Page 3 of The Devil Wears Orange
Harriet scrounges the freebies in the swag bag that had been on her seat, pulls out nail polish and foldable flip-flops, a look of hapless boredom on her face until she finds something that piques her interest. “Filler discount,” says Harriet, touching an index finger to the regions just below her eyes. Her almond-shaped, dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, and heart-shaped face make her a doppelgänger for a young Naomi Campbell. Often, she waltzes past onlookers at fashion shows, and ismistaken for the phone-throwing supermodel. “If we had been late because of Anne, we would have missed out.” To me, she says, “Becky had to pry the baby from Anne’s arms. She wanted to bring him to the fashion show, for God’s sake. Can you imagine her sitting in the front row with a baby suckling her breast?” The lashing sounds harsher in her Queen’s English accent.
“It was just a thought,” says Anne in a defensive tone. “You make it sound worse than it actually was.”
Knowing Anne, it was more than a mere thought, one that would have negatively affected her work. She’s been floundering lately, and her behavior caught Pierre’s attention. Before we left New York for Paris Fashion Week, Pierre had warned that if Anne screwed up again, I would have to fire her. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a hard no, even if I have to cajole Anne to do her job, or cover for her,again. Anne has given countless years of professionalism to the magazine; I can’t abandon her. It takes a village to raise a child, and without family around, me, Harriet and her au pair, Becky, are that village, though Harriet less so.
Anne twists a finger through her long black hair that cascades past her shoulders, her eyes skirt about the room. “Everyone is so meticulously groomed. I tried to get a haircut last week but the young girl ahead of me insisted Ronaldo give her a cut identical to some Japanese anime character. It was a disaster. When I saw what he had done, I walked out.” After a beat, she says, “The cartoon character did have nice hair, though.”
Music streams through the venue with a performance by a solo musician playing the Oud.
“What’s the designers’ inspiration?” I say, my thoughts now returning to the fashion show.
Anne recites almost by memory. “They were inspired by a trip to Dubai, the grand palaces and natural beauty of the country and the people.”
“Not to mention the bank accounts of every Sheik buying these designs for their wives,” Harriet adds.
“Oh, and look at this. It says a real Prince will join us. I wonder where he’s sitting.” Anne looks around. “That’s odd. The most fabulous seats are taken, and those people don’t look, well, Prince-y.”
“What’s his name?” I say, peering over the press packet.
“Prince Rashid Mohammed Salah al-Zayed, eldest son of the King. Mother is the senior wife.”
“Senior wife? Just how many wives does this Prince have?” says Harriet.
Anne immediately Googles him on her phone. “No, that’s his father who has a senior wife and oh...three others. Prince Rashid isn’t married.”
“Well, ladies, there are three of us. We could all be one of his wives,” says Harriet.
I say, “You would share your husband?”
“At least they’re honest, unlike what goes on in New York where the senior wife is dumped once her husband publicly parades his soon-to-be junior wife.”
Anne blinks back the tears that a month ago would have poured out, and hisses, “I am not a senior wife.”
“I didn’t mean you,” Harriet says in a thin, defensive whisper, and I give her a scolding look. Instead of avoiding the elephant in the room, Harriet rides the damn thing even if the elephant holds a sign that reads, “Do Not Talk About Anne’s Abandonment.”
In silence, we shift in our chairs with frayed nerves, and swipe at our phones.
Amid a fever-pitched sea of excited attendees, the lights dim to signify the start of the show. The first model appears and parades down the runway wearing a black tunic and gold laméharem pants. Countless purple beads drape her arms, and layers of exquisite silk fabric envelop her.
Bedouin-inspired layers is the new volume dress, I post, following a grouping of caftans in vivid hues that fill-up the runway. An idea forms about a future “all sizes” issue, and perhaps these dresses, accepting most sizes, can democratize fashion. Now that really is #ToDieFor.
By the time the final model disappears behind the curtain, the audience is eager for the grand finale. Yet, the models don’t return for their last stretch down the runway. Nor is there any sign of the designers, which is odd.
A movement behind the curtain captures my interest, and I strain my neck to see. A male model steps onto a darkened part of the stage, motionless, and then regally strides down the runway carrying a single white rose. He wears a full-length gold lamé jacket, a multi-strand draping necklace in purple crystals, and a chunky silver bracelet with chains that lead to his middle finger. A jewel suspends on his forehead from the center of the turban, and a veil of silver silk swings down his long back. Harem pants tighten around his ankles.
He’s beautiful. Dark skin, strong eyebrows, brilliant blue eyes, and an angular jaw covered in manicured stubble. I once wrote an article on the art of attraction, noting men with symmetrical faces, like the model’s, are put in the long-term-husband-material-for-procreation category. The model may as well be one giant magnet drawing me in.
“Nowthereis a man,” Harriet breathes out in a raspy voice. “Ladies, we found our Prince.”
The Prince turns for his walk back, his fingers gently caress the flower he holds. I gulp, thinking it’s so loud that the ladies must have heard. Every pulsating fiber of my being wants to reach out, to smell him, lick him, ride him. Hot and flustered, I fan myself with the press kit. As he passes, his eyes fix on mine andhold.Catwalkonce ran a story that when a man is interested in a woman, he will gaze for 8.4 seconds. Breathlessly, I start counting.
Is it possible for a man to smile without actually smiling? He leans toward me and, his eyes still holding on mine, offers me his white rose. I swipe it too quickly, and scratch him in an inelegant attempt to secure the flower.
Then he is gone.
Eight. It was for eight seconds.
“For God’s sake, close that mouth of yours,” Harriet snaps.
