Because I'm Worth it (15 page)
you know nothing about!” she shouted at Aaron, before jumping
into the cab and pulling the door shut.
Aaron shivered in his thin cotton jacket and hunched his shoulders into the bitter wind as he walked east on Forty-second Street to Grand Central Station. It would be good to just hang with the guys for a change. Women were a monumental pain in his vegan ass.
But we’re oh, so worth it—right?
Dan tried not to stare at the models as they came out onto the runway during the Better Than Naked show wearing only pleated brown corduroy miniskirts with no tops on at all. Their skirts were so short he could even see the frilly white panties they were wearing underneath, which happened to be little girls’ vintage underwear from the nineteen-fifties and fit so snugly on the models that their butt cheeks were busting out of them. Instead of sitting down in the front row, where Rusty Klein had managed to snag him a seat between Stevie Nicks and superhip performance artist Vanessa Beecroft, Dan stood at the back of the Harrison Street Club, clutching his black leather-bound notebook and trying to look writerly in case Rusty Klein was somewhere nearby and was secretly studying him.
The show was set to strange German folk music and there was straw scattered on the runway. Little boys with blond pageboy haircuts wearing lederhosen led bleating white goats around by leather leashes as impossibly tall models stomped by them, their bare breasts bobbing.
Bestiality
, Dan scribbled furtively in his notebook. The goats were crapping all over the place and he noticed that the hems of the models’ skirts had been shredded on purpose.
Tears were drawn on their cheeks in iridescent blue eye pencil.
Ruined milkmaids
, Dan wrote, trying not to feel completely out of place. What the hell was he doing at a fashion show anyway?
The twenty-something-year-old brunette next to him leaned over and tried to read what he was writing. “Who are you with?” she demanded. “
Nylon
?
Time Out
?” She was wearing pointy rhinestone-studded glasses fastened old-lady style to a gold chain around her neck and had the thickest bangs Dan had ever seen. “Why aren’t you seated with press?”
Dan closed his black notebook before she could read any more. “I’m a poet,” he said importantly. “Rusty Klein invited me.”
The woman didn’t seem that impressed. “What have you published lately?” she asked suspiciously.
Dan tucked his notebook under his arm and smoothed down his new set of sideburns. One of the goats had gotten loose and jumped off the runway. Four security guards ran after it. “Actually, one of my more recent poems is in this week’s issue of
The New Yorker
. It’s called ‘Sluts.’”
“No way!” the woman gushed in a loud whisper. She pulled her lavender leather Better Than Naked tote bag into her lap and retrieved her copy of
The New Yorker
. Flipping through it, she turned to page forty-two. “You don’t understand. I read this poem over the phone to
all
my girlfriends. I can’t believe you wrote it.”
Dan didn’t know what to say. This was his first encounter with an actual fan and he felt simultaneously embarrassed and thrilled. “I’m glad you liked it,” he replied modestly.
“Liked it?” the woman repeated. “It changed my life! Would you mind signing this for me?” she asked, thrusting the magazine into his lap.
Dan shrugged and retrieved his pen.
Daniel Humphrey
, he scribbled just beside his poem, but his signature looked a little plain and impersonal so he added a squiggly little flourish underneath it. He’d scribbled over a few lines of the Gabriel Garcia Rhodes story, which seemed kind of like sacrilege, but who really cared, when he’d just signed his first autograph. He was famous—a real, genuine writer!
“Thank you
so, so
much,” the woman said, taking the magazine back. She pointed to his notebook. “Now you go ahead and keep writing,” she whispered reverently. “Forget I bothered you.”
German folk music morphed into opera and the little boys left the runway leading their goats. Models floated in wearing long black wool capes, peacock blue suede thigh-high boots, and ostrich feather headdresses. They looked like characters out of a
Lord of the Rings
sequel.
Dan flipped open his notebook and began to write.
Good and bad witches,
he scribbled.
Hunting hungry wolves
. He bit the end of his pen and then added,
Wish I could smoke a fucking cigarette
.
For her appearance at the Culture of Humanity by Jedediah Angel show at Highway 1 in Chelsea, Vanessa broke her tradition of wearing only black and borrowed Ruby’s red scoop-neck top with three-quarter-length sleeves. It was the same top she’d worn once before and gotten a lot of compliments on, probably because it was so low it revealed her soft, pale cleavage and a hint of her black lace bra. Vanessa had arrived late because her sister had insisted she take a cab, and of course the cab had gotten stuck in the snow near Union Square. While the driver yelled at the towing company on his cell phone with Lite FM blaring from the speakers, Vanessa had jumped ship. When she’d finally made it to the club, her ears had been frozen solid and she’d looked like a walking snowball. The fashion show had already started and she’d been sure they’d turn her away at the huge garage door that served as an entrance, but when she’d given her name to the girl at the door, a security guard with a flashlight had been appointed to personally escort Vanessa to her seat in the
center
of the
front row
. The chair had a card taped to it with C
HRISTINA
R
ICCI
crossed out in black marker and V
ANESSA
A
BRAMS
written in instead. Vanessa had never felt so special in all her life.
The room was dark except for burning white foot-high candles lining the runway on either side. Models dressed in navy blue above-the-knee sailor dresses with white piping and gold buttons at the lapels held foghorns to their lips as the sound of a terrible storm at sea boomed out of the sound system. The white wall behind the runway was lit with a single spotlight, and on that wall was projected the New York film essay Vanessa had sent to NYU. The film was black and white and it took on a sort of nineteen-forties classiness paired with the models’ sailor dresses. And even though everyone there seemed to be taking this whole bogus fashion-at-sea thing way too seriously, Vanessa had to admit it was pretty cool to see her film up there in lights.
The wafer-thin woman next to her flipped open her PalmPilot and typed in,
Brilliant backdrop
, with a long red fingernail. She was wearing an ID tag on her camel-colored cashmere sweater with the word
Vogue
printed on it, and her brown hair was cut in a short bob with thick, bronze-highlighted bangs. She continued to type.
Note: Ask Jed where the film came from.
Vanessa considered nudging her gently and saying, “I made it,” but she decided it would be more fun to stay quiet and see what happened. Maybe someone would detest the film and make a big stink about it and Vanessa would become known as the infamous filmmaker whose bitterly honest portrayal of New York had been a real downer at Fashion Week. She wondered how Dan was doing at the Better Than Naked show. She imagined him asking that hot new Brazilian super-model—Anike, or whatever her name was—for a light without even knowing who she was. That was the thing Vanessa most loved about Dan, his divine innocence.
The film came to the part where she’d filmed two old men wearing matching red-and-black plaid wool jackets and black wool caps playing chess in Washington Square Park. One guy’s head bobbed against his chest, his burning cigar perched precariously on his sagging lower lip as he began to fall asleep. The other guy snapped his fingers to make sure his partner was asleep before moving the chess pieces around and nudging his sleeping friend awake again.
Inside Highway 1 the sounds of the storm faded and boisterous big-band music began to play. A giant cardboard boat was hauled onto the stage by muscular male models pulling thick white ropes and wearing only simple navy blue briefs. The boat came to a stop and the gangplank was lowered. Out came the models, two at a time—there must have been a hundred of them, and how had they all fit into that boat?—all dressed in navy blue satin bra-and-panty sets, with white fish-net over-the-knee stockings, white elbow-length gloves and white suede over-the-knee boots. After marching down the gangplank with military-style efficiency they began a complicated dance that looked like a cross between air traffic control and water ballet. Suddenly the neat rows of gesticulating models parted to reveal a dapper dude with curly, shoulder-length red hair, wearing a white three-piece suit, carrying a jewel-encrusted gold cane, and
tap-dancing
.
No joke.
Red curls bouncing, he tap-danced right up to the end of the runway, stopped on a dime, and began to applaud the audience. Behind him the models stood on one leg, with the other knee raised high, like flamingos, applauding, too. Then the music stopped and the audience went wild.
The redhead had to be Jedediah Angel, Vanessa decided, and he was standing directly in front of her. He took a deep bow, looking a bit like the Wizard of Oz in his tight white suit. Suddenly he pointed at her and began to whoop and clap, motioning for her to stand up. Vanessa shook her head, alarmed, but Jedediah Angel kept on beckoning to her. “Stand up, baby! Stand
up
!”
The crowd was going crazy now. They didn’t even know who the hell Vanessa was, but if Jedediah Angel wanted her to bow, she must be
somebody
. Giving in, Vanessa stood up, her face burning with embarrassment and her shoulders shaking in an uncharacteristically nervous fit of the giggles as she bowed her head to acknowledge their applause.
She could already hear Ken Mogul whispering in her ear, “Get used to it baby, you’ve rocked their world!” And even though it
was
kind of cool to have so many people acting like they worshipped her, she couldn’t wait to trade stories with Dan about what a farce the whole thing was.
Unless of course he’d already eloped to the south of France with a hot nineteen-year-old Brazilian supermodel.
Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.
hey people!
Let it snow!
There are fourteen inches on the ground so far and here I am, snowed in at the hottest, most exclusive Fashion Week after-party ever, with my all-time favorite fashion designer, hundreds of gorgeous models and hunk-o-licious actors, the most discerning fashion magazine editors in the business, and five of fashion’s most avant-garde photographers. I honestly don’t care if the whole city shuts down because of the snow. I never want to leave!
Sightings
B
waiting for her date in the corner of that romantic little bar in the new boutique hotel on Perry Street.
S
signing autographs at the
Les Best
after-party at
Crème
on Forty-third.
C
at the same party, surrounded by younger male models, also signing autographs—who is he pretending to be?
N
escorting our favorite Connecticut heiress home to her Greenwich mansion in her limo.
J
and her new best friend dashing through the snow to collect booty from Blockbuster and Hunan Wok on Broadway near J’s house—sounds like a party.
D
being swarmed by models at the
Better Than Naked
after-party at the
Harrison Street Club
. Were they just bumming cigarettes or did they all actually read his poem?
V
at the
Jedediah Angel
after-party at
Highway 1
, pretending to flirt with everyone in that delightfully banal way of hers.
I just hope everyone is as ecstatic as I am about being stuck where they are until the weather clears. Remember, nothing warms you up faster than another person’s body heat.
Oops, someone’s taking my photograph for the Style section this weekend, and my lips are in serious need of some shine. Gotta fly!
You know you love me.
gossip girl
just like that scene in
titanic
“So how come Dan didn’t invite you?” Elise asked as she rolled a steamed dumpling around in a puddle of soy sauce.
To weather the snowstorm, Elise and Jenny had gathered a feast of Chinese food and Oreos and videos they’d never heard of, since everything else at Blockbuster had been rented out. Now they were watching the New York Fashion Week coverage on the Metro Channel in the living room of Jenny’s sprawling, ramshackle Upper West Side apartment. Bizarrely enough, the camera had just panned over the audience at the Better Than Naked show, zooming in on Dan for a moment as he scribbled away furiously in his stupid black notebook.