Keisha’s smile faded into a churlish grin that was a little creepy, like one of those toy clowns in a horror film. “Do you know what I can do for you?” She fixed him with a gimlet gaze and stared into his eyes with such intensity that Pablo wondered if she was trying to hypnotize him.
“An Uber is two minutes away.” The errant assistant rushed through the door, waving her now only iPhone.
Keisha’s eyes shot daggers at the girl. “An Uber? I have my own driver paid for by Kors. How useless can you be?”
The girl stammered her way through trying to explain her reasoning to her irate boss. “I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Fired.” Keisha grabbed her cell phone, dropped it on the ground and smashed it with her heel.
“That was my phone.”
“It still is.” Keisha turned away as her now former assistant dropped to her knees and tried to pick up the pieces of her shattered device.
Pablo stooped down to help the stunned assistant, when the saccharine voice floated toward him.
“You coming, Mr. Pablo?” Keisha purred. “Pablo Michaels. I like that. It’s a name people are gonna remember, if I have anything to say about it.” Keisha walked over to the backstage door. “Your show begins in two minutes, and I still need to get to wardrobe.”
Leaving the assistant to solve her own phone problems, Pablo found himself walking behind the sinewy sway of the Supermodel like her personal consort. He was having a ‘pinch himself’ moment, but it was too soon interrupted by the stage manager’s panicky squeal into his earpiece. “Merde…Anyone got a twenty on Pablo or Keisha?”
Pablo pressed his mic. “She’s flying in. Cue the music.”
Five minutes later, Keisha Kash was figure eighting her curvaceous way down the runway in seven-inch spikey heels and a bandage dress. Cameras flashed. Seventies disco thumped. She vogued. Posed. The crowd erupted.
New York Fashion Week’s Fall/Winter shows always land in February, amid the dreary skies and frozen slush of Manhattan’s icy sidewalks. Still, its bright lights, big city drew A-list celebs, fashionistas and fans to the prominent bi-annual gathering of everybody who’s anybody.
Backstage was a typhoon of naked or half-naked models racing back and forth in between the runway and wardrobe, stopping by for first, second and third looks, touch-ups from makeup and hair artists. Pablo couldn’t believe that twenty minutes earlier, this top designer had been having a hissy fit, followed by an even bigger temper tantrum from his Supermodel who was now garnering a standing ovation. He peered through a crack in the curtains and sighed. There were Ariana Grande and JLo, tragically sitting in the front row alongside bloggers of the moment and teenage social media stars.
It used to be that fashion week was the place to be discovered. Now, the overhyped runway presentations were reduced to spotlighting viral influencers. For the most part, fashion editors were forced to sit, or worse, stand in back, while the popular yet uninformed posse, who now inhabited the coveted front line, spoke in sound bites and hashtags. Pablo looked over at Anna Wintour, who seemed unbothered by her surroundings, as she remained the only recognizable editor with a front-row seat.
Kors came up and patted his shoulder. “I’m glad we didn’t get Kendall Jenner. I’m obsessed with Keisha now.”
Pablo’s heart stuck in his throat. “Thank you,” he whispered.
As Keisha strutted off the catwalk for the last time, she winked at Kors and said, “He’s mine.”
And he was in that instant—sign, sealed, delivered—hers.
2
THE HONEYMOON
THE KORS SHOW wrapped with stars falling from the ceiling, as even bigger stars—literally and figuratively, like Keisha Kash—strutted down the catwalk, hand in hand, with the famous designer. Backstage, champagne flowed like kisses, and everyone congratulated each other and themselves for being fabulous as well as putting on a fabulous show. No one seemed to recall that it was Pablo who’d rescued the show from the brink of disaster and made it fabulous. Keisha and Kors got the accolades, but Pablo didn’t expect more. With others, he graciously toasted the designer and the model, promising himself to sleep in the next morning now that the revelry was over. Finally, he could recover from the hectic month of prep work that was needed to pull off the show. He was beyond exhausted.
“Let’s bounce,” Keisha whispered in Pablo’s ear. “I can’t stand wrap parties.”
Pablo looked regrettably around the room. He’d been looking forward to getting to know Kors more intimately, and to networking the after-show soiree at TAO Downtown. He really should be putting himself out there and working on securing jobs that would move him toward his own dreams, not just others, but Keisha’s invitation was too tempting to ignore. “Me neither,” he said, following her into the night.
Stripped of all her dramatic makeup, baseball cap perched, Pablo couldn’t believe his luck to be the one selected from the crowd to escort lady-fabulous out the door to where her oversized blacked-out Escalade was waiting. He wondered briefly who’d ordered the car, as this was clearly not an Uber. When the SUV door was opened by a drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a chauffeur, Pablo stopped caring, though.
“Where to, Ms. Kash?” It seemed the driver could find her just fine without her assistant.
“Home, James,” she giggled, stretching out like a feline across the back seat of her souped-up ride. She patted the empty space beside her. “Sit.” She kicked off her shoes and plopped her feet into his lap. “My feet are killing me.”
Pablo had seen models’ feet bleed after walking in shoes that cramped their toes and cut into their flesh. Callouses were standard fare in the industry, but Keisha’s feet were pristine and perfect. Just like the rest of her. He began massaging her arches and toes.
“How does Chinese sound?”
“Great.”
“Shit, my assistant has the number to my favorite place.”
“No big deal. I’ll check Grubhub. What’s it called?”
“I dunno.”
“Where do you live?”
“565 Broome. The big glass towers.”
With deft efficiency, Pablo typed the word “Chinese” into his food delivery app and began to read out the list of names of restaurants in the area. “Jade Garden. The Big Wong. Lo Hung Cock. OMG, they’re next to each other.”
“It’s somebody’s name.”
“Joe’s Shanghai?”
“That’s it! Crab dumplings. Get seven orders.”
“Seven?”
“I’m starving! Oh, and order the delivery under the name Crystal Lite. My doormen know what to do.”
After adding the new delivery address to his profile, Pablo processed the order with his Apple Pay. “All done.”