The Movie (2 page)

‘So what will you do now you aren’t a writer?’ demanded Francine, bitchily.

Megan looked at them all: so fly, so hip, so laid-back

they were practically horizontal. Going nowhere fast.

Then she thought of her dream, the new story, the adventure, lying in her bedroom in twenty pages of scrawled notes.

‘I am a writer,’ she said. Tmjust going to do it better.

I’m going to write a movie.’

The excitement was so strong you could almost taste it.

Ikight now, Alessandro Eco ruled fashion. Where. he led, the press followed panting. He was this year’s brilliant new discovery, the darling of the demi-monde, the first real superdesigner to shoot to fame since the meteoric rise of Donna Karan. Vogue, Harper’s, Elle, Style with Elsa Klensch-you name it, they all swooned over his tight bodices, sculpturerl heels, clever little bias-cut skirts, the dramatic choice of fabrics, the way he owned colour, darling, it was simply too wonderful…

Real women loved Alessandro too. His clothes, and the cheaper knockofl of them that reached the high street two seasons late, flattered curves, rejoiced in breasts, and forgave a multitude of sins around the thigh area. Last year every working woman had saved for that one Alessandro suit, every socialite had themed her wardrobe around him, and every teenager had bought their copy of Vogue and fantasized. It was fashion’s version of the American Dream - that one collection by an unl. own that takes the world by storm.

That was the first reason everybody was here. In Chicago, for God’s sake. Paris, New York, Milan, even London at a pinch, but Chicago? Surely only Alessandro would dare. It was a power trip, pure and simple, for Alessandro Eco to show his summer collection -just one designer, mark you - in Chicago and expect the entire

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aristocracy of style to rearrange their travel itineraries around him.

Which was where the second reason kicked in. Fashion editors and photographers milled around, mingling with famous Hollywood actors, minor European royalty, rock stars escorting their model girlfriends. The Leeward Hall was packed to the gills, bubbling with excited talk and reeking of perfume, spotlights and money. Behind the front row seats reserved for the serious players, anorexic-looking wives of Wall Street tycoons fought bitterly over the exact positions of their little gold-backed chairs. I.t was important to be noticed, vital to be seen. Because it wasn’t merely Alessandro’s new collection that was on offer here. Millions of dollars had gone into ensuring that this collection would have the eyes of the entire world trained upon it. And in the I99OS, there was only one way to do that.

Supermodels. All of them. It was a coup unparalleled in

the history of fashion, and Lord alone knew what it had cost, but Eco’s people had done the impossible, obtaining every single one for the same show. Security was tight enough for the President of the United States. If this hall was bombed tonight, the most beautiful flowers that the Western world had discovered would all be crushed together.

Cindy. Linda. Naomi. Eva. Saffron. Nadja. Shalom. It

was a pantheon ofgodlesses, beauty in its most ideal form, from all age groups, all body types. (Jerry was returning to do this one show, that was the rumour, and there was Mick in the centre front row, sitting fight next to Oprah, so it must be true!) Helena, Christy, Claudia, Isabella, Yasmin! The list went on forever! Paulina, Shiraz, Lauren, Tatijana, Kate… if she had graced the cover of a major magazine, she would be there, a blossoming supernova, when the moment came, amongst the lesser stars that would glitter,

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only fractionally less beautiful, up and down the runway in a constant, seamless slipstream of perfection.

It was even being hinted that she might appear.

A fresh wave of suspense swept the room. The big chandelier lights faded to black, leaving the stage darkened apart from a single beige spotlight, selected from the hundreds rigged at the top of the ceiling, ftltered with all the different colours of the rainbow. The only sound was the heavy, excited breathing of the spectators and the hushed whirr of TV cameras, positioned around the runway and suspended from the walls. The vast screens

erected at either side of the catwalk were dull and dead. They waited.

And then, with the perfect synchronicity of a ballet, Aretha Franklin blasted from the Siemens speakers lining every wall, the stage erupted in an explosion of coloured lights, roe petals fluttered down from the ceiling, and the first figure strutted, alone, onto the catwalk.

Naomi! It was Naomi! Opening the show in a long white dress, a formal evening gown, the last thing anybody had expected from Alessandro, but too perfect, backless and gathered, an exquisite contrast against the rich chocolate of her skin…

Pent-up anticipation was released in an orgasmic frenzy of applause, popping flashbulbs, scribbling pens. They were in seventh heaven! And now Tatijana, in a black leather jacket and shining blue pants - what were they made of? Vinyl? Spandex? The fashion editors gave a common sigh of satisfaction. So it had been worth cutting Paris short. This season, at least, the king would not be dethroned.

‘She won’ do it, she say she won’ do it!’ Alessandro moaned, his words a wail of despair. He could hardly be heard in the commotion that was backstage, the super.model sisterhood greeting each other raucously, the less

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famous models panicking about their hairpieces and bitching because a favoured stylist had hung a jacket wrong; the blare of the music, the din ofjoy and hysteria, and at least two hairdressers in tears, and Michael Winter, Alessandro’s PA, had to strain to catch him. ‘I cannot believe it! She is promised me, now, for two months! She will be the finale, she will make the show live forever! But now she will not come out! She will not do it! She has ruin everything, everything I work for for so long!’

‘The show will live forever anyway,’ Michael soothed him loudly, shouting above the noise. ‘They love you, Alessandro! They’re going crazy for the girls and crazy for your clothes. Like we phnned. It is petto.’ He kissed his fingertips in an extravagant gesture of reassurance.

‘ The designer grabbed his hpels. ‘Non es perfetto,’ he yelled. ‘It is good! OK, this I understarid! But it is not pect! It has to be perfect,t’ He took a breath, and Michael winced; the veins on his boss’s neck were standing out like whipcords.

‘Michle, they are vultures! They expect only the best, ar;d if they do not get it, they will turn on me! Don’t you understand? Now, yes, now they clap, now they are happy to see all the girls.., but if she does not appear, later, aer the show, that is when the doubts come in. That we are nearly good enough, but not quite.., not good enough for her.’

Michael paused, unsvilling to accept that possibly, just possibly, Eco was right. He had always admired Alessandro for his street-smarts and above all, for realizing that great clothes-even inspired clothes -were just half the battle. Fashion was just that. Fashion. Style. Showbusiness. And by promising to deliver all the world’s most beantiful women, all wearing Alessandro, they’d taken a huge PtL gamble. If it worked, the company name could be shot to a level where it would sit alongside not Katharine Hamnett or 1Lalph Lauren, but Chanel, Gucci and Christian Dior.

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That was the Holy Grail; to be so big no fashion ed could shoot you down.

But maybe they wouldn’t get there. A show this expensive was one hell of a PK stunt, and it had better work. And if the focus was not on the girls who were there, but on the one girl who wasn’t…

Winter shuddered. ‘Why won’t she do it?’

‘She is lock herself in her dressing room, she is refusing to come out,’ snarled Alessandro. ‘She not tell me why. I

hate her. She is a grade-A bitch.’

‘You got that right.’

‘Mich$le. I want you to find her agent,’ snapped Alessandro, his English miraculously improving under pressure. ‘Promise him anything he wants. Anything at all. We need her for the finale, and we must have her.’

‘Babe, please.’

Robert Alton knelt in front of the door, models tripping over his calves as they rushed to the stage and the eyes of several amused cameramen boring into the back of his head. Sweat trickled down his pudgy neck and ran in nasty little rivulets under his collar. His career was flashing in front of his eyes.

‘Sweetheart?’ he tried again, yelling, his plump little chin pressed dose to the keyhole.

‘Get lost, Kobert,’ snapped the voice inside. ‘I have no desire to talk to you whatsoever.’

A couple of the cameramen sniggered, and Robert felt the familiar well of hatred and humiliation boil up inside him.

‘Honey, I know you like to be private, but we really have to do this show.’

‘ We don’t have to do anything.’

It was a sweet voice, the tones low and dulcet, but packed with such venom that even her agent, used to it took a step back.

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‘We’re committed. We took a million dolhrs in fee.’

‘You mean you’re committed. You put the dress on,

Bob. You’ll probably rely enjoy it.’

Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! God, how he loathed her! ‘Alessandro is tearing his hair out, babe. You know that the whole deal will be nothing without you. Please, angel, everybody’s counting on you.’

‘We all have our problems.’ A beat. ‘And he has enough

stars out there. He doesn’t need me. There are a million

girls. Tell him to use Cindy for the finale.’

Was that it? Alton felt a surge of hope at the faint chink

in her armoury. A drowning man, grateful for a straw to clutch at, he thought bitterly.

‘Stars? Those are ornaments!’ he yelled contemptuously,

, praying to Christ that nobody heard him. Elite and Models One would put a contract out on him if they did. ‘There’s only one star here, sugar, and she won’t come out of her dressing room. Cindy won’t do, you know that. Christy, Claudia? Phhh!’ He made what he hoped was a suitably dismissive noise.

“It won’t work, Bob. I don’t do cattle calls. Not even

with a superior grade of cattle,’ she shouted, ice dripping

from every melodious syllable.

Cattle calls! Alton thought, picturing the cream of the world’s superstar beauties pirouetting on the catwalk behind him. But he was encouraged. Half the battle was always finding out exactly what type of reassurance she needed that day, what precise .homage she wanted to extract.

‘Sweetie, think of it this way. You aren’t working the

main show, you’re only coming on for the finale. You’ll be right in the centre front of all the girls. Everybody out there is waiting, hoping, praying that you’ll appear’ - me especially, since I’m finished if you don’t, he added silently - ‘and they’ll go just crazy when you do. Just for that one time.’

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‘They always go crazy,’ came the bored reply, but he thought he detected an infinitesimal softening.

‘Of course they go crazy. Who wouldn’t go crazy for you, babe, if you showed up wearing a sack?’ Or a body bag, preferably. ‘But the point is that you’ll be leading them all out.Just once. Infiont. For the finale.’ Robert took a deep breath, and played his ace.

‘It’ll make it official, as if the world didn’t already know - that you rule them all. It will be’ - he paused dramatically

- ‘your coronation.’

Silence.

What was she thinking? Alton loosened his collar, nervous tension eating away at his stomach like corrosive acid. He could almost see his ulcer expanding under the pressure. Did she like that idea? Did she agree with it?

As much as he hated this woman - and oh, boy, did he ever hate,her-1Lobert had come to understand that there was a fierce intelligence burning under that lovely cranium. You could slip nothing past her, nothing. If she did something he suggested, it was because she’d already decided it was a good idea. Independent. Astute. Determined. And if she wanted something badly enough, he’d learned, there was no point standing in her way. You’d be

better offarguing with a ten-ton truck.

‘OK, I’ll do it,’ she shouted.

The agent practically sobbed with relief.

‘On one condition. I don’t lead out the finale, I am the finale. Just me, by myself.. None of the other girls.’

ILobert wanted to throw up. ‘-But sugar, that’s impossible! Everything’s already rehearsed! You Can’t expect Naomi and Kate to sit still for that -‘

‘Kate? Why are you mentioning her name to me, Bob? I thought I told you never to discuss that anorexic washboard in front of me again.’

Mistake. Mistake. His circuits were flashing red alert. ‘Honey, I’m sorry, but -‘

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‘No, Bob. No buts. And let me tell you what’s impossible. What’s impossible is that I appear in this show unless it’s for thefinale and by myself. OK? Am I being clear enough? Now you run along to Alessandro and tell him what I said. And if he doesn’t like it, call my driver, because I’m going home.’

The silken voice was threaded with absolute steel.

‘Do you understand?’ she demanded.

R.obert Alton fumbled with his collar again, but nothing could ease this choking panic. He knew that tone. It was the end of the line.

‘Sure, sweetheart,’ he shouted through the keyhole. ‘I understand.’

‘Is this a joke?’ enquired Michael Winter, glancing at his watch. The show was running on perfect time, down to the split second. They had ten minutes to the finale, and she wasn’t even in make-up yet.

R.obert spread his fat hands in a well-worn gesture of helplessness. ‘No. She doesn’t joke, as I’m sure you’re aware,’ he said.

‘Unique took a million-dollar appearance fee on her behalŁ’

‘And we’ll refund it if she doesn’t appear,’ Alton said

with a sigh.

Winter glared at him. The fee wasn’t an issue, and both

men knew it. A million dollars was pocket change, compared with what might happen to Alessandro Eco’s company if this show crashed and burned.