Fatshionista
Authors: Vanessa McKnight
fatshIonista
By
Vanessa McKnight
©
2013 by Vanessa Smith. All rights reserved.
No
part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or
photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author.
Although every precaution
has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the
author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No
liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information
contained within.
“You.”
With one word,
everything came to a halt.
Oh shit.
Please don’t let him point; please don’t let him point to me. Oh dear God. Oh
shit. Oh no, he just pointed; he just pointed right at me. Why did I have to
sit in the front? Just let the floor open up and swallow my chair, my
clipboard, my headset, and me.
The music
stopped. The two models on the catwalk stood frozen in place, awkwardly
wondering whether they should continue strutting their stuff or stand in slack-jawed
amazement at the spectacle I was quickly becoming. The cameras that had just
recently been pointed at the models turned on me. The flashes were going off so
quickly it was like a strobe light.
It was as if
every decision I had made over the last two months had come back to haunt me in
one flamingly public moment.
And with that,
the man whose name was emblazoned on the giant banner above him gave me one
last cold look, dropped the microphone, and exited stage left. Fashion week had
officially ground to a halt. And apparently I was to blame.
If people could
really see what working in fashion was like, they would never, ever think it
was all glamour and glitz. Beads of sweat poured down my back as I stood at the
top of a ladder and adjusted the fall of the draped curtain one more time. How
was it that as producer of the show I was the one who was balanced precariously
at the top of the ladder moving a piece of material one inch at a time?
Hadn’t I paid my
dues? Where were the grips? Where were the interns?
“Millicent, I
don’t understand why you insist on
not
doing as I ask.”
Yes, I was
intentionally prolonging the amount of time my fat ass had to stand up on this
ladder for the sheer joy of it.
“Marta, I’m
trying very hard to make the adjustments you are requesting in the drapery. I
am aware that I cannot see it from your viewpoint twenty feet below me, but
from where I am standing, there doesn’t seem to be much difference between one
inch to the left versus one inch to the right.”
Five years of
working for this aging tyrant of the fashion world had garnered me some rights,
such as quietly and respectfully voicing my opinion while grinding my teeth to
tiny nibs. Yes, I had come a long way, baby.
“Millicent,
please keep in mind that I see everything through the eyes of forty years of
experience. It’s not for you to understand the nuances I see. What I fail to
understand is how you have worked for me this long and have yet to grasp the
length that is an inch. I believe that is the root of our problem—not
your lack of understanding, but your lack of knowledge.”
Why don’t you
move one more inch over this way and I could accidently drop this light on your
head? It might actually shut you up, or at the very least remind you of your
poor sister who had the house dumped on her.
“Marta, please
just let me know if this is acceptable or not. I have a list of things left to
accomplish before we leave tonight, and I really need to move on from the
drapery.”
“Hmmmmm,” Marta
said as she continued to pace back and forth across the end of the catwalk.
With less than twenty-four
hours to go before the presentation of Greta Worthington’s capsule collection
for her newest retail partner, I had much bigger concerns than the damn drapes
that framed the massive logo hanging at the back wall of the stage. There would
not be one soul—not one stinking soul—in the audience tomorrow
evening who would even notice there was a drape framing the logo, let alone
notice whether or not it completely framed the black border of the logo or simply
brushed the edge of it.
Dear God in
heaven, I would hope that the damn audience would be looking at the models who
were wearing the damn clothes.
I wiped the sweat
off my forehead before it rolled into my eyes again. I already looked like a
foraging, woodland, night creature. I had been standing under these hot lights
adjusting the stinking drapes for an hour.
An hour
. My thigh muscles
were quivering, my feet were killing me. Even the sensible kitten heels of my
Manolo Blahniks were no match for the wear and tear of the aluminum ladder I
was perched on.
And because I was
not exactly—how shall we say this—
petite
, I couldn’t turn
around and sit on the steps of the ladder the way all the tiny girls in music
videos did. Nope. This size-sixteen ass of mine was never meant to be this far
off the ground, unless of course it was cradled in the soft upholstery of a
plane seat. Coach, of course. My ass knew better than to get ahead of itself.
“I guess that
will do for now. If I see it in the morning and it still isn’t working for me,
you can get back up there and we can try this again.”
She was out of
her freaking mind.
Slowly I began
the descent down the ladder, gingerly placing one slightly swollen foot, now
stretching the bounds of the soft leather to the limit on one shiny metal rung
after another.
“You should wear
more practical shoes when you know there might be a chance of running up and
down ladders, Millicent. Really…you just don’t seem to be putting a lot of
forethought into your wardrobe choices these days.”
And with that
thinly veiled insult, Marta disappeared into the rows of seats, past the
lights, past the camera stands, the sound of her Prada loafers snapping sharply
against the concrete floor.
How can so
much scathing criticism and venomous attitude exist so peacefully within that
seventysome-year-old body?
No one knew her real age. I was sure, knowing
Marta, that she had personally set fire to whatever building had once housed
her birth certificate in whatever small town in Russia she had been born in.
Those who didn’t have to work with her or, hell, even know her, thought she
looked like the most kind and elegant woman. But those of us lucky enough to
work with her knew what was hidden in the depths of those designer clothes. It
was as if Jabba the Hutt was encased inside of Audrey Hepburn. Not
Breakfast
at Tiffany’s
Audrey Hepburn, but the older, Unicef spokeswoman Audrey
Hepburn.
Seriously. I
honestly thought if the face was ever peeled back, I would see the giant Jabba
tongue come out and lick those giant Jabba lips while simultaneously pulling
the chain that was wrapped around my neck. Only I wouldn’t be dressed in the
slave girl Princess Leia outfit. That look just can’t be carried off with a
softly rounded stomach and sturdy thighs.
“Is she gone?”
Two figures emerged from the depths of the backstage. So…they had been back
there all along. Nice to know I had such support from my interns. Cowards.
“Ha! Now you show
yourselves. Where have you been, you traitors? You abandoned me. I’ve been
stuck on this ladder for over an hour—a ladder, I might point out, that one
of you should have been at the top of.”
Ryan grinned and
stroked his poor excuse for a beard that he had been trying to grow for the
last three months. Lizzie hooked her thumbs in her stylishly cute coveralls and
rocked back and forth on her Timberlands.
“Traitors? Yes,
yes, I could rock a turncoat look,” Lizzie said, grinning from ear to ear.
“I’m sure the
British are ecstatic with the news. Is there a reason you’re not helping me get
this equipment packed up? Would you like to be here when she comes back and
notices that the light on the third grid has a slightly darker blue gel than
all the others?”
“Hell no. How did
you notice that?” Ryan said as he quickly gathered up folders and notebooks.
“
Because I’ve
been standing on a ladder and staring at it for the last hour, you jackass
!”
“Wow, traitor is
starting to sound pretty good right now.” Ryan grinned while he took the ladder
from me.
“So are we all
finished up for the night?” Lizzie asked.
“How is it that
you all are always around when there’s pizza or models but never around when I
need you to work?”
“Excellent timing
on our part, I would say.” Lizzie twisted her short dreadlocks and shot me her
innocent bystander smile. I had become immune to that after about two months of
working with her, but she kept using it on me.
Ryan and Lizzie
were the newest interns at M. Spencer Productions. I had hired them right after
the fall collections were presented back in February, and they had never been
with us through a true “fashion week.” So far, we had only done some private
collections and launch parties, which included a show. This was only their
second runway show, but they had quickly learned how to avoid the drama that was
Marta. They learned just as quickly that I was the only one who could handle
her—or maybe just the only one stupid enough to try. I had certainly been
here longer than anyone else. I had a hand in hiring almost everyone who worked
at the small, boutique company.
Lizzie finished
packing up the remaining seat holder cards and Ryan picked up the leftover
water bottles that were strewn around the stage. Models were notorious for
disposing of things wherever it was most convenient for them, which was certainly
evidenced by the littered catwalk.
“Remind me again
why I hired the two of you?” I asked while I flopped down in the chair marked for
Italian Vogue
and tried to pry my Manolos off my swollen feet.
“Because we make
you look good,” Ryan said. “Important people always have lackeys. We make you
look good simply by showing up.”
“Oh, yes. ‘Cause
I looked real good perched on the top of that ladder. I looked like the
plumpest sugarplum fairy perched on the tiniest little Christmas tree.”
“You are so hard
on yourself, Millie,” Ryan said as he gathered the rest of the trash from the
runway. “You’re the majority, remember? Most women in America—hell, most
women in the world—look like you, which, as I have always maintained, is
a good thing. Bony women are scary; I’m so afraid I’ll break them. As Jack
Black says, real women offer a little more cushion for the pushing.”
“Wow, is it any
wonder you’re alone? For someone who professes to love the ‘everyday woman,’
you sure spend quite a bit of time hitting on every model that walks into the
office.”
“Merely practice,
my dear Millie. I practice on the mannequins so one day I can try my hand at a
real woman.”
Lizzie sat down
next to me and draped her arm over my shoulder. “Well, I for one like hitting
on the models. I think they’re like gazelles, all graceful and delicate. Of
course, it helps that a lot of them are into chicks. And of course I just have
to wait for Ryan to hit on them and they come running into the arms of the next
live normal person they see. Isn’t that right, Millie?” Lizzie pulled me in and
kissed the top of my head as she chuckled.