The pretty young associate editor crossed her bare legs nervously, allowing her right foot to bounce up and down. She worried her black bouclé pencil skirt might be a touch too short for sitting in the front row. By most measures she was perfectly ordinary in this crowd of black-clad men and women in fine Italian fabrics cut in French lines made with an American sensibility. She looked the part. Still, she couldn’t believe she was actually there. Never in a million years could she have imagined she would be sitting in the front row of a New York City fashion show during Fashion Week. She flipped the heavy vellum invitation over one more time to read the embossed gold writing. There was no mistake. Her seat was 11A. She was in the right place at the right time.
At twenty-six, Imogen Tate had already been poring over the photographs from these fashion shows with her bosses at Moda magazine for five years, but she had never seen one in the flesh.
This plum assignment for the Oscar de la Renta show only came her way because the senior editors were overscheduled. Bridgett Hart, a striking black model and one of Imogen’s three roommates, was walking in this show. Imogen glanced at her watch. Five thirty. The show was scheduled to start at five, but the seats weren’t even close to being filled. Despite Bridgett promising her that nothing ever began on time during Fashion Week, Imogen arrived promptly at four forty-five. Best to be early. She considered getting up to say hello to her friend Audrey, a publicist for Bergdorf Goodman who was chatting with a reporter from the Trib about ten seats away, but Imogen worried someone would steal her assigned seat. She’d been warned about one particularly vigilant new-money socialite who could never secure front row and would hover along the periphery waiting for her chance to pounce if someone didn’t show up.
A piece of hair fell into Imogen’s face and she quickly tucked it back behind her ear. Only last week she let her new colorist persuade her to return to her natural blond after a series of more dramatic darker shades. It was understated. ‘Chic’ was the right word to describe her new life in America. ‘Ouch!’ Imogen lifted her foot and scowled at the paparazzo who had trampled on her exposed little toe in the very best (and only) strappy snakeskin sandals that she owned.
‘You’re in the way,’ he sneered.
‘I’m in my seat,’ Imogen countered in her most distinguished British accent. She added an emphasis on ‘my.’ It was indeed her seat and her name on the invitation. That meant something. The fashion industry was an insular community of designers, editors, retail buyers and select heiresses. Access to these kinds of events was allotted stingily, and could easily be taken away.
‘Well, your seat is in my way,’ the ornery photographer said before darting across the plastic-covered runway to take a picture of Anna Wintour, the editor in chief of Vogue, as she gracefully took her own place across the runway from Imogen. With Anna seated the show could finally begin. Security men in bulky black turtlenecks, carrying large walkie-talkies, ushered the photographers into a holding pen at the end of the runway. All photos from the show were under strict embargo, pending approval from the designer. Imogen had a little point-and-shoot camera in her bag, but she didn’t dare take it out. She had taken plenty of pictures outside the tents in Bryant Park and planned to drop the film at one of those one-hour developing places on her way back to work. From inside her purse she removed a small black notebook.
Assistants in head-to-toe black stripped the industrial plastic from the runway, revealing a pristine white surface. The lights dimmed and the house grew silent. The crowd respectfully slipped their purses and briefcases under their chairs. So attentive was the audience of what was happening on the runway that they refrained from whispering to one another or even shuffling papers on their laps once the lights went down.
Out of the silence, a dance beat boomed ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’ by Ricky Martin as white light bathed the room. Models, never breaking their gaze, strode down the catwalk one after the other. Imogen hardly had time to take notes on each of the looks. This really would be an excellent time to use that camera, but she didn’t dare.
Across from her, Imogen noticed Jacques Santos. Dressed in his signature white jeans, the photographer turned creative director for one of the big magazines whipped out his Nikon and furiously began shooting the models as they walked past him. Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen could see security begin to twitch from their posts at the end of the runway. It wasn’t until Jacques actually stood and hoisted the camera over his head to take an aerial shot that they made their move. Perfectly timed between models, one guard approached Jacques from either side, and before the Frenchman knew what was happening they tackled him and confiscated his camera. He lay stunned on the runway.
Bridgett, Imogen’s statuesque friend, didn’t even blink as she calmly stepped over the man in her thigh-high leather boots and continued her journey down the runway with the elegance of a panther, her right toe slightly pointed as it rose off the ground. The camera in one hand, the security guard pulled Jacques to his feet, dusted him off and gestured for him to sit back down. He removed the film from the Nikon and handed the camera back before returning to his post at the end of the aisle.
The show went on.