Page 229 of Torrid Passion
CHAPTER 39
Kyla
Epilogue
Three years later
After exiting the majestic Grand Palais, Harlow and I cross the street. Countless socialites, fashionistas, industry people, celebrities and fashion reporters spill into the streets of Paris. Everywhere you look, it’s a sea of expensive couture, stylish handbags and killer shoes. From the animated conversations as people rush to their next destination, everyone is still high from the post-show buzz.
“The iconic former creative director at Chanel was a trailblazer. May his soul rest in peace,” I say. “No one can fill his shoes.”
“Nope. Even now, after his death, the man remains untouchable,” Harlow agrees.
“The new director did a phenomenal job. That was an unforgettable fashion show,” I say.
“It might not be as flamboyant as some of the past shows, but people will be talking about it for a long time,” she says. “I was an intern when the former director transformed a set into a Monaco-meets-Malibu beach—complete with sand, waves and a lifeguard tower.”
“That’s the show where all the models walked barefoot and carried their expensive Chanel shoes in their hands?”
“Yup. Everyone thought it was a crazy idea,” Harlow says. “God knows how many tons of sand was shipped in for that show.”
“But it was magical,” I marvel.
“It was spectacular.”
“In any case, this show could’ve taken place in a basement instead of the Grand Palais and I would still be walking on sunshine,” I say. “Thanks for allowing me to be your plus one.”
“I guess even kick ass award-nominated screenwriters don’t have it all,” she winks.
“Seems like we don’t.”
“What are best friends for?”
“I know, right?” I laugh.
You have no idea how complicated it is to get a script from a simple document on a laptop to the small screen until it’s your script you’re trying to push. Mom warned me, but since she writes for the big screen, I thought my experience would be different. It wasn’t. After lengthy contract talks, mountains of legal papers, endless meetings with my parents and uncles for guidance and countless script revisions, UTV.com picked up‘Love in the City of Angels’. They even loved the name so much they didn’t change it. Mom was beside herself. Dad was so proud. Grandma Oralie and Nono Bruno flew in from Italy for the premiere. Nono Bruno cried. He said I make the Gianniello name proud. I joked and told him I have no choice since Mom insisted on including it as part of my birth name. Loki seemed to be unfazed throughout the seesaw process. I guess he’s used to it in his line of work. From day one, he knew I had it in the bag. I wasn’t so sure, but his unflappable confidence gave me wings. He never allowed me to lose faith. The man was my pillar. I doubt I would’ve kept it together without him. I can officially call myself a screenwriter. The industry nods and nominations are icing on the cake. This past year and a half has been a crazy and amazing ride.
Oh, there are a few things I forgot to tell you.
The episode of‘Love in the City of Angels’featuring Mr. Pussy was epic. I mean, it was ridiculous. My Facebook page nearly broke from all the fan messages I received. The viewers loved it. I was humbled. Sometimes life is way better than fiction. Speaking of the devil, Grant and Glenda are married. They have two kids and they are really happy. Mr. Pussy has officially retired. Life didn’t turn out as well for the evil Boggess sisters. I sued Dawn. The lawyer my father hired went after her with a vengeance. Glenda and Grant’s lawyers weren’t kind either. A number of celebrities went after Denver. It was ugly. She didn’t last long. In the end, she shut down her blog. Chances are, Dawn and Denver won’t recover financially for a really long time. I have no love in my heart for those two bitches.
“Mom helped me score the tickets,” Harlow says. “She said one of her contacts in LA knows an influential French family here in Paris. They made a few calls and voilà… my bestie and I are rubbing elbows with the crème de la crème!”
“I guess as a former model, she would still have strong connections in the fashion world,” I say.
“Thank God or else we’d be watching the show’s highlights on the Internet like everyone else,” Harlow laughs. I join her. “My former position as an intern at Chanel didn’t carry enough weight for us to be sitting in the front row seat of one of the most coveted shows in Paris.”
“I’ll have to thank Jordana again when I get back to LA,” I say. “This was a dream come true. I’ve been to plenty of fashion shows in LA with Stella and Hayden, but Paris… nothing compares to Paris.”
“Nothing,” Harlow agrees. “I’m glad I’m back home, but there will always be a little part of me that belongs to this city.”
I couldn’t believe it when Harlow told me her mom had surprised her with tickets to the Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Valentino and Balenciaga shows—all taking place on the same day—during Paris Fashion Week in late September. I swear, I thought she was lying, but here we are after a dizzying hour and a half of elegant fashion. Before the shows we were part of an exclusive group of guests invited to a few chichi pre-show cocktail parties. Very posh. Of course, for the occasion, Harlow and I are both adorned in our Chanel best—from the shoes to the garlands of signature pearl necklaces. I’m wearing one of Grandma Oralie’s blazers. She used to work at a Chanel boutique here in Paris before meeting Nono Bruno at a gala.
After we cross a street, Harlow pulls out her phone. “Give me a sec,” she says, meeting my gaze.
“Sure.” I pull out my phone from my tote bag and check for messages.
Nothing.
