The one I let get away.
Onstage is Shana Price.
But how and why?
I continue to struggle, my analytical brain searching for answers.
Maybe the world is filled with doppelgängers?
No. I’d know if it weren’t her, and damn, I can’t take my eyes off of her. She’s beautiful and confident and fits right into the show without fanfare.
I’m awestruck.
As the realization settles in, murmurs of approval from the men around me fill my ears, filling me with dueling and equally powerful emotions. The first is pride mixed with amazement. It’s not as if I know her that well; however, from what I do know, I can’t fathom why the top buyer for Saks’s junior department would be onstage for a lady’s lingerie show, but damn if she isn’t stunning. Like many others in the audience, I’m blown away by her presence.
It’s the other people in the audience—their presence and their eyes on her—that fuel my second strong reaction. Gripping the arms of my seat, my pride in her ability is the only thing tempering my growing need.
I’m overwhelmed with desire to rush the stage, wrap the woman of my dreams in my jacket, and carry her off like a prehistoric caveman. My skin heats at the thought that as gorgeous as she is, I don’t want others looking at her. Yes, I know it’s barbaric. I even have a split-second image of myself beating my chest and telling the world she’s mine.
It may be insane, but nevertheless, it’s real. Never before and with none of the other models have I felt such a strong urge to protect someone. It makes me wish that we weren’t in a room filled with others. Instead, I wish I was the only one to see Shana in that negligee.
Whichever emotion I concentrate on, I’m mesmerized by the woman before me.
And then...she turns and looks my way.
Our eyes meet for the first time since our weekend so long ago.
Her expression changes for only a second, but as it does I know with everything within me that none of this is an illusion. The model in the white nightgown isn’t a doppelgänger. She isn’t a mirage. Ignoring the rest of the women onstage, my gaze follows her every move as she works her way to the rear of the stage, mixing with the rest of the models. Her steps are flawless.
The music reaches its climax and all the models stop. Like statues of Greek goddesses, they stand perfectly still. People around us are using their tablets to mark the items they want to order. Even those of us who are here not as official buyers have the opportunity to order. It’s one of the benefits of attending the show. Fingers fly on screens as sales rack up.
Yet the only thought in my mind has nothing to do with lingerie. My thought is getting to Shana Price.
Shana
The show is over and as we all make our way backstage, I’m exhilarated like never before. It isn’t only that the show is complete or that I didn’t fall and make a total fool of myself—it’s more.
An overwhelming sense of triumph.
Cheers fill the air as everyone makes their way into the dressing room.
From the sound of the crowd and the look on Chantilly’s face, the fashion show was a shining success. Not only that, I overcame a lifelong fear. I did it. I walked onto the stage. For the first time, I was more than the woman behind the scenes. Putting the show ahead of my own fears, I did what needed to be done.
While allowing myself to be vulnerable, I kicked ass. At that second, I realize that sometimes it takes the first to do the second.
“To Shana!” Shelly yells above the roar of the other relieved models.
The backstage dressing room fills with applause.
“To each of you,” I reply. “You did this, ladies. I’m so proud to have been a part.”
Chantilly motions me toward her but not before I have the chance to step out of the tall shoes. When I reach her, she wraps a long black robe over my shoulders. “Before you change, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
For only a second, I imagine the person I pretended to see in the front row. “Who?”
“Stephen is outside. He has news.”
Stepping from the room in my bare feet, I leave the roar of the models for the sound of the crowd beyond the stage.
As my eyes adjust to the dim hallway light, I’m wrapped in a bear hug. “You did it. I knew you would.”
“Do you have numbers?”
Stephen nods ecstatically. “Through the roof. And they’re talking about the late walk-on model. At first there were questions about Jenese.”
“We knew there would be. She’s Saks’s top model.”
“You, boss lady, are now the talk of the town. Everyone wants to know who wore the white negligee in the finale.”
“They can keep wondering. I did it. I’ll leave it to the professionals for the future.”
“You know,” he says, “if the promotion doesn’t go through, you could consider...” Stephen’s grin widens.
“If it doesn’t go through, it won’t have been for lack of trying.”
“You can say that again.”
Stephen and I both turn toward Vicky. Though her words sound encouraging, I can’t tell from her expression what she’s thinking.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Stephen volunteers as he heads away from the dressing room door back toward the auditorium.
“Stepping in as a model,” Vicky begins, “something that according to your résumé you’ve never before done, at one of the most important shows of the year, was your idea of making this work? Of thinking on your feet?”
I stand taller, remembering the exhilaration I felt only moments ago.
“Yes. The show had to go on. It did.”
“We have an entire backlist of models—experienced models.”
“And none of them would have known the show.” I’m about to say it wasn’t my idea, yet I supported it. Vicky was the one who’d given me the reins. In doing so, she supported my right to make the decision. The final product of the show is mine, no matter what she thinks now, no matter the consequences.
We both know that the show was essentially my interview for the new position. If she’s upset, Stephen and I are headed back to London. That’s her decision. Standing up for my show and my choices is my decision. I refuse to back down. “There wasn’t time to get someone else in here, much less brief that someone on the choreography. You’re right, I’ve never modeled before. I don’t plan to do it again. However, as you said, the designers paid to have every outfit in the finale. We all know that it’s during the finale that final sales orders are secured. I had a job to do.”
“Delegation is the sign of a good supervisor.”
“I agree,” I say, straightening my shoulders and recalling Stephen’s pep talk. “Delegation is essential. I delegated to Chantilly and Stephen. Stepping in when required is the evidence of a great leader. A true supervisor can do any job in their department. A true leader can’t and shouldn’t expect others to do something that she isn’t willing to do. And one other thing...” I’m on a roll. “...stepping onto that stage was more frightening than taking the show you gave me and turning it into my own. Changing the mediocre and boring into exciting is what I love. Actually taking a part in performing that new show in front of a live audience is and was terrifying. I know from this experience that from now on, I’ll also have a greater appreciation for the work those women...” I point toward the dressing room. “...do on that stage. It may look easy. It may look mundane. It isn’t. It is both scary and exhilarating, and if saving this show’s ass loses me the position, then at least I can walk away and go back to London knowing I did my best.”
Vicky stares at me for a moment until the tips of her lips slowly rise as she shakes her head. “I can say that this is the first time I’ve had anyone give me a piece of her mind wearing silk lingerie.”
I wiggle my toes on the cool cement. “I can see how being barefoot in a nightgown, I appear less fierce. But you gave me a job to—”
“No, Shana,” Vicky
interrupts. “You appear plenty ferocious and determined. The powers that be are upset about Jenese. Her name brings people in. Yet...” She lifts a tablet. “...the sales numbers don’t lie. Orders are through the roof. Even Calvin Klein can’t be upset that Shelly wore the chemise instead of Jenese. Orders for those, as well as the Vera Wang you are now wearing under that robe are higher than last season. Actually, having it displayed in two different colors seems to have been a positive reinforcement on orders. It’s something we should consider in the future.
“Am I happy that things had to change? No.”
I don’t say a word.
“Am I impressed? Quite possibly.”
Inhaling, I ask, “Vicky, what about our return to London? Will the next ladies’ lingerie show be something I need to consider?”
“You have a job to do in London that’s still secure. You’ve shown your ability with juniors. Would you have decided to participate in a junior’s fashion show?”
I can hear the accusation in her tone. “Was I more comfortable walking out in front of hundreds of people in a long negligee or would I be more comfortable in a prom dress or maybe a miniskirt and half top?” When she doesn’t respond, I go on. “I’ve never been faced with the reality of participating onstage or disappointing investors. For the record, I’d do whatever needed to be done to make the project a success. Not just for me or even for Saks but for the women backstage who have worked their asses off over the last two weeks.”
I feel the tears well and prickle the back of my eyes, yet I keep my steely expression unchanged. I guess at the very least, my little stunt didn’t cause me to lose juniors. For that I should be relieved.
Vicky nods. “When we asked you here, it was for a month. The show was part of it. That part is done. For the next two weeks we’ll see how you can manage at corporate, and take my advice...”
I wait.
“Wear something else to the office on Monday.”
My jaw feels the pressure of my clenching, but before I can come up with a non-bitchy response, she turns and walks away.
Shit!
As the click of her shoes against the cold floor fades into the distance, I lean against the cinderblock wall and allow everything to sink in—the truth hits me. The show I’ve obsessed over is complete. All the work. All the preparation. Everything is done.
It isn’t though. Now our trial run continues as Stephen and I have a two-week working interview at corporate. It’s where I used to work. Different floor. Different department, but the address begins the same: Saks Fifth Avenue on Fifth Avenue.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted. The adrenaline rush from the show is history as the repercussions of our conversation loom in the future. Part of me wants to go to the hotel, climb into the large king-sized bed, call for room service, and keep the real world away until Monday. Pulling myself away from the wall, I turn toward the dressing room door when I hear the slow applause.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
As I turn, my gaze meets Stephen’s coming toward me. Instead of speaking, I lean into him. I know this isn’t appropriate coworker behavior, but right now, I need my best friend more than my assistant.
“You told her,” he says softly as my cheek falls against his shoulder, and he wraps me in a supportive hug.
I nod against the roughness of his suit coat as some of the tears break loose and spill down my cheeks as I fight to get the next breath.
Stephen holds my shoulders out to arm’s length. “Ms. Price, you kicked ass out there. You hold your head high.”
“What about your deposit?”
The tips of his lips kick upward. “We still have two weeks. I don’t know what stick is up her ass, but the numbers are still climbing. The fashion blogs are touting the amazing show, the choreography, the designs, and the newest unknown face in modeling.”
I close my eyes as more tears drip from my false eyelashes.
“Stop that. We’re meeting the infamous Kimbra and going out and celebrating. This is a night to party.”
“I was thinking a bottle of wine, a long bath, and maybe falling into a deep sleep.”
“No!” Stephen proclaims. “There will be no room service tonight. We are in New York, and don’t forget, I get to meet my new best friend tonight.”
I let out a long sigh. “How could I forget? I was so excited to see Kimbra, but now...”
His head slowly moves from side to side. “No. Now, it’s time to party. I love what you’re wearing, but do you think maybe it might get a little chilly?”
“It’s okay,” I say with a renewed smile. “I have on nipple tape. No one will know.”
Letting go of my shoulders, Stephen lifts a hand in the air. “Boss lady, sometimes it’s just TMI!”
“If I can’t talk to my gay best friend about nipple tape, who can I talk to about it?”
“First, I think there are some things better left unsaid. Then again...” His eyes widen. “...we’re going to see Kimbra. Maybe we can get the scoop on her sexy brother-in-law and things like nipple tape could be left to discovery.”
I squeeze his bicep. “Thank you. Thank you for being you and always making me smile. I’m sorry if I lost you your deposit.”
“Nothing that happened today was solely your decision. I was one hundred percent behind you going onstage. You nailed it, and not in the Pinterest nailed it kind of way. No regrets. I’ll admit, with your natural grace, I was a little nervous.”
This makes me laugh. “I was more than a little nervous. But I did as you said. I walked onstage and imagined that one person.”
“And it worked?”
“Well, I didn’t fall on my ass.”
Walking back into the dressing room to change, I’m a mix of thoughts and emotions. Despite Vicky’s less than enthusiastic review, I accomplished a successful lingerie show. I did it—not alone, but with the help of everyone involved. It’s then I see Chantilly.
“Hey,” I whisper, causing her to turn my direction. “Stephen and I are meeting someone later. Would you like to join us and celebrate?”
She looks up from the tablet in her hands. “Celebrate...um, the numbers are really good.”
I try to see what she’s reading, but from the angle I can’t. “Chantilly, is everything all right?”
Her lip disappears under her teeth for only a moment before she smiles. “Thanks.”
“For?”
“I had more fun on this show than any in a long time. I think the way you and Stephen changed things up was great.”
Why do I feel there’s a but coming in her sentence?
I wait.
When she doesn’t go on, I ask again about drinks. “We’re going to the Martini Club on Houston. Come on by if you’d like. Drinks are on me.”
Trevor
“So it didn’t exactly turn out the way we planned,” Matt says as he pops more peanuts in his mouth.
I want to disagree. The fashion show was much better than I ever imagined. I still can’t come to terms with the fact that Shana was one of the models. I’ve decided it must be my imagination tainted with too much alcohol from the night before. Unwilling to give up on my illusions, I join the other three as we all drink, working to maintain that permanent bachelor party buzz.
No matter what else it was, the afternoon has definitely been entertaining.
We’re now in one of those out-of-the-way bars, known mostly by locals, the kind that is ten feet wide and one hundred long. I may be exaggerating, but you get the idea. Our table near the front window gives us a view of the crowded street and if you turn a little, a view of the long, shiny bar. From my angle, I’m getting mostly heads, but it’s a sea of people. Located in an upscale part of the city, this place is a longtime goldmine. Surrounded by more expensive establishments with fancier signage, I’d take this bar to the ones filled with tourists any day.
That’s just part of what makes this place special. It’s unique. Instead of dancing, there are a few pool tables near the back. Currentl
y, we’re waiting on one opening. A twenty-dollar tip helped move us ahead in the waiting order.
“I guess this means that we should take Trevor up on his offer of conceding,” Max says. “I mean, it wasn’t much, but I did talk to the one man from Christian Dior.”
“You didn’t get his number or his name,” Eric reminds him.
“How do you know?”
“If you had, we’d all know!” Matt says with a laugh.
“Wait a minute, the night is young,” Eric interjects. “I heard some people talking, and they said that some of the models like to go out and party after a big show. That’s why we’re down the street from the Martini Club.”
In all of our planning, we hadn’t considered the springtime crowds. It’s an epidemic. As soon as the temperatures rise and the snow stops falling, everyone is out and about. Max was in charge and should have made a reservation for the Martini Club. I’m a planner. Then again, I live in Manhattan now and could have volunteered. It might not be fair to think Max could have done it all from the UK.
“Remember, you’re getting married in less than a month,” I remind Eric.
“I am. I’m also the judge. And I think watching you three get turned down flat sounds like fun.”
“I’m not conceding,” I reason. “No one made a move on a model.” I turn to Max. “You said models, not buyers. That means we’re all still tied.”
“We can up the ante,” Max says with a grin.
“Forget the model. Anyone gets laid tonight and his expenses for the weekend are zero. Eric, you’re exempt.”
I shake my head. “I don’t care if we have separate hotel rooms. We’re not in college.”
Eric takes a long draw on his beer. “You’re right, Trevor. This weekend isn’t about your dicks. It’s about my wedding. I’m happy to keep drinking and know that tomorrow I’m going home to Cynthia and that none of you have a new number in your phone.”