Page 89 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
My stomach was all jittery with nerves, so my tactic was always to hold on to him tightly. Preferably until the next day when I wouldn’t have to deal with a temperamental makeup artist and the critics sitting in the front row.
“You’re going to be fine. You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” he assured me. “I’ll get there as early as I can, okay? And once you get into it, you’ll be fine. It’s like a big party back there.”
This was true. We even had rock stars coming to our shows, most of whom were dating the models.
We didn’t have time to stand here all day, so I released him. “Okay. You’re free to go to the studio now.”
“You’re too good to me,” he said as he strode away.
“Don’t I know it,” I called after him.
I heard him laughing as the door closed behind him.
Then I kicked my ass into gear and channelled my badass boss mode. Or, at least, a close facsimile.
I still had no idea what I was doing, but I swear that half of being successful was just faking it ‘til you make it.
Backstage in the gothic-style church, there were approximately five hundred people running around, with the models milling about in various states of undress, but I couldn’t help peeking from backstage as the seats started filling up.
“Don’t look out there,” Simone said, steering me away so I wouldn’t obsess over who was sitting in the front row with a discerning eye and what their reactions would be. It always amazed me when fashion editors, journalists, and celebrities turned up at my shows.
Sometimes I worried that I’d only gotten this far because of nepotism. Thanks to my mom’s memoir, which got a lot of hype and starred reviews, journalists just loved to point out that the “hot new designer shaking up the fashion world” was none other than Nick Ashby’s daughter who was currently dating Gabriel Francis.
I adored Gabriel and was proud to be with him, but why couldn’t my designs be judged purely on their own merits? Why did journalists always have to attach a man’s name to a woman’s accomplishments?
When critics lauded Gabriel’s albums, they never once referred to him as Cleo Babington’s boyfriend.
“Xavi,” I said. “More kohl. More liner. Think The Cure.”
He shot me the evil eye. “Every. Single. Time.” He threw up his hands and cursed me in rapid-fire Spanish. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing. I practically invented the goth look.”
I wouldn’t go that far but okay, I trusted him.
I checked the time again. It was three forty and still no sign of Gabriel.
“How’s this?” Armando asked, standing behind the model’s chair with tongs in hand. He’d straightened Noelle’s long dark hair to within an inch of its life while she smoked cigarettes and drank champagne.
“Perfect, Armando. You look gorgeous, Noelle.”
She blew me a kiss. “I love your shows. It’s always such a great party. Good vibes.”
“You brought the good vibes with you,” I said, hurrying over to Simone who was sewing a willowy blonde into a black lace bustier. “Are you okay?”
“We’re fine. The seam ripped.” She waved me away. “Go help Gigi get into that dress.”
I turned to go then paused. “Simone…”
“You’re welcome. And you’ve got this. It’s going to be a sensation.”
“I love you, Simone.” I blew her a kiss. “I love you too, Xavi,” I called.
“You should. How fabulous does this makeup look?”
“Fabulous,” I declared.
“Tonight, we’ll drink champagne and toast to our collaboration,” he promised.
“It’s a match made in heaven,” I teased as I helped Gigi into a sheer black lace dress and did up the tiny silk-covered buttons going up the back.
