Page 7 of The Devil Wears Orange
It’s no surprise the “must attend” Lumière event is jam-packed. It’s the reason Jane picked it for me to model her design.Thisis the defining moment that destroys my career, but then again, I do have a habit of exaggerating. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Fashion people are open to new, modern ideas, and, with this comforting thought occupying my senses, I enter.
There.
I did it.
Not. Bad. At. All.
“For God’s sake, what are you wearing?” Harriet’s question shoots at me in staccato.
Sounding nonchalant, I say, “It’s a Parisian raincoat. One of a kind.”
“But darling, it’s not raining. And we’re inside.” Examining the outfit, Harriet raises one brow and spins me around. “It’s like a bunch of plastic bags sewn together, with patches of polka dots and stripes, and all the colors of a rainbow. It’s nonsense. I bet it balloons when you walk. Jog that way, and I’ll Instagram it with the caption #BagLady.” Harriet gives me a little nudge.
I pull away, weary of Harriet’s attempt to humiliate me as though the ridiculous outfit isn’t doing that already. But, I made a promise to Jane, and I will wear it without disparaging its design. “Oh, Harriet, it’s the next trend, and within a week, you’ll ask to borrow it. Have you seenMonsieurJulian Norbette?”
“He’s by the podium, the one who looks like a young Brad Pitt. Hmmm, not bad to look at, is he?” Harriet says, drawing my attention to Norbette. “He could do something about that hair of his, though.” Then back to me, she says, “Come to think of it, so can you.”
I swat Harriet’s hand away.
“Ow. I was only trying to help.” Harriet’s eyes scan over me again, and she wrinkles her nose. “Then again, the disastrous hair goes with the outfit.”
Harrumphing, I walk away, and ignore the gawking and the whispering and Harriet’s roaring laughter, as I attempt to push down the front and sides that keep puffing out. It’s too much to hope that Harriet is not posting a video on Instagram right now. There are those in the crowd who snicker with joyful smiles, others whose derisive snorts wash over me. I feel as though I’m tied to a whipping post and the whole village has come out for the show. I brace myself for the throwing of imaginary rotten food.
I approach Monsieur Norbette by the podium. “MonsieurNorbette, I’m Charlotte Milton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, Madame.” His eyes hover over my outfit before his face snaps back.
With Monsieur Norbette by my side, I make the rounds, introduce artists with fashion designers, designers with media, and work to escape that vlogger who trails me. Somewhere along the way, I lose Monsieur Norbette to a journalist.
Off on one side, an entrance leads next door to a smaller tent housing the event’s gallery portion. I slip away, swiping a blue macaron and drink from a table.
Champagne glass in hand, I pause to take in the art. Some of the paintings are smaller than what I had envisioned. I wish they came with price tags like the Starbucks’ artwork, which is the only art I can afford right now. When I first bought my apartment, I had this idea to decorate whole walls with B&W photographs, but the cost was proving to be astronomical. My ex-photographer-boyfriend encouraged the design and slipped his photography onto my wall. After our break up, he sent me an invoice with a PAST DUE notice stamped in red capital letters. I mailed him a check with the word ASSHOLE written in red nail polish. I can’t believe I thought he wasthe one.
A few people, milling around the paintings, check the time then scamper off to the next event with a gift bag in hand,validating them as aCatwalkVIP. Eyeing a painting of two giant squares and a circle, I try to feel it or let it absorb me or do whatever it is you’re supposed to do when looking at art. Instead, I tilt my head sideways for a different perspective and wonder if the painting hangs upside down.Whatever.Undecided, I move on to the next one. Finally, I arrive at the exhibit’s main attraction and ease my way through a small crowd gathered aroundMistress in a Red Dress. Monsieur Norbette pulls up alongside me, and the group disperses.
“She is exquisite,” Monsieur Norbette says.
“It seems risky to have these paintings in a tent instead of tucked away in the museum.”
“We have security.” He points to the guardsman behind us.
I examine the Rent-a-Guard’s uniform, which looks like a discounted Hallowe’en costume. To Norbette, I say, “But, he’s not even armed. What’s to stop anyone from stealing any of these paintings, especially this masterpiece? Even I could get away with it.” I simulate removing the painting off its wire and hiding it under my roomy raincoat. “It’s simple,” I tell him, my tone serious.
Monsieur Norbette smiles uncomfortably and purses his lips together.
Continuing, I say, “What a headline that would make –Unladylike Guest of Honor Steals Mistress in a Red Dress.” I fail to stifle a laugh.
A young woman approaches and says, “Excusez-moi, Monsieur,” then whispers into Norbette’s ear.
Addressing me, Norbette says, “There is a matter I must attend to. I will returntout de suite.”
Alone now, I look back at the painting and stare hard as if I can somehow pick up a vibe from theMistress. Maybe she can tell me what the fuss is all about because I don’t see it. Whipping out my phone, I take a selfie with theMistressand post to Instagram:Taking her back with me to NYC #LumiereShow #CatwalkStyleMag #ParisFashionWeek #MistressInARedDress
A waiter, dressed in a white fencing uniform and facemask, strolls past, and I plop down my empty glass. I can’t recall who came up with the idea for the uniform, but it had something to do with the artwork of a renowned French fencing master currently at the Louvre.
There’s a sliver of an opening in the tent where one flap meets another, and I slide my hand in to open it wider. From here, I glimpse Anne pacing in the Jardin des Tuileries, Chase in her arms, the carriage nearby. It has been a while since I felt it, but I recognize that palpable yearning. I long for my own Chase, but the chase after a father is what I find challenging.
A body presses up against my back.
