Authors: Melody Carlson
As usual, Paige is in charge of wardrobe as
we dress for the after-parties. It doesn’t take long for her to decide that I “must” wear the garnet-colored Gucci cocktail dress. I don’t argue. It’s a good style, not too short, not too low cut, but very pretty —and like Paige says, garnet is a good color for me. And the matching shoes she picks for me to wear with it are perfect. “You make style seem so simple,” I tell her as I check out my image in the mirror.
“Sometimes.” She shakes her head as she goes through the rack of clothes again. For some reason, she’s having a harder time finding a dress for herself tonight. Finally, she is standing in front of the mirror, wearing the kind of gorgeous, lacy underwear that makes me nervous, as she holds up a creamy satin dress. It’s so elegant and beautiful, I can’t believe it when she hangs it back up in the closet.
“Why aren’t you wearing that?” I demand. “It looks fabulous.”
“I’m saving it for tomorrow night.”
“What’s tomorrow night?”
“The House of Marceau after-party,” she says with pride.
“Oh … is that going to be a big shindig?”
She shrugs. “Well, not by Gucci standards, but it will be a big night for Dylan and me. I want to look my best for him.”
She holds up a little black dress. “I could go the safe route tonight.”
I frown. “But you’re Paige Forrester,” I remind her. “You’re supposed to make heads turn when you enter the room.”
She laughs. “Yes, but that’s what everyone’s trying to do at these parties. If I go with this Valentino classic, I might just stand out for being the only one there in a little black dress.”
“You’re the expert.”
She frowns at the clock. “And we’re running out of time.”
I spot a gold dress in the back of the closet. “Hey, what about this one?” I ask as I hold it up to the light where it sparkles with promise.
Her eyes light up.
“Versace!”
“You think it will work?”
“Oh, Erin, it’s perfect. I totally forgot about that dress. And one of the parties is Versace. You’re a genius.”
Feeling lucky, while she’s slipping into the dress I scramble through the shoes, finally choosing a pair of gold metallic sandals with killer high heels. “What about—”
“Perfect,” she cries as she grabs them. “We’ll both be wearing Prada shoes tonight.”
I bite my tongue as I watch her trying accessories. I don’t want to get in an argument with her right now, but I do have some questions about Prada’s environmental and global practices. However, I know Paige loves their designs, so really what’s the point? Maybe that’s the attitude I need to adopt with her love life too —kind of a don’t-ask, don’t-tell policy. She
tries this and that until she finally decides on a fairly simple pair of gold and pearl earrings. The effect is perfect. “Here,” she says as she hands me some twisted silver earrings. “These will look dramatic with that dress.” She holds up a necklace. “And I think you need this too.”
I try it on and decide, once again, she is right. “Thanks for the help,” I tell her as we make final adjustments to our makeup. Then, as we’re selecting the right evening bags, her phone rings.
“We’re on our way down,” she chirps happily.
“Thank you,” she tells me as she does some last-minute preening in the mirror by the elevator. “I totally forgot about this Versace — and it’s absolute perfection.” She then looks slightly dismayed. “I wonder if I should’ve saved it for tomorrow night.”
“No time now,” I say as we get into the elevator. “And you will definitely turn heads in that.” “As long as I turn Dylan’s head.”
I nod, biting my tongue. Suddenly I’m thankful that I found such an incredibly fabulous dress for Paige to wear tonight. The Versace
is
stunning. For some reason I think she might need it. I don’t even know why exactly, but I want my sister to be at her very best. I want her to stand tall and regal, no matter what comes her way. Even as I think this, I hope nothing too terrible comes her way. I’ve seen her derailed before, and it’s not pretty. Besides that, we still have five more days of shooting to do. I know I can go solo, but I don’t want to.
As we walk through the lobby, we are noticed. And it’s not like that happens easily during Fashion Week. This is a tough crowd. But Paige is dazzling. Next to her … well, I’m probably
invisible. The guys wave to us from where they’re waiting by the fireplace.
“Buonasera,”
Gabin says as he takes my hand.
“Sei bellissima.”
I giggle. “Thanks. Your Italian is as good as your French.”
“No, not even close. But I try.” He kisses my hand.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Dylan greeting Paige with a long, passionate kiss on the lips. “You look lovely,” he says as he possessively links her hand over his arm, almost as if she’s his prize … or maybe wrist candy. I don’t like to feel this way, but I’m aggravated. I think Dylan is a big fat phony and the sooner it blows wide open, the better it might be for everyone. The thought makes my stomach clench with anxiety.
“Are you okay?” Gabin asks quietly. He’s peering at me almost as if he can see right through me. “All ready to go now?”
I force a smile and will my feet to move. “Sure.” I look more carefully at Gabin, actually seeing him for the first time. “And you look very handsome tonight,” I say as we head out to where Dylan and Paige are already entering the waiting car.
“You are worried about Paige?” he says discreetly.
I nod. “I’m trying to follow your advice. It’s just not easy.” I haven’t even told him about what Taylor said to me outside the restroom last night, how she confirmed his suspicions about Dylan’s attraction to beautiful women. But I have a feeling I don’t need to tell Gabin this. I suspect he might know even more than he’s let on.
We get into the limo and Paige begins to chatter away, telling all about what we did and saw today. She is like the quintessential charming talk show hostess—watch out, Kelly Ripa. With Paige in top form there is never a dull moment, never a
lull in conversation. She is clever and funny, gifted at making others feel important, and liberal in her praise as she compliments her fiancée on his spring line. Dylan is eating it up.
“You’re being awfully quiet tonight,” Dylan says to me suddenly. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you enjoying your time in Milan?”
I make a stiff smile. “I adore Milan,” I tell him. “Almost as much as I love Paris.”
Gabin looks hopefully at me. “You prefer Paris to Milan?”
“I’m not positive … I mean, I haven’t seen all that much of Milan,” I admit. “To be fair, it’s a bit like comparing apples to oranges. But
maybe
I prefer Paris.”
“Splendide!”
Gabin looks somewhat victorious. “I always know you have excellent taste, Erin.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Milan is totally amazing. I love the architecture. And the food is awesome. Really, it’s a beautiful city too.”
“And tomorrow we go shopping!” Paige sighs happily. “Millions of girls would kill to have my job.” She beams at Dylan. “And my life.”
“Maybe we should get you a good life insurance policy,” I tease. But I’m thinking there probably are a few women out there, the Elizas of this world, who wouldn’t mind seeing Paige snuffed out.
Somehow we make it through the night and both afterparties, visiting with the who’s who of the fashion world without hitting any serious bumps along the way. I get a little nervous when Paige insists on inviting Taylor and JJ to join us at the Versace party, but Taylor acts perfectly normal. And, thankfully, Eliza must be elsewhere. I don’t even ask. I don’t want to know.
When the evening finally comes to an end, I am hugely relieved. I feel like my sister is sitting on a time bomb, and yet she has no idea. As we go up to our suite a bit before one in the morning, I have to ask myself, what does a loyal and loving sister do in this situation?
According to Gabin,
nothing.
According to Taylor … well, even she was a little fuzzy on it. She acted as if my faith was somehow going to get me through this dilemma. And suddenly, I realize I haven’t even prayed about the situation.
“You really did seem extra quiet tonight,” Paige tells me as we’re getting ready for bed. “Is something wrong?”
I think hard, wondering if this is my opportunity to lay the cards on the table, spell it all out for her. But somehow I know that’s not the right thing to do just yet.
“I think I’m just tired,” I tell her. And this is true. As I go to bed, I decide there’s no way I can bring any of this up to Paige before I’ve asked for God’s help. I need some special spiritual direction and discernment for this. I need to pray. So that’s what I do. Before I go to sleep, I pray long and hard for Paige. I even pray for Dylan. Really, for all I know, he could be more innocent than I’ve been led to think. In all fairness, I haven’t heard his side yet. You can’t convict someone based on rumors.
The next morning starts out the same as usual: Shawna and Luis show up and go to work on us, Paige picks out our wardrobe, and then we head out to shop.
“Okay, girls,” Mom says as we’re riding in the car, “we don’t want it to look like you’re speed shopping, but to stay on schedule and hit all the shops we’ve put on the docket, you will have to spend an average of only twenty minutes in each shop. Can you do that?”
“It won’t be easy,” Paige admits.
“I’ll watch for your cues,” I promise.
As Mom continues briefing us about how much to spend, which is a crazy amount of money, I can’t help think of how unrealistic these portions of our “reality” show really are. I mean, seriously, how many girls wake up to a hair stylist and cosmetologist, get to wear expensive designer clothes, and are chauffeured off to some of the most highfalutin shops on the planet and told to shop until they drop or the studio’s American Express card melts down or maxes out? It’s ridiculous.
Yet here we are, shopping at Gucci like we’re made of money. Okay, the truth is we do have a budget. But it’s also true that some of the shops offer discounts in exchange for promotion on our show. We pay visits to Armani and Valentino, pause for espressos, then head on to Fendi and finally Prada — where Paige is in hog heaven. Okay, she wouldn’t appreciate that metaphor, but it works for me.
Part of our “on the town” show includes us having lunch at a traditional Milan trattoria. Naturally, they’re expecting us, but because the space is small, we only take in one camera. Mom and Leah get a table near the kitchen, but Paige and I are seated at one of the small tables in a more prestigious spot. Our waiter makes a great to-do about us and then we are presented with an antipasti plate of prosciutto and other meats, cheeses, and olives, “Complimentary!” This is followed by zuppa, gnocchi, and all the specialties of the house, until it’s time for dessert and coffee.
“Now I’m ready for a nap,” I say to Mom and Leah as we’re getting back into the town car.
“That was scrumptious,” Mom says as she checks her watch. “But no time for a nap. We have the Rosso show at two.”
“And the Marceau show at four,” Paige says happily.
“Rosso?” I say, trying to remember. “Is that the guy who designed the Eco Shoe?”
Paige laughs. “No, silly. Renzo Rosso is the designer behind Diesel.”
“Right.” I nod. “I knew that.”
I try not to fall asleep during the Rosso show. Not that it’s boring, because it’s definitely not, but I’ve found out it’s unwise to pork out on too much Italian food in the middle of the day. Now I realize that Paige is smart to eat small portions, not only for her figure’s sake.
After the show we go backstage to get some behind-the-scenes footage that we arrived too late to shoot earlier. Fortunately, there’s an espresso machine and I help myself to a small cup, hoping it will jar me back into action. It’s a lively bunch back here, and we’re getting some good interviews. But suddenly Mom is waving at us, saying it’s time to get to the next show.
“Oh, great!” Paige exclaims as we’re rushing to wrap it up. “Now I’m going to be late to Dylan’s show.”
She continues to complain as we get stuck in traffic. By the time we get to the Marceau show, we are indeed late. At least our seats are still waiting for us. We rush in as a model is strutting down the runway.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper in Paige’s ear. “We can stay afterward for as long as you want. This is our last gig of the day.”
At first she frowns at me, but she must’ve remembered that others might be watching. So she squares her shoulders, pastes a satisfied smile on her face, crosses her long legs, and focuses her attention on the runway.
My eyes are on the runway too. But I’m thinking—and
I could be wrong—that although the models are totally gorgeous and the music is great, the clothing is uniformly unimpressive. Oh, it’s not terrible, and I certainly am no expert, but in my opinion it’s rather ho-hum compared to what we’ve seen in Milan.
I sit up straighter and tell myself to pay better attention. I must be delusional or I’m still drowsy from too much lunch. Or maybe I’m being extra critical of Dylan because I suspect he’s really a jerk. I blink and clear my thoughts and then stare at the beautiful blonde strutting by us in a pink-and-gray plaid jacket and skirt. It’s similar to what I’ve seen Paige wear … in the past. Something about it feels so last year to me.
And we’re talking about
me,
not my fashion-forward sister. I could be imagining this, but I’m thinking Dylan Marceau might very well be, in the fashion world at least,
yesterday’s news.
Because if anyone asked me—and there’s a distinct possibility that could happen — I would have to say Dylan Marceau’s new spring line is only so-so, run-of-the-mill, average.
Oh, my!
When Dylan’s show ends, he comes out to
make his appearance. Most of the designers do this, but I’ve noticed that they all do it a little differently. Ironically, it seems to have little to do with whether or not their designs are well-received. I’ve seen crowds with so much enthusiasm that it feels like the building might collapse, and then some iconic designer, say, Ralph Lauren, will make a quick appearance, bow, and then disappear — like it’s no big deal.
At other times, when a crowd is politely clapping and people are making quick exits, I’ve seen lesser designers bow and make speeches and generally come off as narcissistic fools. Unfortunately, Dylan Marceau is falling into the latter category today. And when he calls for Paige to join him on the runway, I can tell by her expression that she is less than eager.
But being a lady, she does join him. He takes her hand and they both bow, which I’m sure must be making her feel like an idiot since this crowd seems to be of the politely clapping variety and already I see a lot of empty seats. But Paige is giving
a full smile, and I wonder if perhaps I’m wrong or even jaded. Maybe she thinks Dylan’s spring line is the best thing since Louboutin’s red soles. That doesn’t explain the crowd’s response, however.
I go to where Leah and Mom are, as expected, on the sidelines. “What did you think?” I say quietly in Mom’s ear. She gives me a curious expression, as if she’s not sure how to answer. “Anyway,” I continue, “I told Paige that since we got here late, we should probably stay as long as she likes to get some more behind-the-scenes footage.” I think it’s going to be a giant waste of time, because I seriously doubt that any of it will make it onto our show. At least I hope not.
Paige is coming over to us, still smiling. I can’t tell if it’s a shocked smile or if she’s truly pleased. “So,” I say carefully to her, “do you still want to get some more film?”
“Of course,” she says cheerfully. She waves to the crew and we begin to make our way through the quickly dwindling crowd. I’m tempted to pop a mic in front of some of the spectators to get their reaction, but it might be too embarrassing. They probably know who I am and that my sister, Paige Forrester, star of
On the Runway
and the Queen of Style, is engaged to this uninspired designer.
Instead, I trail behind Paige, listening as she talks to the models and stylists. But even they seem a little unenthusiastic, and I suspect they know they have a bust on their hands. Even though they can always work for someone else, it must be difficult to act like all is well after a show like that.
I can tell I’m useless to Paige right now. I’m sure she wouldn’t even want to hear my comments, since she seems determined to keep on her sunny face, acting like it was a fabulous show. She reminds me of the foolish king in the fairy
tale “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” Anyway, I’m thirsty and I know there has to be a cooler of bottled water somewhere around here, so I wander into a vacated area that appears to have been used for hairstyling. Just as I’m plucking a bottle from a tub of melted ice, I hear a shuffling sound.
I peer over to see a couple, partially hidden behind a folding screen and oblivious to me, caught up in a passionate embrace. The brunette woman, obviously one of the models, is facing me, but her eyes are closed. It’s not so unusual to catch people in “compromising positions” in this industry, but I feel embarrassed. Before I turn away, however, I recognize the dark gray suit and realize that the guy with his hands all over the girl is none other than my future brother-in-law!
I gasp, dropping the bottle of water with a loud clunk, which Dylan hears. He turns toward me and we lock eyes, and without saying a word, maybe not even breathing, I dash out of there. I return to where Paige is still talking to a model and breathlessly ask her if we should wrap it up now.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, keeping her TV smile in place, although her eyes are curious. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Maybe I did,” I tell her. “The ghost of fashion future.”
She actually laughs.
“Really?
It seems more likely you’d see the ghost of fashion present. Or perhaps even fashion past. Maybe you saw Gianni Versace. You know he was tragically murdered, and I’ve heard that he shows up at some of the Milan shows.” Her brow creases like she’s thinking. “Actually, that would make a very interesting segment.” She turns to Alistair’s camera. “What do you think, fashion friends? How about a segment on the ghosts of fashion past?” She grins at me.
“Brilliant!”
“I’ll be with Mom and Leah,” I tell her.
She looks as though she’s about to question this, but I don’t stick around. I feel sick to my stomach and I don’t think it’s from lunch.
“What’s up?” Mom asks as I join her.
“Don’t ask,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Later,” I mumble.
“Is Paige wrapping it up?” Leah asks.
“I wish she would,” I moan. “I want to go home. I mean to the hotel.”
“What is wrong with you?” Mom persists.
“My stomach hurts,” I tell her as I see Dylan coming out. With what looks like a very fake smile, he begins mingling with the models and the few stragglers who have stuck around, likely making small talk as he’s glancing about nervously. He’s probably curious as to whether or not I’ve broken the news to Paige yet. Maybe he plans to do damage control. But I don’t plan to stick around and see it. Instead I turn to Mom, telling her I’ll be in the car.
“What is going—”
“Never mind,” I seethe before storming away.
By the time I hear the car door opening, I’m somewhat cooled off and rational again. Oh, I don’t know what I’ll do or say just yet, but I know I won’t sit by silently anymore. Mom and Leah get in, but Paige isn’t with them. “Where’s Paige?” I ask.
“She’s going with Dylan,” Mom says as Leah instructs the driver to take us to our hotel.
“With Dylan?”
I demand.
“Yes.” Mom nods and looks curiously at me. “Our work is done for the day and he wants her to help with the after-party.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure he does.” “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I bite my lip, uncertain of how much to say. It’s one thing to spill the beans to Paige — after all, it’s
her
life. And I wouldn’t even mind telling Mom. But I’m not convinced Leah needs to hear all this. Not just yet anyway. Really, I need to talk to Paige first.
“What’s wrong?” Leah presses me. “Why are you so upset?”
I shrug. “I don’t feel very well.”
“You seem angry, Erin.” Mom studies me.
“I’m just tired,” I tell her. And to change the subject I ask them what they thought of Dylan’s spring line.
“It was nice,” Mom says cautiously.
“It didn’t seem quite as impressive as some of the others,” Leah admits.
“I thought it was surprisingly ordinary,” I tell them. “Borderline boring.”
“Really?” Mom frowns at me. “That seems a bit harsh.” “It’s the truth,” I snap back.
“Sorry to say this.” Leah looks uneasy. “I agree with Erin.”
I launch into a critique that’s not so dissimilar to how Paige will tear into a designer she thinks needs to find a new line of work. And perhaps it’s a bit more cruel and heartless than necessary, but considering what I just witnessed, I don’t particularly care.
At the hotel I tell Mom and Leah to go out to dinner if they like. “I’ll order in if I get hungry, which is unlikely.”
“Are you sick?” Mom looks worried.
“No,” I assure her. “I just need some time to myself … some space. Okay?”
She nods. She knows me well enough to know this is
sometimes spot-on true. I get worn out by crowds and busyness and new things. “Sure, honey,” she says. “Just go up there and take it easy. Call me if you need anything.”
“Okay,” I promise as I give her a quick hug. Then I go directly to my suite, close the door, and just sit and stare out the window. I have no idea what I should do. I could try to call Paige, but how do I tell her something like this on the phone? Especially when I know she’s with Dylan? And for all I know she’ll be coming here to change for the party. Really, I decide, all I can do is wait. And pray.
After I’ve prayed, I check my iPhone. Once again, the only messages are from Mollie, but I text her back and without going into detail, I ask her to pray for Paige, saying it’s urgent. Out of habit, I want to text Blake too, but I’m slightly irked, and mostly hurt, that he hasn’t been in touch. I hate to assume this is because of Grace, but part of me feels that’s a reasonable explanation. Probably even more so after witnessing Dylan’s despicable behavior this afternoon.
Even so, I’m tempted to text Blake anyway. After all, we are friends, and he’s Paige’s friend too. And he’s prayed for me in the past. But before I have a chance to begin, my iPhone rings. For a minute I think it might be Blake, except that I suspect it’s quite early in the morning there. Then I hope it’s Paige, although I don’t know what I’d say. To my surprise though, it’s Gabin.
“Oh, Gabin!” I exclaim in relief. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Mon cheri!”
he says happily. “And your voice is good too.” “I’m having a bad afternoon,” I admit. “I’m in my room pouting.”
“Pouting? That is not good. And it’s beautiful weather. You
should be out enjoying Milan. Although you are correct, it is not as beautiful as Paris.”
I stand up and look out the window. It really is gorgeous outside, all blue sky and sunshine, in a way that’s probably unique to September. “It is lovely out there,” I admit. “But I’m sorry to say my mood is cloudy and dark. I wouldn’t be good company.”
“I love your company,” he tells me. “Come out and play,
cheri.
I will take you to my favorite
ristorante.”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“We will first go and see sights,” he says enticingly. “I know you love seeing the sights. You can bring your camera. I think the light is just about perfect.”
I stare outside, knowing he’s right. The light
is
perfect. “Okay, you talked me into it, Gabin.”
“Fantastique!”
“Let me change.” I pause. “Do I need to dress up?” “You may dress however you please,
cheri.
No one will complain.”
I thank him and hang up. Then I look in the closet. Out of respect for Gabin, I know I can’t be too casual. Finally, I decide on a corduroy skirt with tights and a pair of Prada boots that Paige insisted I needed. I top this with a sweater and don’t forget to add some accessories, following Paige’s rule. Put several on then look in the mirror and take a couple of things off. “It’s called editing,” she likes to tell people. “Less is more.”
Then I switch to a large Fendi bag, one of this morning’s purchases, putting my camera and things into it. I head down to the lobby, where Gabin is already waiting. He smiles when he sees me. “You look beautiful,” he says as he kisses my hand. “Casual yet stylish.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I tried.”
We go straight outside, but instead of getting into a car, we head out on foot and I immediately begin to see some great photo opportunities with the architecture and the early evening light. Gabin is patient as I shoot here and there. He even points out some shots I might’ve missed and, all in all, I’m having a great time. I temporarily forget about why I was so out of sorts.
It’s not until the sun is down and we’re at dinner that I remember about my sister and what seems to me her doomed love life.
“Oh, oh,” Gabin says to me after a bottle of red wine is placed on our table. “Here come the clouds again.”
“Sorry.” I attempt a smile. “It’s really been a lovely evening.”
“But I know you are troubled.” He pours himself a glass of wine then looks curiously at me. “Are you still, as the English say, a teetotaler?”
I chuckle then hold my forefinger about an inch from my thumb. “I’ll try a little.”
“See, I thought I was right. I thought you were growing up,
cheri.”
“Well, as someone pointed out, Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine. But I do think moderation is vital.”
“As do I.” He nods and holds up his glass. “Here is to friendship,
cheri.
Remember when you told me you wanted to be friends?”
“Yes.”
“I did not respond so well then.”
I make a nervous smile. “I remember.”
“Maybe I too have grown up a little.”
“Here’s to friends,” I say and we clink glasses. I take a sip and am surprised that it’s not as bad as I expected. Still, it’s not really my thing.
“Now, tell me, my friend,” he says, his eyes serious. “What is troubling you?”
“I’ll warn you,” I begin. “It has to do with my sister. And I’ve really been trying to stay out of it. In fact, I’d love to stay out of it.”
“But it is impossible?”
I nod. “Impossible.” Then I tell him the whole thing— from Taylor’s confession to what I saw while getting water this afternoon.
“You have not told this to Paige?”
“No.” I shake my head. “To be honest, I haven’t had an opportunity.”
“And you say Dylan saw you … seeing him?”
“Yes.”
Gabin presses his lips together, concentrating. “It is possible that Dylan has already told Paige.”
“Really?” I’m surprised by this. “You think Dylan would confess?”
“Perhaps not so much confess … perhaps he has made a — how do you say? He has made defense … explanation.”
“Like putting his own spin on it?” I ask. “To make him seem innocent?”
“Yes. Like that. Perhaps he is excusing his, ah, his bad behavior. Do you think it is possible?”
“I think you could be right.”
“And perhaps you must be careful what you say to Paige.”
I take another sip of wine, mulling his advice in my brain. He may be French and he may have a different code of ethics than I do, but I do believe he’s right about this. As I thank him for his advice and later, once again, for his friendship, I wonder if I was too quick to push this guy away last spring.