“I don’t think this thing,” Renée Reynolds turned up her nose, “is appropriate for Madison to wear,” she said to the stylist. They were on a photo shoot for Teen Vogue.
“I assure you all the teens are wearing halter dresses for summer,” the stylist shot back in defense.
“I realize that, but this dress is, number one, see-through, and number two, there’s barely enough material in the front to cover her breasts,” Renée said, holding the dress up to the light, and scrutinizing it from front to back.
Trying to solve the dilemma, Madison said, “Nancy, let me try it on. It probably looks better off the hanger.” Madison used the name that Renée insisted upon. Grandmother or Nana—and heaven forbid Granny—was too pedestrian for Renée Reynolds, the former runway queen and fashion icon.
“That’s a good idea,” the stylist agreed.
“Not going to happen. My granddaughter will not be wearing that thing, not even for one second,” Renée shot back.
“Look, it’s not like this is Madison’s very own personal layout. She’s modeling clothes like the rest of the other girls. So what’s the big deal?” the stylist quizzed Renée.
Renée took a step closer to the stylist, lowered her voice in a menacing tone, and then said, “Obviously, you’re new to the fashion world and have no idea who you’re dealing with. Where’s your boss?”
“Come on, Nancy, she didn’t mean anything by it,” Madison said, coming to the stylist’s defense.
“Go sit down, dear, and let me deal with this. I’m not about to let them exploit you in this, this thing,” Renée said, tossing the dress on a nearby chair, and then returning her attention back to the stylist.
“Does your grandmother always act like a vicious Rottweiler, ready to pounce if she feels that her ‘Wittle Maddy Waddy’ is being taken advantage of?” Reagan whispered, once Madison joined her on the sofa near the rear wall.
“Stop teasing. It’s not funny. I’m almost seventeen, and the last thing I need is for my grandmother to speak for me. I’m perfectly able to talk for myself,” Madison said, underneath her breath, as she watched her grandmother ream out the stylist in front of the art director.
“You can save your breath today, sweetie, ’cuz Ms. Nancy is giving that poor stylist a mouthful,” Reagan said, as she watched Renée’s mouth going a mile a minute.
Madison dropped her head for a second, and then said, “How embarrassing.”
“Madison, come here, please!” Renée yelled across the room, once she was finished with her tirade.
Madison was humiliated, and felt like walking out the door. She was the only model at the shoot who had a chaperone—a bossy chaperone at that. Instead of walking out the door, she walked over to her grandmother. “Yes, Nancy?”
“You’re going to be modeling these beautiful floral dresses,” she said, handing Madison dresses that looked like they were more fitting for a ten-year-old hunting for Easter eggs, instead of a sophisticated teenager like herself.
“These?” Madison asked, scrunching up her face.
“Yes. The boat-neck covers up your breasts, and besides, the fifties look is back in. At least now you won’t look like a call girl.”
“No, just a little girl,” Madison mumbled.
“What did you say, dear?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay then, now hurry up and change. The photographer is all set and ready to go,” Renée instructed as if she were running the shoot. And in a sense, she was. Having been in the business for eons, she was revered, and very few had the guts to cross her—at least those who knew better, which obviously the stylist did not.
Once Madison emerged from the dressing room with the cutesy dress on, the makeup artist tweaked her makeup, and then the hairstylist quickly wrapped her long auburn hair into a loose ponytail with tendrils hanging on the sides, before Madison stepped in front of the camera.
“Okay, give me a Hollywood red carpet pose,” the photographer said.
Madison put her hand on her hip, and struck a haughty pose.
“That’s great. Okay, now turn your head away from me, look over your right shoulder, and give me a pout.”
Madison did as instructed while the photographer clicked away.
Two rolls of film later, Madison was back in the dressing room, changing into another stupid, adolescent-looking dress. The routine was the same as before. After two more changes, an hour later, the photo shoot was over.
“Great work!” the photographer told Madison.
“Thanks. It was fun!” she said, and walked toward her grandmother, who was beaming with pride.
“Dear, after you change, I want you and Reagan to go straight home. I would drop you off, but I’m running late for a dinner appointment.” She reached into her purse, took out her Hermès wallet, and handed Madison two crisp twenty dollar bills. “Here, you girls take a taxi, instead of that dreadful subway.”
Although Madison had her own money from working as a model, she took her grandmother’s loot just the same. “Thanks, Nancy.”
Madison did a quick change back into her Seven jeans, graffiti tee-shirt, and Roberto Cavalli leather jacket. “I’m ready,” she told Reagan once she reappeared from the dressing room.
The girls left the loft, went downstairs and hailed a taxi on West Broadway. “Sixty-first and Madison,” she told the driver.
“That’s not your address. Didn’t your Granny tell you to go straight home,” Reagan said, in a mocking tone.
“She did, but since she’s not here to scrutinize my every move, I can do what I want. And I want…no, I NEED to go shopping. Wearing those kiddie-looking dresses made my skin crawl.”
“Come on, Madison, it wasn’t that bad. Those dresses were okay.”
“Next time, you get in front of the camera and wear them,” Madison shot back with attitude.
“I don’t think so. I’ll stick with getting my dresses from Barneys, thank you very much!”
As the girls were discussing their fashion preferences, the taxi driver was pulling up in front of Barneys, one of their favorite stores on Madison Avenue. Madison paid the driver with some of her grandmother’s cash. The girls eagerly hopped out of the backseat, made their way through the front doors of the ultra-chic purveyor, and then made a beeline straight to the designer purses.
“Oh, I love this bag,” Madison squealed.
“Is that the new Marc Jacobs?”
“Yep! I saw it in Vogue last week.” Madison rubbed the soft leather like she was petting a puppy. “I’ve got to get this,” she said, bouncing to the checkout counter, without even glancing at the price tag.
“Will that be cash or charge?” the salesclerk asked.
Madison quickly handed over her AMEX. “You don’t have to wrap it; I’m going to wear it.”
“Sure thing,” the clerk said. She rang up the pricey purse, took off the tag, and handed it to her customer.
Madison dumped the contents of her old purse into the new bag, and threw it over her shoulder. The saleswoman put her old purse in a shopping bag, and then gave it to her. Madison and Reagan twirled around on their designer heels, without saying thank you, and headed upstairs to where the clothes were located.
“Now this is a dress,” Reagan said, taking a black mini dress off the rack.
“That’s hot. I love the mesh at the top; it’s such a great contrast to the solid body of the dress.”
“Yep, and look at the back,” Reagan said, flipping the dress over.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Madison said, referring to the deep scoop of mesh going midway down the back. “Who’s it by?”
Reagan looked at the label. “It’s by Chloë Sevigny.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I read that she had started designing clothes now. It seems like nearly every star wants to get in the fashion game. P. Diddy really kicked it off; now movie stars are following suit,” Madison commented.
“Hello, girls, can I help you?” asked the saleswoman.
“I want to try this on,” Reagan said, nearly shoving the dress into the woman’s arms.
“Okay, I’ll start a fitting room for you. If you need anything else, my name is Peggy, and I’ll be glad to help you.” She smiled.
They both gave her a fake smile in return, without opening their mouths.
“I hate it when they call us ‘girls,’” Madison said, once the woman had walked away.
“I know. We’re nearly adults. Besides, I’ll bet my clothing allowance is more than she,” Reagan pointed her head in the saleswoman’s direction, “makes in a week.”
Madison pulled a Citizens of Humanity black denim jumper off the rack, and they walked toward the saleswoman, who was standing behind the counter. “I’ll need a dressing room, too,” she told the woman, and handed her the jumper.
“Sure thing,” Peggy said, and led the way into the dressing room.
Ten minutes later, they came out, and walked back to the counter. “We’ll take them. And ring them up separately,” Reagan said curtly.
“Okay, do you want to apply for a Barneys card today?” Peggy offered.
“I already have one,” Reagan said.
“Of course you do,” Peggy said flippantly, getting fed up with their attitudes.
Reagan handed over the plastic. Once her transaction was over, Madison did the same. With their new purchases wrapped neatly in shopping bags, they bounced out of the store, as happy as they could be.
“I hate those bratty rich kids,” Peggy said to Norelle once they had left.
“They have such a sense of entitlement. Did you see the new Marc Jacobs purse that the redhead had swinging off her shoulder?”
“Yeah, I saw it. That bag costs more than the rent at my old apartment. I tell you, those girls wouldn’t know the value of a dollar if it reached up and slapped them in the face. I’m glad my son doesn’t date spoiled girls like that,” Peggy said.
“Well, with him going to that private school, don’t be surprised if he brings a girl like that home to meet you.”
“Bite your tongue, Norelle. Lucas is way too smart to get mixed up with a spoiled little brat, like those two.”
Peggy hadn’t thought about the possibly of her only son getting involved with a privileged rich girl. She had been focusing her attention on him getting a top-notch education. But, the more she thought about it, the more she realized that there was indeed a good chance that Lucas would start dating a privileged debutante. At that thought, she rolled her eyes, and then went off to help the next little rich brat.