She's All That (35 page)

“Poppy, stand still. I'm measuring.” I take out my tape and go after her.

She runs behind the chair. “I'm not doing it. Gauze is back in, with Birkenstocks,” Poppy says. “I saw it in a magazine, so I really don't need any fashion help at the moment, and I'm definitely not in need of a couture wedding gown.”

This causes both Morgan and me to forget our current battle, and we both stare at Poppy. “It has to go
out
of style to come back in, and since you never did dismiss the style, its coming back in is irrelevant,” I say.

“Why me, Lilly, really? I'm no model.”

“I designed the dress for Morgan,” I finally admit. “I can rework it if I have all the measurements, but I can't afford to pay a model to be here today, and I need them now.”

“The gown's for me?” Morgan asks.

“I didn't think, Morgan. I'm sorry. I had a vision and I didn't think it through. I just saw you in that gown and the town of San Francisco in awe. I saw you walking down the runway and—”

“On one condition,” Morgan says, and I start shaking my head.

“No, no. I'm not putting you in a wedding gown this week.”

“When I'm introduced at the end, you say that I was engaged to Marcus Agav, that my fiancé was killed by liver disease, and you make a plea for people to fill out their donor cards on their driver's licenses.”

It's here that I'm struck by how truly unselfish Morgan is. She has lived her entire life for other people, and granted, she lives well, but I wonder what she wants for herself. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I would have been walking down the aisle soon, Lilly, and that commitment meant something to me. It still does. Besides, I sort of like the idea of ending Stuart Surrey's quest once and for all. He knows that there's bigger fish in the sea than Caitlyn Kapsan. He started coming to our church specifically to bag himself a rich wife. He's no more a Christian than—well, just never mind. Will you make the announcement, or are we turning Poppy into a runway model?”

Poppy is currently sniffing the ylang-ylang oil, and curling her fingers to her nose like she's an ylang-ylang connoisseur.

“Morgan?” I say fearfully, and we both look at Poppy.

“Will you make the announcement?”

“No one knows about your engagement. Why tell everykristin one now that it's over? Isn't it better as water under the bridge?”

She comes around the chair and sits down. “I've been letting men take over my life by saying nothing for years. It's finally my turn. I want my father to think I'm just getting up there to be a fashion puppet, but then he will know that I know exactly what he did in Russia. I want him to know he forced me into that engagement in a way, and even though Marcus was a fine man, my father's mistakes have haunted me long enough. I want my father to know I am not depending on him anymore.”

“This will also fire up the press to find out exactly who Marcus was. Do you want that now that he's gone?” Poppy asks.

“I'm not ashamed of my engagement. Please, Lilly, let me do this.”

“Forget it.” I drop the tape measure. “I'm not doing it.”

“You're the one who's always telling me that my father takes advantage. Here's your chance to do something about it. Help me fight for my freedom, or I'll be wearing diamonds and walking around society parties for the rest of my life.”

“This will make you the subject of gossip for weeks! I'm not doing it. You can't trade in your father for a whole different kind of annoyance.”

Morgan bends over and picks up the tape measure, thrusting it at me. “Measure!”

“Fine!” I smirk at her and grab the tape measure. “But I don't know what good you think this is going to do,” I mumble some more under my breath.

“Would you quit mumbling? I'm ready to shove a pickle in your mouth.”

I look up at her. “Do you have any pickles?” I ask wistfully.

“Measure!”

“You know, the chances of this coming off successfully are nil anyway,” I say out loud.

“No,” Poppy says. “You are not going to get anywhere talking like that. This is your chance. You've worked for years to get here. This is your show. If you fail, at least fail on the runway—at Fashion Week. Get there and fail, all right? Take the risk at least.” She starts spraying my sensory therapy scent, and I'll admit, I feel better by the end of it.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Life just looks better when it smells good.

My cell phone rings. “Shoot, I meant to turn that off.”

“You better answer it, in case,” Poppy says. “You are starting a business.”

“Lilly Jacobs Design.”

“Lilly, it's Sara. Listen, I think I may have been a little too fearful of the jeans. I've decided to showcase the denim after all and leave the gowns in my background. Shane has assured me that that particular journalist has been way off before.”

“No, Sara!”
Shane! Bane of my existence.
“Sara, I've got
the
gown that will put you on the map again. It makes Vera Wang and Monique Lhuillier
passé
. Are you willing to let your legacy go so quickly?”

“I've thought about this—”

“Morgan Malliard is wearing the gown, Sara.” I try to sound incredibly strong, and not like my whole life is riding on this Saturday night. But it's everything to me. With at least six gowns, plus a wedding creation, and no Fashion Week show? When I pay the girls for their time, and for the fabric I purchased, I'm in debt to the tune of nearly $10,000.

Sara is speaking to someone else, when I hear what I've said register to her. “Morgan? She's agreed to the show? She's never done a show before.”

Poppy grabs my cell phone and wrestles it out of my hands. “Sara Lang? This is Poppy Clayton, Morgan's publicist and agent. She's cleared many things from her calendar to wear Lilly's gown on Saturday. If Lilly's gown isn't available, she'll have to take the Paper, Denim & Cloth show.”

My mouth is agape. How on earth does Poppy know about Paper, Denim & Cloth? A competing San Francisco designer, and forerunner in the denim business. I am definitely impressed. What else does she have up her sweat-shirted sleeves?

“No offense, Ms. Lang, but I haven't…” Poppy takes her time, making the circumstances sound grave indeed. “Well, I haven't heard…great things about the denim in your collection. I'm very concerned. I couldn't possibly have Morgan wear them in public without some generally positive reviews. As you may know, she and Lilly Jacobs are friends, or I wouldn't let her do this show at all. We're here negotiating the terms of the fashion evening right now, and—” Poppy pauses. “Sure. Sure. I think that can be arranged. Let me discuss it with my client, and I'll call you back directly.”

Poppy snaps shut the phone and smiles.

“You are holding out on me,” I point at Poppy. “How did you know about the Paper, Denim & Cloth?”

She just smiles. “Believe it or not, there was an article in my
Organic Weekly
.”

“You are amazing.”

“Sara Lang had a lot of fear-energy.” Poppy says. “I just had to massage it a little, and she was ours. Still think my energy talk is whacked?”

“Yes, I do. You sound distinctly like Yoda. But the Force is with you, and I love you, Poppy Clayton!”

“Of course you do. I feel ya, girl.”

“To the Spa Girls!” Morgan says while opening a mineral water Lars put on the desk.

“To the Spa Girls!” Poppy and I echo in unison.

chapter 32

M
y adrenaline is bubbling over. I generally love the rush before a fashion show, but this time the reviews are mine. If the press doesn't like a gown, they will say something like, “Lilly Jacobs for Sara Lang, complete and utter failure!” Then, not only am I unemployed, but I'm $10,000 in the hole—and back to Nana and finance. So the adrenaline currently feels more like hyped-up angst.

I'm just pacing back and forth, listening to the rumbling crowd as they enter and find their seats. I have poked and prodded and pinned the models until not so much as a wrinkle is apparent on their tiny, shapely frames.

One good thing about this week. I literally worked my fingers to the bone, well the second layer of skin anyway. I've been stabbed by needles so often that my finger looks indented like the thimble that I should have worn. Models are wiggly creatures. Regardless, I worked so hard on the gowns that I simply didn't have time to obsess about my hair. I made a headband out of the leftover tangerine fabric, and it's tossed up on my crown like fresh fruit salad. I'm a modern-day Carmen Miranda (Nana's favorite besides Van Johnson and William Holden)!

Sara has seen the gowns and fitted the models with me. She was pleased with my color choices, and for once, I feel like I finally did something right. I can tell she's pleased because I didn't hear how idiotic I am even once in the last three days. But of course, if the reviews come back negative, she'll have plenty to say, and it won't be good.

The Schwartz family hotel has been transformed. Most of the shows were at the Palace of Fine Arts, but Sara rented out the hotel so the media and society attendees wouldn't have to cross town for the after-party. More attendees equals more purchases equals more attention. The hotel walls have been draped with rich, colorful fabric to match the gowns, and the ballroom has been sprayed with a fresh citrus scent (my idea—as if I really needed to say so). There's a collage of expensive perfumes vying for attention, however, and I feel my lovely orange mist is all for naught. Old money and old cologne seem synonymous.
There is a shelf life on perfume, people!

Sara managed to hire the models and take care of the musical score for the show, and she had her normal crew build the runway extra long so that photographers have time to snap pictures. Sara says one of the mistakes some designers make is rushing the walk. She says that although the music is fast, models should think of the elephant walk when they parade. Of course, the models are too young to know what she means, so one of the handlers usually translates: “Slow,” he says, like a breeder speaking to puppies.

I found a use for Morgan's wedding fabric. I used it on the runway, and it's impeccable down there, providing just the right elegant contrast for the brightly hued dresses.

Morgan is backstage holding my hand. We're both so nervous we can't speak to one another. We just stare at each other knowingly. She'll break free from her dad tonight. I'll either break free of debt and my fears of unworthiness, or crash over the ledge. It depends on my success rate. If Morgan's appearance is any indicator, I am home-free. I took thirty-four measurements for Morgan's figure and fitted the clothing darts precisely where the dress would mold to her. I like to think my finance degree comes in handy here. Because the measurements are so precise—the understanding of math can create a perfect body illusion. Not that Morgan's body is far away from perfect anyway.

The other gowns are important too; don't get me wrong. They are an entire year's worth of work at Sara Lang, not to mention the last deadly week in my own personal sweat-shop/ loft, but only Morgan's gown and the last six matter at the moment. They are officially in the program as
Lilly Jacobs
for Sara Lang Couture
. They are the beginning of my own walk down the runway. Will I accept a hearty bouquet of roses? Or will there be tomatoes and rotten fruit thrown my way?
Okay,
Lord, don't desert me now!

I peek outside the curtain. My Nana is in the front row, with an empty seat next to her where Max should be. Nate is behind her, talking to a blond and tipping his head back in laughter.
Oh, brother.

“Is the room packed?” Kim comes up behind me, and I whip the curtains shut. Morgan steps back.

“What? Yeah, yeah. The place is packed.” I grab her hands before she peeks out the curtain. The last thing I need is for her to get nervous. “This is it, Kim. We've worked hard for this moment.”

“You never did tell me how you got Sara to agree to drop any charges against me.”

“I had my friend Poppy call her. She's got some special power over the woman, and Sara is completely under her control. I don't get it, but I don't ask questions either.”

Sara's ex-husband is sashaying about the back room, hoping to catch a glimpse of a model sans clothing, but Sara is actually pretty good about keeping the models well covered. I think she was married to the man long enough. He still owns part of Sara's business, but what she does with me is hers alone. Hence, the reason she's been so helpful.

We hold the show's start until the socialites in the front row arrive. They are generally late to make a grand entrance, and the problem is, every one of them wants to be later than the last. So it's very rare that a show starts on time, because the wealthier your audience, the bigger the press coverage.

Morgan is shaking her hands nervously, and I gasp again at the sight of her. “Morgan, you were born to be a bride.”

“I know. It totally makes me want to get married—to the right guy. You outdid yourself, Lilly. You have a gift for understanding the shape of women. I never want to take this off.”

“It's knowing the client. I've decided that I'm going to do custom-fit to the body, if this flies tonight. It's all the measurements, and knowing where to put the darts in the fabric so it lays right. I didn't do that with the rest of the models, and I see the difference. Maybe the audience won't see the technicalities. But they'll know when you walk out there that something is special.”

I take Morgan's appearance in, and she is truly a vision. The gown is strapless with a small appliqué of beading and pearls on the bodice. Everything is in satin, with the exception of a ruched silk cummerbund at her natural waistline. The skirt is a narrow A-line with a small flare of fabric at the floor.