Fatshionista (3 page)

Sigh.
“Yes,
it has to be literal. He said, ‘I literally want it to feel as if the audience
is expecting Nicole Kidman to walk down the runway and join hands with the
waiting Ewan McGregor.’ That didn’t leave us much room for interpretation”.

“Hmmm.” When
Marta wanted to hide the fact that she had forgotten something, this was her
go-to sound. It was meant to convey deep thought and intense consideration of
the preceding conversation. All it usually did was break the conversation off
and allow her to change the subject, thus saving face. We were honestly
becoming like an old married couple, set in our routine and having the same
argument in the same way every show.

I read somewhere
that when you find yourself falling into a routine argument with someone, a
spouse, a friend…an employer…you needed to physically alter yourself to break
the mental path your mind was taking. Since your mind was so used to having the
same argument the same way every time, you began to fall into that rhythm, paying
little attention to why you were having “this” argument, and just had the same
argument.

My favorite
suggestion was to put on oven mitts any time you found yourself falling into
this pattern. I smiled as I imagined trying to juggle my clipboard and my
coffee while wearing bright red, plaid oven mitts. At least this relationship
would prepare me for a boyfriend. I had to believe that one day I would have
enough time to meet the perfect man who I could argue with while wearing oven
mitts. Ahh, a girl could dream.

“I think the set
looks splendid, Millicent.” Wow, that opinion changed quickly. God bless what
might be the onset of short-term memory loss. “My only concern is that the
saris are too…I don’t know…colorful.”

Yes, because the
last thing you wanted in a sari was exotic, beautiful color. Maybe we could
just hang white bed sheets over his logo and be done with it.

“Well, Marta,
with the show coming up tomorrow and these being the specific saris that Ram
flew in from Mumbai for this show, I think we might just have to learn how to
live with them”.

“Hmmmmmm.”

Oven
mitts…oven mitts…oven mitts.

****

Normally I sat
either in the very back of the venue or at the front left corner of the
catwalk. I always needed to be able to see if the cues were coming on time, if
the overall flow of the show was timed correctly, and it gave me a brief moment
to enjoy the fruits of my labor. My headset kept me connected to the chaos of
backstage while also being able to take in the production as an audience member.
I loved fashion. Loved fashion. But I couldn’t sew and I was not a size zero,
so I found another way to participate in the industry.

The long nights,
the frustrating conversations with Marta, the numerous other volatile
personalities I had to interact with on a daily basis, and the complete lack of
a social life seemed almost, almost worth it when I was able to see a show go
off without a hitch (or at least one noticeable to the audience) and a talented
artist get the attention they deserved.

Sometimes the
attention was good, sometimes…not so good. But as in most things, any publicity
was good publicity. Even a show the critics hated was still a show that had
garnered the attention of the fashion world long enough to be critically
massacred. While it wasn’t easy for a designer to face that kind of criticism,
I had seen it make them stronger or make them go home. There was little room in
this industry for people who weren’t confident about their vision. It was that
confidence and that willingness to design their way that kept them in the
business. Everyone liked an underdog. There was nothing better than a designer
triumphing one season after being critically annihilated the season before.

The Ram Patel
show was exquisite. The
Moulin Rouge
Hindu dance scene-inspired stage
was the perfect backdrop to his Indo-Victorian creations. Tight waists, high
collars, color, color, color, and decadent jewels created a look that would be
seen in cities all over the world. The final piece was a ruffled, high-neck
tangerine dress with mutton sleeves. Very Victorian from the front, but when
the model turned around, the dress was backless. Hanging down the middle of her
back was an elaborate kundan-inspired necklace straight out of a maharani’s
jewelry box.

Were this a
football game, I would be sporting a giant #1 on one hand and a foghorn in the
other, cheering at the top of my lungs. But alas, I merely slid my clipboard
under my arm and politely clapped along with the rest of the crowd.

I could not wait
to get back to the office and download all the stills from the show. At every
show we produced, we hired our own photographer to shoot each look as it came
to the head of the runway. We used this in our print and web advertising, and I
used it…well, for the real work that I did on my own time.

Marta appeared at
the most concentrated gathering of video media. She had a sixth sense about
where to position herself to gain the greatest amount of publicity. She was one
of those over-seventy women who were featured in the “great at any age” section
of
Harper’s Bazaar
. I tried not to think that the lack of food over the
years was what made her so challenging to work with, but I had to believe that
a life of self-denial could make for one ornery woman.

I certainly
dabbled in self-denial when I younger, but it just never took. I was a maximist
in the greatest sense of the word; if one was good, more was greater, even more
was better, and tons more was best. Now don’t get me wrong, I was not
Biggest
Loser
contestant-size just yet. Living in New York and missing plenty of
meals kept me from tipping the scales quite so heavily in that direction. But I
had always been in between a size sixteen and eighteen. And I was perfectly
happy with that.

I worked out, I
did yoga, I was more healthy than most of the models I worked with every day.
But in this industry, thin was the brass ring, not health. So I girded my
proverbial loins every day to take the subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle digs
that came with being a plus-size woman in a size-zero world.

Marta didn’t make
things any easier. As they age, most women put on a pound or two, developed a
grandmotherish little stomach paunch. Not Marta. Years of self-deprivation had
created a hardened shell of a woman. I liked to think of her as the older,
female version of Ichabod Crane. Which meant, yes, at times I was the plus
size, fabulously chic version of the headless horseman.

As everyone began
to filter out of the hall and the press continued their interviews, I gathered
my things and headed backstage. This was another successful feather in our cap,
but I needed to go back, meet with Marcus, and find out what went wrong
backstage, since inevitably something always did. Post mortems always happened
back at the office, but getting the feedback right after the show was
invaluable in helping me discover best practices and learn what to avoid next
time.

As I pushed past
the hanging saris, I ran straight into a wall of blue. My clipboard fell, my
headset was knocked off, and I found myself staring at a genuine pair of blue
suede shoes. As I gathered my things and my eyes made their way back up, I took
in the blue velvet pants, the gold waistcoat, and the blue silk shirt with the
slightly open collar. All framed by the blue suede jacket trimmed in gold. My
God, it was as if Carl Perkins and Liberace had created a love child.

“I’m so sorry, my
dear, I didn’t know anyone was going to come barreling around the curtain.
Where’s the fire, darling?”

And it spoke. The
Perkins-Liberace love child had a soft British accent with just a hint of
something else to it. For a minute I was reminded of how I sounded when I first
moved to New York. Of course, my soft accent was more Scarlett O’Hara than Hugh
Grant.

And also, I never
had a deep sexy baritone voice. Or stubble, or an Adam’s apple like the one I
was currently staring at. 

“They’re blue,
too,” I said as I tilted my head to the side.

“What’s that,
darling?” he said, matching my head tilt.

“Your eyes, they’re
blue like…well, like everything else.”

“Well now, not
much is getting past you these days, my dear,” he said with a grin.

Wow, the grin
just put him over the edge. He was handsomer than most of the male models I had
seen, and his muscles were clearly outlined in the very fitted jacket. His skin
was a dusky light brown, like the lightest caramel. My mouth watered just
thinking about it. And he was shaped like a yield sign, that pleasing
combination of broad shoulders narrowing down into the perfect set of hips. My
mouth was practically hanging open at all that masculinity…wrapped up in blue
suede and velvet.

Wait a minute. I
could literally hear the needle scratch across the record.

Why was this
wrapped up in blue suede and velvet? Please tell me that he was a model wearing
some gay costume designer’s idea of what today’s man should be wearing. Please,
please, pretty please?

“Here, let me put
that back on for you. I feel like a giant ox for having gotten in the way of
your charge backstage,” he said, taking the headset out of my sweaty hand and
putting it back on my head. Then he pushed a stray piece of hair that had
escaped my bun back behind my ear. His fingertips gently brushed the back of my
ear and I caught myself before I actually shivered at his touch. I could not,
however, stop myself from staring into those blue eyes. They were dark blue,
almost black around the iris. And he seemed equally fascinated by my green
eyes. Oh, a moment. We were having a moment.

“Uh, thank you,”
I mumbled. My brain was so confused that I couldn’t trust myself to say
anything more than that. Everything about him screamed gay: the outfit, the
dears and darlings, and the fact that he was backstage at a fashion show. But
my heart and other areas a bit farther south were screaming something
completely different.

“Darling, there
you are; I’ve been searching endlessly for you. What in the world are you doing
on the stage?” Another equally impressive-dressed man grabbed my Liberace love
child around the waist and scolded him.

Question asked,
question answered. Obviously my parts farther south were on the fritz. Normally
I had excellent gaydar and should have trusted my initial visual examination as
proof to which way my blue suede shoes man…swayed. I blamed it on exhaustion.

But damn it, that
felt like a real curl the toes into the shoes moment back there when he was
touching me. Must have been my own powers of hallucination trying to make
something out of nothing.

“I was hoping to
check out the view from the stage but ended up running into this lovely woman along
the way.”

Grrr. Save
your compliments, they only remind me of our lost love, of what we could have
had…sigh. This is work, Millie. Put your workface on. Everyone else quiet down;
it was only a drill—I repeat, only a drill.

“Please, don’t
let me keep you. It’s a lovely set design, and I hope you enjoy it. If you will
excuse me.” And with that I turned on the heel of my oh-so-sensible shoes and
exited stage left.

Lizzie was
backstage packing up the leftover place cards and programs.

“Leave it, we
have to be back here tonight to prep for tomorrow’s show; we can get everything
then.” I stacked the leftover boxes out of the way and hung up my headset. My
tote bag was brimming over with plans for the next show, but I made room for
the clipboard and shoved it in the bag. I could sort everything out when we got
back to the office.

“Who was that
fine-looking man you were talking to on stage?” I often wondered how Lizzie
could have such excellent taste in men but be attracted to women. She explained
that men were like art; she appreciated their beauty but had no desire to
possess one.

“I have no idea.
I just ran into him when I was coming back here and he helped put me back
together when I dropped everything.”

“Yes, I saw. You
looked a little shell-shocked; did you really hit him that hard?”

“No, I was just
paralyzed by that much blue on one person. I thought Prince was the only one
with that outfit, or maybe Austin Powers.” That’s it, paralyzed by the outfit,
not the piercing blue eyes, the sexy smile, and that oh-so-velvety voice.

“I know, right?
The only thing missing was the ruffled lace shirt.”

Even from twenty
feet, Lizzie could see what I couldn’t see from two inches. My blue boy…blew
boys. Oh God, that was horrible. How could I think that? Must be the fourteen
months with no sex and the raging war between my brain and my nether regions
that was making me so bitchy. At least I managed to keep that all in my head.

“All right,
dinner, one drink, and then back to the office. Where’s Ryan?”

“I’m sure he’s
helping the models change back into their street clothes and pack up their
things. He is ever so helpful when it comes to hot women.” Lizzie slung her
backpack on and held the stage door open for me.

“Why don’t you
ever find a reason to head back into the dressing area, Liz? You would probably
have better luck back there than Ryan.” The alley was bustling with techs
loading up clothing, drivers picking up their clients, and a few TV trucks
still hanging about.