Today is the final rehearsal, the last chance to make this lingerie fashion show the best it can possibly be.
“So many,” she whispers again.
“And our job is to be sure they’re covered when they walk onstage.”
We both eye the model wearing only a black lace thong and matching bra that barely contains her C-cups. The padded half-moons of material push her boobs upward with the upper edge of her areola visible. My gaze narrows and lips purse as I turn back to Chantilly and fight back a smile with a shake of my head. It’s the same battle we’ve been fighting for the past week.
Chantilly lifts a tube that resembles something like a bottle of roll-on deodorant or better yet, a glue stick from preschool. In reality, that’s what it is, glue—body glue. By the time these models walk onstage their lingerie will be attached like a second skin.
“No wardrobe malfunctions,” we say in unison.
“Shana.”
“Shana?”
I’m turning and twisting in a million different directions as models and dressing assistants call my name with questions or simply look for my nod of approval.
That’s who I am, the number-one point on Saks Fifth Avenue’s semi-annual New York lingerie fashion show. It’s one of the top shows for the company in terms of attendance. Not only will there be buyers from all over the world, but the show is also open to the public. That means interested parties from everywhere will be in attendance, possible buyers and investors as well as the competition and of course, just the curious attendee.
That isn’t my choice. I like keeping shows professional. However, the added attendance is said to ramp up the excitement. According to Chantilly, who has been backstage for the last three shows, the enthusiasm radiates from the audience to the models.
As I fan myself with my clipboard, I wonder if we can handle more radiation. The temperature in the dressing room already feels like a hundred degrees and we still have hours of planning and refining.
Maybe the higher temperature is beneficial for the models. Since I’m not walking around in a bra and panties, my extra clothes may be part of my problem. No doubt that their lack of clothes could be an issue if they were cold.
Then again, too hot and body glue begins to melt.
No one wants that!
“Which one with the chemise?” Chantilly asks from across the room. “Thong or tanga brief?”
I eye the two swatches of white satin material she’s holding in the air, neither looking as if they’ll cover enough of the beautiful six-foot-tall model by her side to make a difference. However, with the way the white silk chemise hits the top of the model’s thighs, unless this fashion show wants to be renamed a striptease, one is definitely going to be necessary. Yes, more than breasts are on display behind closed doors. “Tanga brief, but in black.”
Chantilly’s eyes narrow before her lips move upward. “I like that. Yes, through the white silk it will pop.”
Models in all stages of dress and undress talk amongst themselves, moving about the crowded dressing room as they wait for their final assignment. I’m twisted in different directions with questions as I work to pin a too-long spaghetti strap onto the lace bodysuit.
“Shana!”
I turn my gaze as I poke the straight pin through the strap and into my finger.
“Ow,” the model in my grips murmurs with a flinch.
“Sorry,” I reply as my lip disappears behind my teeth and I assess the damage. I may have superficially nicked her, but damn, I practically stabbed my finger.
“Let me help,” Chantilly says as she comes toward us. “I think you should stick to the clipboard and let the wardrobe assistants handle the sharp objects.”
I lift my hands in defense, only a small dribble of blood visible. “You’re probably right. She’s all yours.”
Yes, I also find it hilarious that the lead coordinator of a lingerie show is named after lace.
Brocade, guipure, knit, or alençon...I suppose it could be worse.
“Jenese,” Chantilly says, reaching for my hand and assessing the damage, “needs your help with the French briefs.” Her eyes meet mine as she tilts her head toward the entrance. “Band-Aids are in the cabinet by the door.”
Did you know that Band-Aid isn’t a universal term? I didn’t know that until I was in London working. There they’re called fabric strips or plasters. Simple things like that make me happy to be back in the States.
Nodding, I forget about the language idiosyncrasies and recall Chantilly’s first statement. “Jenese needs my help with a pair of panties?” I ask, wondering what happened to miniskirts and lo-lace tank tops from the junior line.
I know what happened. Two weeks ago, while working in London, I received the call, the one offering me a chance to advance from juniors to ladies’ lingerie. It is more than I ever dared to dream, and yet in the middle of this pandemonium that by tomorrow needs to be a finely tuned tranquility, I’m questioning my sanity as much as my ability.
Grabbing a fabric strip—which isn’t even the Band-Aid brand— from the small cart near the door, I make my way through the sea of satin and lace until I find Jenese. As one of Saks’s top models, she’s stunning and at least ten inches taller than me—and that’s without the five-inch heels she’s currently wearing.
“See right here?” Jenese says with a frown as she points to the top hem of the French briefs.
“Yes.”
“Maybe I should wear something else?”
“Why?” I shake my head. “Maybe I’m not seeing what you’re seeing.”
“The way it makes my skin bunch. It will be all anyone sees.” Her tone and the way her words are clipped by her accent create a mix of irritation and disappointment.
“Jenese, your skin isn’t bunching.” Hell no. I don’t think this woman standing nearly a foot over me has skin to bunch. If anything, I’d like to feed her a sandwich.
She sighs. “I don’t know.”
“They fit perfectly.” I look up to my eye level and quickly move my head back. The black lace front of the bustier stretched across her breasts is sheer enough to be transparent, leaving two very large, round boobs inches in front of me. Chantilly was right—they’re everywhere.
I take a step back as I return my gaze to Jenese’s big blue eyes. “I don’t think anyone will notice the briefs.”
Jenese smiles.
It’s then that I notice the edge of the bustier is precariously close to her nipple. “As a matter of fact.” I speak louder. “Can someone be sure we have a little body glue on here?”
“They’re not easy to contain,” Jenese quips with a grin.
“Then maybe a lot of glue. Let’s try our best to keep them covered today and tomorrow.”
She gives me a wink as she walks over to one of the assistants already armed with the roll-on bottle.
“Ladies. Final number in ten,” I say loudly, garnering everyone’s attention. “I’m going out to talk to the sound guys. Does anyone have any questions?”
Every model’s gaze stares my way, all wondering the same thing: will I be able to pull this off?
It’s the million-dollar question.
“We’ve got it in here,” Chantilly assures me with a smile. “Grab a Band-Aid on the way out.”
“I already have one,” I say, wiggling my wounded middle finger in the air. As soon as I do, I realize my unintended gesture.
“Hey!” Her smile grows.
Quickly, I wiggle all five fingers, waving as I step out of the room.
Opening the door to the stage, I’m met with the rush of cool air and at the same time, the heat of stage lights. It’s a strange combination causing goose bumps and perspiration to materialize simultaneously. Wiping my brow while shivering, I’m now thinking about each possible piece of lingerie and how these lights and cool air will accentuate the models’ attributes that won’t be hidden with glue.
I make a mental note: nipple tape.
Skin colored, it stop
s the pebbling of nipples. Okay, it doesn’t stop it. The tape hides it. Nipples harden. It happens. However, it’s not always produced by endorphins as books make it out to be. A simple cold chill can change the way the lingerie hangs. And, like in the books, certain buyers can be all too easily distracted.
“Stephen!” I call out into the lights. “Remind me to check on nipple tape.”
Since I can’t see anything past the stage, I hope that I didn’t just yell nipple tape to a room full of buyers. I squint into the sea of light. If I were a model, I think I’d appreciate the blinding fog. I could imagine that no one is out in the audience, that I am alone on the runway. After only a few seconds, the first few rows of seats become visible.
Moving forward, my flat ballet slippers slip on the smooth surface causing me to rear backward, nearly falling on my behind and losing my clipboard. A few windmill moves with my arms and I’m steady to go.
“Grace personified.” My assistant laughs, his deep voice cutting through the light-induced fog until I see him moving toward the edge of the runway.
I can’t help but laugh too. “Hey, I didn’t fall.”
“Lucky that quick move didn’t land you on your nose or better yet, cause you to take flight.”
“Fine. That’s why I’m not a model.”
“Yes, the only reason.”
“Shut up,” I quip. “And offer me a hand to help me down.”
“I’m not sure that’s in my job description,” Stephen says, stepping forward and giving me a steady hand just as he’s done ever since we met in London.
Nearly two years ago, I was transferred from New York to London and named as head of the junior clothing line of Saks Fifth Avenue. With that move, I acquired Stephen. As with Chantilly’s help backstage, a great assistant can make or break a career. When I was offered the possible opportunity to move back to New York, to move up from juniors into lingerie, I made one request: I asked for Stephen to mirror my move.
Of course, I asked him first, and even though this is a trial run, he said yes. Thankfully, so did the powers that be.
Stephen is more than an assistant. Over the last two years, he’s become one of my best friends.
Yes, you can have more than one.
“What was that about nipple tape?” he asks with a cheesy grin. “Max ran a marathon once and had tape to avoid bleeding nipples.”
“Eww,” I say, the image he’s describing not what I need in my head right now, not with the memories of my injured finger.
“Yeah, but unless you’ve changed up the numbers or speed of the show—like the models are now going to run the runway—I don’t see that being an issue here.”
Shana
My nose scrunches at the thought of men I’ve seen running the New York marathon and the image of bloodstained shirts. Apparently, nipples aren’t only a woman’s problem. Shaking the unwanted images away, I say, “No. No blood. Yuck! The tape is for this cold air. We don’t want the models to look cold, if you know what I mean?”
Stephen shakes his head. “Sometimes I question my life. You know, when I woke this morning, I never thought... hmm, I hope that sometime today I’ll have the opportunity to talk about nipple tape.”
“You didn’t?”
“Did you?”
“Well, it’s more like when I wake, I wonder what crazy-ass stuff is going to be thrown my way. I’d say I’d rather avoid subjects like nipple tape, body glue, and boobs, but that would mean I don’t love this.” I wave my arms around. “All of it. And you know what?”
My best friend’s smile broadens, lifting his cheeks and making the little creases appear by his eyes. “You love every minute of it.”
“I do...nipple tape and all.”
“Speaking of nipples and boobs and this...” He mimics my Vanna White gesture showcasing the room. “How’s the madhouse backstage?”
“Certifiable! Chaos at its finest. A second ago, I was telling someone to glue lace on boobs. There are so many boobs!”
Stephen laughs. “Boobs are good. Nipples bleeding or showing, not so much.”
One more scrunch of my nose. “Not to the buyers and definitely not to the designers.”
“No wardrobe malfunctions!” we say together, repeating what seems to be my current mantra.
“Honey, that’s for sure,” he says. “You don’t need anyone going Janet Jackson on you.”
I rub my hands over my arms, the air conditioning roaring from somewhere above. “Why is it so damn cold out here? We’re showing lingerie not parkas.”
“Tomorrow this place will be packed to the gills with shoulder-to-shoulder people and filled with bright lights.” He points to the rafters where the rays of light shine at intervals. I squint as I follow with my eyes.
“Currently,” he says, “only about half of the lights are on. When they’re all shining, even without the people, it’ll raise the temperature by at least fifteen degrees to at least seventy-five.”
“Fahrenheit, I hope.”
He laughs.
Different systems of measuring temperature were part of our adjustment to living in London. When an American hears the temperature will be thirty-eight, he or she thinks cold. It doesn’t take long to learn that assumption is wrong.
“Better be,” he says. “If it’s Celsius, we’ll be broiling the models, not showcasing them.”
“I still think the tape is a good idea.” My whole body shivers as we make our way to the light and sound booth. “Tell me you have everything set out here.”
Stephen’s head bobs on his broad shoulders.
“Have I ever told you how much I appreciate your confidence and decisiveness?”
“No, Ms. Price, you have not. Maybe you have. I’m really not sure.” Sarcasm dripping from his friendly tone is why I’ve grown to love him. He can invoke humor in a way that takes off the edge while still being ever so competent in his job. If I had to narrow it down, I’d say that Stephen’s ability to make me smile in the face of a challenge is why we work so well together.
For two years he’s been my right hand. Heck. He’s been my right arm and probably the right side of my brain. He’s very creative yet also extremely well-organized.
Maybe he’s my entire brain?
“So,” he begins, changing the subject, “I’m finally going to meet my new bestie?”
I playfully punch his arm. “You can’t have her. She’s mine.”
“Well, you’re mine and she’s yours...and I’m yours, so technically...”
Despite all the worries about the lingerie show, thinking about my two best friends finally meeting makes me grin.
When I was first transferred to London and overwhelmed with everything from the cute red phone booths and double-decker buses to learning how to navigate the tube, Stephen was right there beside me. Being also from the States—he was born and raised in New York—he’s been there for me. I’ve been there for him. Together for the last two years, we’ve seen life’s and love’s ups and downs.
Recently, he ended his relationship with Max. Not as in Maxine, but as in Maximilian, a sexy investment banker with a to-die-for British accent and posh flat. Two months ago, I would have said Stephen and Max were perfect for one another. That was before Max did him wrong. Now, Max is pond scum.
That’s what friends do. We adore those you adore and abhor those you abhor.
From “Oh, honey, he’s perfect!” to “I never liked the guy. Have another glass of wine.”
Pond scum is too good for the likes of Maximilian Cantel. He’s lower than pond scum. That makes him fungi buried in the muck below the surface, the kind clinging to rubbish for survival.
Yes, the man beside me, my best friend and personal assistant, is a male fashion designer who happens to be interested in other men. It sounds cliché, but he’s not. He’s a whiz at fashion, knowing, predicting, and wearing. He has the looks and personality that draws both women and men. Though he’s always been open about his orientation, the female models in juni
ors were always hanging on his every word. He’s definitely handsome, charismatic, and fun.
He’s also nice and considerate and incredibly efficient. With everything we’ve experienced, I think of him as the brother I never had. While he didn’t need to make the attempt at this transition with me, I’m so glad that he did.
Now we’re back in the States, in Manhattan to be exact, the home of my other best friend, Kimbra. I can’t wait to see her again. While I’ve been off in London, she’s been working her dream job and living the life of a newlywed with her sexy husband who also happens to be her boss. That’s another story for another time.
Up until just recently, Kimbra and I haven’t been able to make our schedules mesh. Even though Stephen and I have been in the city for over a week, our every waking moment and some of our sleeping ones have been dominated by this fashion show. Tomorrow it will be over, and tomorrow night the three of us are finally going to get together.
“Drinks tomorrow night at the Martini Club,” I say. “She invited us to her place, but with the crazy schedule we’ve been keeping, I was afraid we’d be late or have to cancel. The club is in Lower Manhattan and not too far from our hotel.” I’m really concerned I may fall asleep. Burning the candle at both ends doesn’t even begin to describe my current state. “Tomorrow with the show as history, I figured we could relax. Besides, celebrating is better than crying. I’m excited for you to meet her. Just remember...” My volume lowers as my eyes widen.
Stephen waggles his brows. “Just remember...to fill in the infamous Kimbra on your little romp with her brother-in-law?”
I punch his arm again. “If you say one word...”
He presses his lips together. “You can be so violent! Sealed. My lips are sealed.”
“I’m not violent. And it’s also not that I want to be dishonest with her. This was a hard secret to keep. But I didn’t tell her when it happened and now...well, now, it doesn’t matter. Water under the bridge.”
As you may have guessed, we’re talking about my disastrous love life.
Disaster isn’t the right word.
Disaster by definition implies a onetime catastrophic event with unimaginable consequences. My love life is more like a cataclysmic prolonged weather phenomenon better known as the century-long drought. Similar to both of my best friends, I like men. I like men a lot. I’ve dated some. I’ve even dated boys if you want to go back to my youth. But when it comes to long term, my relationship with Stephen is the longest one I’ve had with anyone with a penis. Not that I have seen Stephen’s—or want to. But you understand.