“You look like shit.”
My sister wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know, but it still wasn’t what I wanted to hear.
“Shut up,” I grumbled as we wove our way through the Fontainebleau’s Grand Ballroom, which was already filling up with reporters and photographers who were trying to stake out the best spots at the foot of the runway.
“I’m just saying you could have at least put on some makeup. Your skin’s so pale; it’s just making those dark circles under your eyes stand out more.”
I turned to my left and glared at Izzy. Why was it that she looked all glowy and fresh-faced when she’d stayed up until 4 a.m. three nights in a row, and I looked like something that belonged on a slab in the morgue after one fitful night of tossing and turning? I silently cursed her youth.
“Hi. We should be on the list,” I told the burly security guard posted in front of the large blue curtain that allowed backstage access.
“Are you a model?” he queried.
Izzy snickered. “Hardly.”
I was tempted to jab her in the ribs with my elbow, but I refrained.
“No, we’re guests of one of the designers, Pilar and Isidora Alvarez.”
The guard scanned the sheet of paper on his clipboard. “Alright,” he said when he located our names, “but I’m gonna need to see some picture ID before you can go back.”
Izzy and I pulled out our driver’s licenses and handed them to the uniformed man. He gave my sister’s a quick once-over, then returned it to her. I expected to receive the same cursory treatment, but instead he gazed down at my photo, raised his eyes to mine, furrowed his brow, and repeated the cycle twice.
“Are you sure this is you?” he asked, pointing to the laminated card. “Because this woman looks hot, and you—”
“—look like shit. I’m aware of that. Thank you.” I ripped the license out of his hand and stuffed it back into my purse.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I leaned forward to read his name tag, “Phil, but I had a rough night. Actually, I’ve had a rough month. Things haven’t been going well at work, my sister got arrested for a crime she didn’t commit, I’m broke, and to top things off, yesterday, I kissed someone I shouldn’t have. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I didn’t feel like washing my hair and putting on lipstick this morning. The truth is I don’t even want to be here. I’d rather be home eating Frosted Flakes out of the box and feeling sorry for myself. But I promised a friend I’d come and support her on what could possibly be the most important day in her life, and I’m not going to disappoint her. Now, are you going to let us through, or do I have to get ugly?”
“Don’t you mean uglier?” Izzy snarked.
I smacked her in the arm with my purse and scowled threateningly at the rent-a-cop.
“Well?”
“Go on.” He lifted the curtain aside and waved us back.
I’d never been behind-the-scenes at a fashion show before. It was like stepping into a whole other world, where the air crackled with frenetic energy. Everyone was bustling to and fro and if you didn’t stay alert, there was a good chance you’d be mowed down by a moving rack of swimwear. Designers were shouting orders at impossibly thin models who wore silk kimonos and had makeup artists and hair stylists buzzing around them, trying to put the finishing touches on their faces and ‘dos.
“So, who’s this guy you kissed yesterday?” Izzy grilled me as we shoved our way through the crowd.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Was it that actor from Bayou Beast, the one who’s your patient? I’ll bet it was. That guy is totally do-able. I can’t believe you waited this long to jump him.”
“I did not kiss Derek.”
I raised myself up on my tiptoes so that I could see over all of the Amazons’ heads.
“Well, who then?” Like a dog with a mailman’s leg in its mouth, my sister wasn’t going to let it go.
“Do you see Sara anywhere?” I deflected her question by asking one of my own.
“That might be her over—”
A small, incredibly hirsute man with a comb in one hand, and a can of styling spray in the other, stopped dead in front of Izzy. “Your hair!” he screamed with rapturous delight as if he’d just laid eyes on a great work of art.
“Yeah, what about it?” She gazed down at the excitable creature.
“The color! The texture! The glossy sheen!” the little man gushed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s all natural, right? No dye? No extensions?”
“Nope.”
“What product do you use on it?”
“You got me. Pilar, what’s that shampoo I’m always stealing out of your shower?”
“Kiehl’s.”
“Kiehl’s,” she told him.
“Can I touch it?” He extended a hand tentatively.
“Be my—”
“Fred!” Sara came barreling up with a lit cigarette dangling out of the side of her mouth. “Get your pervy paws off my friend’s virgin hair and go finish brushing out Simone. Don’t I have enough problems without having to chase you down?”
He let his hand fall. “Sorry, Sara. I’m on it,” he assured her, then cast one last, wistful look at Izzy’s shiny black tresses and scurried off.
“I swear, if this day gets any more stressful, I’m going to have an aneurysm!” Sara exclaimed before taking a long drag off of her cigarette.
“Since when do you smoke?” I wondered.
“Since about an hour ago when two of my models called in sick with the ‘stomach flu,’ aka a nasty hangover, and I realized that my career as a swimwear designer was over before it had even begun.”
“Oh, no! What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes filled with tears, and her lower lip started to tremble. “I’ve worked so hard, and now it’s all falling apart at the last minute. I’m so screwed. There’s no way I can show my full line with just three models. They’ll never be able to make the changes fast enough.”
“Why don’t you model?” I suggested. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve done any runway work, but—”
“God, no! I can’t do that!” Sara blanched at the thought. “Designers never model their own creations. That would be gauche in the extreme. I’d be laughed out of fashion.”
“Okay, well . . .” I racked my brain for another feasible solution.
“I could do it,” Izzy offered.
Sara’s jaw dropped as did some ash off the end of her burning cigarette. Distractedly, she brushed it off the leg of her body-hugging designer jeans. “Are you serious? You’d model for me?”
My sister shrugged. “Why not? It’s a paying gig, right?”
“Izzy!” I admonished her. Couldn’t she do something nice once in her life without expecting a reward in return?
“No, no, that’s alright. If she works, she should be compensated. How does $400 sound?”
“$500 has a better ring to it.”
Sara crossed her arms and looked Izzy up and down. “You do have an incredible body.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Do you have any modeling experience?”
“No, but how tough can it be? I’m sexy and I know how to move.”
“Fine, you’re hired.” Sara let her cigarette fall to the cement floor, where she ground it out with the pointy toe of one of her copper-colored Jimmy Choos. “You’re about the same size as Ricki, so you should be able to fit into her suits.”
“Great! Problem solved.” I was so relieved for Sara.
“Not quite. I still need another model, preferably someone a little voluptuous . . .” She stared pointedly at me.
“I hope you kept your bikini wax appointment this week,” my sister said with a smirk.
“Why? What does that have to do with— Oh, no. No way!” I shouted, backing away from Sara while I looked around desperately for the nearest exit.
She thwarted my escape by grabbing my hands and begging, “Pretty please with shirtless Channing Tatum on top. I wouldn’t ask unless it was a matter of life and death.”
“The death will be mine if I have to parade around half-naked in front of a bunch of strangers.”
“You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. You have the perfect bathing suit figure. Long legs, a nice rack—”
“She does have a nice rack,” Izzy concurred. “We all do. It’s the one good trait we inherited from our mother.”
“I, also, have a big butt,” I reminded them of what I considered to be my worst flaw.
Sara threw her arm over my shoulders and gave me an encouraging squeeze. “That’s okay. Shapely booties are in. You can thank JLo and Beyoncé for that. And most of my suits are cut for women with curves.”
“No,” I said adamantly, shaking my head from side-to-side. “I’m sorry, Sara. You know I love you like a sister, and I’d help if I could. But I just can’t. I’m not as uninhibited as Izzy.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” my sibling felt the need to chime in. “You did say that you kissed a guy you weren’t supposed to yesterday and you couldn’t have done that without shedding some inhibitions.”
“Oooooooo,” Sara’s aquamarine eyes lit up, “this sounds juicy. What guy?”
“She won’t say.”
Sara frowned. “Why not?
“I don’t know. I guess it’s some big secret. I thought it was that patient of hers, you know, the actor who lied about his real identity? Did Pilar tell you how smokin’ hot that guy is? We are talking Grade A beefcake.”
“What’s his name?” A model, who was sitting in a nearby makeup chair having false eyelashes applied, decided to horn in on our conversation.
“Derek Reynolds,” Izzy answered her.
“Hmmmm, that name sounds familiar,” she pursed her collagen-injected lips thoughtfully for a minute. “Is he about 6’3 with longish blond hair, perma-stubble, and a killer tan?”
“Yeah, and really sexy dimples.”
“I think I slept with him.”
“Lucky you!” Izzy enthused.
The other woman made a face. “Not really. It wasn’t very good. He’s one of those ‘Wham-Bam-Is that it?-Damn!’ types.”
Derek Reynolds, the man who swaggered around like he was the studliest stud who ever studded, was a dud in bed? “Ha!” I guffawed so loudly that Sara and Izzy exchanged worried glances as though they feared for my sanity.
“Thank you.” I patted the blonde model on her bony shoulder. “You just made my day.”
“So, if you didn’t kiss Derek, who did you smooch?” Sara raised a golden eyebrow.
“Yeah, who?”
Nothing like being ganged up on.
“Don’t you ladies have a fashion show to get ready for?”
Sara checked her watch. “We’ve still got an hour. That leaves us plenty of time to harass you about your love life.”
“But I don’t have a love li—”
“Maybe it was Victor?” my sister postulated. “Kissing that looney tunes would certainly qualify as a mistake.”
“I haven’t laid a lip on Victor since we broke up.”
“Well, thank God for that. So, who else does Pilar know that she shouldn’t be kissing?” Sara drummed her French manicured fingertips against her chin.
“A patient? Another doctor? Someone’s who’s married?” Izzy ran through their options.
“Combine those last two together and who do you get?”
“Alright, alright.” I held up my hands as a sign of surrender before either of them could say Ford’s name. “If the two of you promise to drop this and never bring it up again, I will model in the fashion show.”
“Yes!” Sara pumped her fist in the air triumphantly.
“But no thongs!” I warned her.
“No thongs.” She crossed her heart.
“I’ve got some one-pieces and bikinis that are going to look amazing on you. But first, I need to get you into hair and makeup. Giuseppe can do wonders with concealer and bronzer. And hopefully, Fred will be able to do something with this.” She lifted my limp ponytail and eyed it disparagingly.
“Izzy, you can come with me and try on some suits. I might have to pin some of them to get the best fit.”
Sara led me over to a makeup chair and ordered Nicola to get out of it.
“But she’s-a not done!” a man with a thick Italian accent protested.
“Too bad. We’ve got an emergency here.”
Giuseppe took my face in his hands and leaned down to examine it. “She’s-a sallow, dehydrated, and looks-a like she hasn’t slept in a week. I’m gonna need at least-a thirty minutes to make her presentable,” he determined.
“You’ve got fifteen, then hand her off to Fred. He’s going to have his work cut out for him.”
“Hey!” I took offense.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. You’ll be a knockout by the time the boys are through with you. Let’s go, Izzy.” Sara walked off, expecting my sister to follow her.
“Can I borrow your cell phone?” Izzy inquired while Giuseppe swabbed my face with some minty-smelling toner and muttered something under his breath about the size of my pores. “I didn’t have time charge my battery this morning and I need to call Stephanie to see if she wants me to cover her shift at the club tonight.”
“Sure. It should be in my purse.”
Izzy dug the phone out and turned it on. “Oh,” she said when the cell beeped. “You’ve got 5 messages.”
They were probably all from Ford, and the realization made me feel queasy. “I’m sure they’re nothing important.”
“Izzy!” We both flinched when we heard Sara’s impatient scream.
“Go,” I told her.
“I’ll bring the phone back later,” she vowed.
She could have flushed it down the toilet for all I cared. I’d have had a lot more peace of mind if I’d known that there was no way for Ford to contact me. Since we’d kissed approximately 19 1/2 hours earlier, I’d done everything in my power to avoid the man. I had no idea how long he’d waited in my office after I’d fled the scene of the adulterous crime, but I’d stayed away for almost three hours. Without a phone, money, or my car keys, I’d been hard pressed to kill that much time. I’d managed by going to a little Cuban café four blocks over that was owned by a sweet, old woman named Carmelita. When she’d seen my dazed, tear-streaked face, she’d graciously given me a cup of Café con Leche and some Flan de Chocolate on the house. Unfortunately, I’d been too upset to do anything more than pick at the dessert, and after what had seemed like an eternity of soul-searching and self-flagellation, I’d snuck back to my office like a thief in the night.
Ford had turned off the computers and all the lights, but the one on Margo’s desk. I’d found a post-it note covered in his chicken scratch stuck to the receiver of her phone.
‘We need to talk,’ it’d said, and the word need had been underlined several times for emphasis. ‘I’ll call you.’
The last thing I’d wanted to do was “talk” with Ford, so his parting line had struck terror in my heart. On the drive home, I’d practiced saying things like, “I’m sorry if I misled you with that kiss, but I’m really not that kind of girl,” and, “We crossed the line, so I think it would be best if we never saw or spoke to each other again,” but it all came out sounding ridiculously melodramatic.
Even though I’d been afraid to check my answering machine when I’d gotten to the bungalow, I hadn’t been able to resist the lure of that flashing red light. There’d been three messages from Ford, each sounding increasingly agitated. He was “worried” about me since it had been such an “emotional” day, and I’d had a lot “to process.” What was I? One of his patients? Stupid shrink-speak! He just wanted to “talk” to me so that we could “straighten things out.” What was there to straighten out? I’d been overwrought and vulnerable; he’d attempted to console me . . . with his lips. We’d gotten caught up in the heat of the moment, and now, I was confused and consumed with guilt. I was pretty clear on all those points.
I’d erased all of Ford’s messages and hadn’t answered the phone the rest of the night without checking Caller ID first. In the clear light of day, I could admit to myself that maybe I hadn’t been handling the Ford situation in the most mature or responsible fashion, which was kind of sad considering I gave people advice on how to confront their problems and work through them for a living. But we all have off-days and beating myself up over my cowardly behavior wasn’t going to help matters. I had to move on and use the weekend to my advantage, taking the time necessary to regroup and compose my thoughts before the inevitable face-to-face with Ford on Monday. Meanwhile, I planned to focus on the task at hand - surviving Sara’s fashion show with my dignity intact.
After Giuseppe and Fred were done with me, I took a look in the mirror and was shocked by my own reflection. Could that woman with the sultry eyes and sexily tousled “babe hair” really be me, I wondered.
Leaning her head over my shoulder, Izzy deadpanned, “It’s a miracle.”
“Very funny. Love the Cher hair.” I tugged on a strand of her parted-down-the-middle, super straight ‘do.
“Thanks, Sara thought this look would complement the retro line. She’s waiting for you back in the dressing room. 15 minutes ‘til show time.”
“Terrific,” I groaned as I got up from the makeup chair. “What are you wearing?”
Izzy opened her robe and flashed me her jungle-print one-piece, which appeared to have less material than most bikinis.
“Wow! Look at all those cutouts.”
“Don’t you just love this one over the navel?” she pointed to her belly. “It really shows off my piercing.”
I trailed Izzy to the small room that had been reserved for Serafina Swimwear. When Sara saw me, she shooed everyone else out, including my sister, so that we could have some privacy. With haste, I tried on eight of her designs with a variety of heels and rehearsed walking around in them while Sara gave me a quick tutorial on the art of modeling. To my surprise, the majority of the suits were quite flattering to my figure, and I felt comfortable in them, not happy-to-flaunt-my-goodies comfortable, but comfortable nonetheless. After Sara had decided which ones worked and which didn’t, she pinned numbers to each ensemble in order to avoid confusion during the quick changes that would be made in the wings while the show was in progress. Finally, she put me in a push-up leopard print tankini with a black string bottom, then tied a short, fringed sarong around my hips.
“Beautiful!” she exclaimed. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’m going to throw up.”
“You’ll be fine,” she assured me. “Just watch the other models and emulate them.”
There was a warning knock at the door two seconds before a frizzy-haired girl peeked her head in and announced, “It’s started.”
Sara gathered up all of the swimwear while I donned a kimono and contemplated suicide by strangulation with its sash. I might have actually preferred that to what lay ahead of me. As we made our way to the side of the stage, the thumping beat of rock music resounding in my ears, I reminded myself of all of the anxiety-neutralizing techniques I’d taught my patients over the years. Breathe slowly through the nose. Repeat the mantra, ‘I am calm. I can handle this. Nothing bad is going to happen to me.’ Imagine a safe, peaceful place: a garden, the beach, a mountaintop— What a bunch of crap! Instead of feeling more relaxed, I was becoming more uptight and apprehensive with every step. By the time we reached the other models in Sara’s group, I was so frightened that I was having an out-of-body experience. Nothing seemed real, and I felt detached from my surroundings as if I was in a dream.
“Earth to Pilar.” My sister snapped her fingers in front of my face, and the noise brought me back to my senses.
“Huh?”
“You were zoning out. Serafina’s up next, so you need to ditch the robe. And here,” she handed me a couple of tissues. “Blot your face. You’re breaking out in a sweat.”
The cold sweat of terror. God, how did I get myself into this? I asked myself for the tenth time. Pilar Alvarez, college graduate, psychologist, staunch feminist, lover of bad carbs. I wasn’t swimsuit model material. The idea was absurd.
“Thanks again for doing this.” Sara gave me a warm hug and smiled gratefully. “You really are a lifesaver.”
Okay, my best friend needed me, and I was going to come through for her. It was just a few minutes of my life, right? The whole thing would be over and done with before I knew it.
I watched Izzy go out on stage, strutting like she was born to walk the runway.
“Just remember everything I told you,” Sara whispered in my ear as we moved forward. I was just one model away from making my fashion show debut now.
“When you get to the end of the runway, remove the sarong, pause for a moment so that the photographers can get their shots, then pivot—”
“Wait! What?” I turned to her in a panic. “You didn’t say anything about taking off the sarong. If I do that, then the audience will have an unobstructed view of my butt as I walk back up the runway, and that is not a good angle for me.”
“Just do it,” Sara hissed and shoved me out on to the stage.