I hang out at the after-party for two hours, but he does not come to me. In the dimly lit Chelsea restaurant, I whirl between constellations of fashion editors and buyers, bloggers and hangers-on, fighting the ridiculous feeling that I am waiting for him. He appears every now and then, sliced between slivers of the crowd, but he does not meet my gaze. I laugh like I don’t have a care in the world and track him like a spy. Champagne pours from the rafters; I want a drink so badly it hurts, but every time I reach for a glass, a zap of panic: cancer! The moon wheels slowly overhead. The night turns as sober as I am. It’s not even midnight when I slip away, trying to talk myself out of feeling like a sad, little fangirl.
I’ve never had real depression. That’s my sister’s territory. But once I’ve stepped out of my tulle and motorcycle boots, and washed off my face of makeup, I can’t fight the wave of emotion chasing me. Tucked into bed, feeling small and vulnerable, I let it drown me, sinking into all the things I’ve been trying to avoid.
No man will find me sexy if I go through with it. But I might die if I don’t.
I don’t want to lose my breasts. I don’t want implants inside of me.
I am scared.
I am so, so scared.
* * * *
The next day I don’t have any meetings, so I task myself with clicking through hundreds of fall/winter looks from the past few days at Fashion Week, identifying the patterns, looking for trends. Transparent and sheer looks are everywhere. As always, knits dominate, and we’re seeing a lot of utilitarian pants and colorful outerwear. Graphic prints. Slouchy suits.
I love looking over the lines. Only after scrolling through dozens of collections do the overarching themes become apparent. It’s fascinating to see how the designers interpret the season. Fashion alone can be a bit superficial, but when you connect it to the bigger picture, it really means something. Like the way I see strong reds, pinks, and violets, which reflect the growing feminist movement, or the lack of black and return instead to inky darks and browns, representing the resistance to politics of hate. The political atmosphere as interpreted by fashion is less about literal politics—Right versus Left, Republicans versus Democrats—and more about old versus new values. The twentieth century versus twenty-first. I love seeing how everything fits together; the constant conversation fashion is having with itself.
I finish a report on a trend I’m calling “art gallery nautical” and send it through to Eloise. No reply. I always assume I’m not getting it right or she’s busy. But maybe she actually delights in rejecting them, as a way of rejecting everything about me. I know she’s proud of her Harvard roots: maybe the fact I’ve seen a cow tipping firsthand disgusts her.
No. I’m just being paranoid. Alexander McQueen was raised in public housing. Ralph Lauren was a clerk at Brooks Brothers. Coco Chanel grew up in an orphanage. Fashion is not the sole domain of the Rich Kids of Instagram. I’m sure Eloise knows that.
Patricia pings me. Come into my office.
I shiver. Later, I’ll rake over this reaction.
Somehow, I suspected what the future held.
Somehow, I knew.
Patricia’s corner office has views over lower Manhattan: the rooftops and the water towers and the glinting blue pools rich people keep in secret. My boss peers at me over green-edged half specs, eyelashes slick with purple mascara. “You look cute, darling.”
“So do you,” I reply, “as always.”
She smiles. She likes it when anyone flirts with her, even me. “I don’t think I saw you yesterday. How was your weekend?”
“Great,” I chirrup. “I checked out this hot new cocktail bar in a reclaimed textiles factory in Bed-Stuy. They handmade all their furniture, only play records, and make all their bitters and syrups from scratch.”
“Sounds very nostalgic.”
I actually went to this bar before Christmas, but I keep a collection of these little performances up my sleeve every time Patricia calls me in. She loves them. I cock my head. “I think it’s more a reaction to all the immediacy in our culture. The world feels overwhelming and moves too fast, so we’re turning to highly crafted sensory experiences that feel unhurried and real. Old-thentic, if you will.”
She nods approval and tents her fingers. “Are you up-to-date on all the new books?”
“Sure.”
“We have a prospective new client.” She pauses, examining me for a long moment. “Elan Behzadi.”
This feels like being handed a plate of spaghetti for no reason at all. I have no idea what to do with it, and yet, my mouth is watering. “But he’s a designer. We don’t work with designers.”
“I know.”
“Designers don’t buy trend books. Designers make their own trends.”
She removes her glasses delicately. “I know. But he said you met at our holiday party, that you were very charming. Youthful, I think he said. And didn’t he invite you to his show last night? I assumed you’d become friendly.”
Why would Elan make it seem like we’ve become acquainted when we haven’t? “Shouldn’t someone more senior present to someone like Elan?”
“Technically. But he asked for you.” She pauses, as if about to say something more, before evidently changing her mind. “You’ll have to be discreet. He’s requesting you come to him. He’s in the West Village—”
“I can’t present to Elan Behzadi!”
“Why not?”
I can’t stay seated; I have to stand. “Because he’s . . . Elan Behzadi. He’s a designer.” By which I mean, he’s famous.
“Oh, Lacey. As my daddy used to say, we all shit in the same toilet.” She chuckles to herself. “He was a little crude, Daddy was. He was a pig farmer, you know. Gave a whole new meaning to bringing home the bacon.”
I’m going to present to Elan. He asked for me. Me. I’m having trouble swallowing.
“He’s certainly talented,” Patricia continues, unperturbed that I’ve started pacing around her office. “And he knows it. He’s aware of the effect he has on people.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s a flirt.” Patricia looks right at me. “Don’t fall in love with him.”
I laugh, loudly and quickly, although I’m not amused. I’m embarrassed. Exposed. “I don’t think so!” I fail to fight a blush. “I don’t . . . No.”
“Good,” she says, as if that settles it. “Start with the Panzetta: you’ve got that pitch down, and it’ll appeal to his sensibilities. Your riff on metallics-as-neutrals is working right now, and that spiel about remastered reds. Don’t be nervous. He asked for you, remember that.” She gazes at me with cool, steady intensity. “You are qualified to have this meeting, Lacey. I mean that. Good luck.”
I lick my lips and grip the back of my chair. “When?”