Relief flows through me as she goes to work. Robin isn’t doing anything abnormal. Last-minute fixes are common in the world of runway fashion. Most of my catwalk outfits were stapled, glued, and stitched together at the last minute to ensure a perfect fit. All that matters is how I carry the fabric beneath the lights, how the fabric sways as I make my signature walk down the narrow aisle, and how I will manage to successfully draw every eye in the house to me.
One last time.
Robin presses the final piece of fabric to the top of my bra cup and steps back to assess her handiwork. “Gabriele,” she shouts to her right, jerking her head at me to get his attention.
His eyes grow wide, and a smile blooms on his gorgeous, freshly shaven tanned skin. He begins his strut toward us, pausing mere seconds with each interruption to greet his models with affection. Then he takes my hands, and his eyes sweep over every inch of me.
“Stupenda, mia cara. Molto bella, Maggie. Semplicemente bellissima.” His eyes pour over his work, which is now floating majestically over my body, from the shimmering and perfectly placed sequin, to where the skirt of the dress meets the floor with just a slight amount of overhang. My four-inch stilettos almost did the trick.
Gabriele bends and clutches the fabric at my feet then jerks it up. His narrowed gaze snaps up next, meeting Robin’s eyes. “Higher,” he snaps at her then points to the shoe rack on the other side of the room. “Go. Fast.”
She nods in understanding then dashes off just as he takes a final step toward me, eyeing the space between my breasts. “You’re too short, yeah? Shorter than promised.” His tone is still friendly, but I can sense his irritation. I have to quickly shake such annoyance because I know the constant criticism, the never being good enough, is just part of the job. Too tall, too short, too slim, too curvy, too plain, too tan—I’ve heard it all. And even after all these years, I never leave an encounter unscathed. I’ve just gotten better at taking the hits.
“Five-seven,” I remind him. My portfolio doesn’t lie. “Hardly short.” I wink. “But I’ve never been opposed to strutting taller heels.” I continue teasing him with my eyes to melt some of the edge off.
“Mi dispiace,” he mutters as his eyes drift downward. He’s sorry. “Sei ancora molto bella.” He still thinks I look beautiful.
I fight back my smile. “The dress is beautiful, Gabriele. Magnifico.”
He smiles, his ego fed, just as Robin runs over with a new pair of silver heels—a higher strappy pair with a thin spike.
“No, absolutely not,” demands a voice on approach.
Our heads whip right to find Matilda Stevens, otherwise known as my mother-slash-manager—and the long-term thorn in my side.
“Nothing taller than five inches, Gabriele. It’s in her contract.”
His eyes widen at the nerve of my mother. I hold back my impending cringe and eye roll.
“She’s short,” he spits, and he knows that’s all he needs to say.
My mom glances down and can see the half-inch of fabric flattened on the floor. She bites her lip, eyes me like my height is something I have control over, and nods. “I see. My apologies, Gabriele.”
Annoyance whips through me, but I bite my tongue, as always.
Gabriele nods, jaw still tight from the confrontation, as he snaps his fingers at Robin, gesturing for her to strap the shoes on my feet. While she does, he steps toward me again, his eyes on my mother. “And these,” he says, yanking at the fabric above one of the bra cups. “Big.” He turns back to me. “No offense, mia cara.”
My cheeks flame. “None taken.”
That’s a new one. No one has ever complained about my breasts. They’re full, but not gaudy. A 32B is proportionate to the narrow curves of my frame. I shouldn’t be offended by his opinion.
As my mom begins to sweet-talk Gabriele, I settle into my new heels. Robin secures them and makes me take a walk. They feel fine. I’ve walked in higher, but the five-inch rule is just a precaution my mother put into place to minimize the risks that come with a high-profile catwalk. In the last fifteen years, I’ve seen the worst of the worst—careers ending before they’ve even begun, industry criticism leading to early retirements, or worse. To say a woman needs tough skin in the fashion world is putting it mildly. She needs warrior armor and an impenetrable heart. I’m still working on all the above.
“Final walk. Where are my models?” The backstage director proceeds to call off the names on her sheet, and one by one, the girls line up to take their final walk.
Gabriele leans in to kiss my cheek. “Walk tall, bellissima. You are my star tonight.” With a final rub of my back, he walks off toward the line of models ready to go.
“How do you feel?” my mom asks, worry flooding her face as she takes another glance at my shoes.
I nod, batting past her infectious negativity to remember what’s next for me. Something my mom doesn’t even know. Something she would never approve of. In fact, I am about to do something she would do anything to stop.
“I feel ready.” I say it with a smile because I can’t help it. Despite the jealous chatter at my back, my mother’s unrealistic expectations, and the high pressures of the night, I’m excited.
My mother nods, her angelic exterior no match for her hard insides. I’m not sure how or when it happened, but many years ago, she changed for the worst and took me along for the ride, a ride I never knew to second-guess in the beginning.
At the time, I wanted what she wanted. I wanted to be adored. I wanted the lights, the fanfare, and the fancy clothes. More than anything, I wanted to love it all. But just because I was born into something doesn’t mean it was meant for me.
My mother will never understand that.
“Maggie Stevens,” the director calls. “We need you on deck.”
I let a breath out, a whoosh that stems from excitement and brings another smile to my face. I start to walk to my place, but a cold hand grips me and holds me back with a tug. I don’t even look toward my mother again. I’m afraid of whatever she’s going to say but even more afraid of what she’ll see in my response.
“You’re one walk away from having it all, my dear. Don’t screw it up like I did.” Her tone is like ice slicing through my psyche. If she only knew.
By the end of tonight, she will.
“And… go.”
With a gentle push from the producer, I take my first step, teeter slightly, then right myself onto my needle-thin heels. I stopped thinking of my every move on the runway years ago. Now the technique of the walk comes naturally.
The music has just changed for the closing number. It’s a heavy dance beat that works perfectly with the crescendo of the night. Forty minutes is a long show, and these people are ready to see what they came for: Gabriele’s signature design from his fall wedding collection. It’s spring now, but this piece is the one all second-hand designers are going to try to mimic, overproduce, and sell in their shops this fall. And I’m the first one who gets to wear it.
My cheekbones are high and strong. The upward curve of my lips hint at my love for the catwalk, the lights, and the attention. My eyes are focused straight ahead, never straying from the lens of the camera aimed right at me.