Page 177 of Cashmere Cruelty

We approach the line of models. Some are still putting on the finishing touches, even now. Others are standing in front of the curtains, posing for the camera flashes to come.

At the end of the row, I glimpse the model with the tiara.

So does Petra.

Her eyes bulge. The prize in sight, right there for the taking. If she just reaches out…

“Five seconds!”

“Don’t,” I whisper to her before she can try something rash. “Do your part. I’ll do mine.”

Then the curtains lift.

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APRIL

One after the other, the models begin to strut out. It’s a slow affair: only one at a time, to better showcase the pieces. The audience oohs and aahs, praising the dresses as they’re shown off.

“Here!” a breathless voice squeaks behind me. “S-Sparkling water. I didn’t know if you wanted room temperature or not, so I got you both?—”

It takes almost no effort on my part. The hostess is so nervous to be near me that her hands are shaking on her own. So, when I reach out for a glass…

Splash!

“Oh, dear!” I gasp.

The hostess, now drenched from head to toe, looks like she’s about to cry. “I’m s-so sorry! I’ll get you another! I’ll?—”

“Nonsense,” I tut, feeling horrible on the inside. Mass and confession won’t be enough; after this, I’ll have to tour every church, mosque, and synagogue in the city. A redemption tourto any version of God merciful enough to listen and take pity on me. “Go change, and quickly. Here, I’ll take that.”

Without letting her protest, I slip the blazer off her shoulders. “B-But?—”

“You don’t want to meet Giorgio like this, do you?”

“Giorgio?” She blinks. “As in, Armani…?”

“Who else?” I snap. “Hurry up and change before he comes. You’ve got a spare, don’t you?”

“M-Maybe in the staff room…” she sniffles.

“Good idea,” I lie. “Now, go. Chop chop!”

The hostess hurries out again. “Sorry, Ami,” I murmur, glancing at the name tag. “Once this is over, I’ll send you the most expensive chocolates Matvey’s credit card can buy.”

Just then, I hear the crowd gasp. The chatter amps up and I peek out to see which dress has them in such a frenzy.

And then I choke.

“Incredible!”

“The fashion sense of this piece…”

“It’s a metaphor. No matter how pristine we can pretend we are, in the end, we’re still broken on the inside.”

“So high-concept!”

I cough into my hand. Part of me wants to laugh; the other wants to cry.I literally just ripped it up. What’s high-concept about that?

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