, Max is pond scum.
That’s what friends do. We adore those you adore and abhor those you abhor.
From “Oh, honey, he’s perfect!” to “I never liked the guy. Have another glass of wine.”
Pond scum is too good for the likes of Maximilian Cantel. He’s lower than pond scum. That makes him fungi buried in the muck below the surface, the kind clinging to rubbish for survival.
Yes, the man beside me, my best friend and personal assistant, is a male fashion designer who happens to be interested in other men. It sounds cliché, but he’s not. He’s a whiz at fashion, knowing, predicting, and wearing. He has the looks and personality that draws both women and men. Though he’s always been open about his orientation, the female models in juniors were always hanging on his every word. He’s definitely handsome, charismatic, and fun.
He’s also nice and considerate and incredibly efficient. With everything we’ve experienced, I think of him as the brother I never had. While he didn’t need to make the attempt at this transition with me, I’m so glad that he did.
Now we’re back in the States, in Manhattan to be exact, the home of my other best friend, Kimbra. I can’t wait to see her again. While I’ve been off in London, she’s been working her dream job and living the life of a newlywed with her sexy husband who also happens to be her boss. That’s another story for another time.
Up until just recently, Kimbra and I haven’t been able to make our schedules mesh. Even though Stephen and I have been in the city for over a week, our every waking moment and some of our sleeping ones have been dominated by this fashion show. Tomorrow it will be over, and tomorrow night the three of us are finally going to get together.
“Drinks tomorrow night at the Martini Club,” I say. “She invited us to her place, but with the crazy schedule we’ve been keeping, I was afraid we’d be late or have to cancel. The club is in Lower Manhattan and not too far from our hotel.” I’m really concerned I may fall asleep. Burning the candle at both ends doesn’t even begin to describe my current state. “Tomorrow with the show as history, I figured we could relax. Besides, celebrating is better than crying. I’m excited for you to meet her. Just remember...” My volume lowers as my eyes widen.