Lipstick Jungle

RTY HOURS HAVE GONE AS FOLLOWS:

Wake up and realize that the fall fashion show is now sixteen days, eleven hours, and thirty-two minutes away. Feel urge to throw up but don’t. Run to studio—still haven’t washed hair but don’t care. Take taxi, knocking businessman with umbrella out of the way. Make daily early-morning call to Nico. Panic in voice. “What’s it all about?” “Peter Pans,” Nico says calmly. “Peter Pan collars?” I gasp. This will not be a good look for fall. “No, us. Women who act like Peter Pans. We refuse to grow up.” “But we run companies and have children,” I say, even though I don’t have actual children but have employees instead, which might be same thing. “We still want to run away,” Nico says. Wonder what she’s talking about. Am worried about Nico, but no chance to get into the running away issue as both get other calls.

Morning: Stare despondently at fabrics purchased at Première Vision in Paris last September. What the hell was I thinking? Every other designer purchased leopard print—again—but did not “feel” leopard for fall. Other designers also purchased lime green felt and pink wools, but am not “feeling” colors for fall. Too late anyway. Must work with fabrics already purchased or company will certainly go out of business from excess expense. Lie down on floor and put hands over eyes. Assistant discovers me in this position but is not surprised—is “used to” crazy behavior on part of boss. Get up and stare at fabrics again.

Midday: Run to annual luncheon at New York City Ballet. Shouldn’t go (shouldn’t do anything but suffer horribly for art), but go anyway, seeking inspiration. Annual ballet luncheon filled with the most powerful professional women in the city: the senator from New York, two major judges, bankers, lawyers, television personalities, the “new” socialists (young socialite girls who work—now there’s a new one), the queen bees, the feministas (fifty-something women who don’t “do” fashion or their hair, and are so powerful they don’t care), the Prada wives (women who used to work, but married rich men and now have nannies and get facials all day), and the citizen girls (determined to get ahead and know that the ballet is now the place to do it) and everyone is wearing fur and leopard-print fabrics and their grandmother’s brooches (oh, I hate that trend) or else they’re doing pretty, pretty, pretty, which is pastel-colored dresses, skimming the body with unfinished hems everywhere unraveling (which could be a metaphor for fashion right now—it’s unraveling and not meant to last beyond one or two wearings), and I keep thinking this is all wrong. But what is right?

After the luncheon it was cold and raining outside, typical early February weather. Victory realized that she’d forgotten to order a car, and all the other women were getting into cars with drivers lined up like carriages outside of Lincoln Center. There was something so eerily glamorous and rich about it—all those women who made their own money and paid for their own clothes (except the Prada wives, who didn’t pay for anything) and had their own cars and drivers and even decided supreme court cases. It should have been inspiring, but Victory “felt” nothing. Luckily Muffie Williams came along and took pity on her and offered her a lift in her car. Victory got into the back of the luxurious Mercedes S 600 Sedan, literally biting her nails with fear about her future. She realized her nail polish was chipped and she hadn’t had a manicure in four weeks. She wondered if Muffie noticed that her hair was dirty.

“What are you feeling for fall?” Muffie asked. She meant to be kind, but the question caused a trickle of bile to travel up Victory’s esophagus and nearly choke her. She still wasn’t “feeling” anything for fall, but she said confidently, “I’m feeling pants.”

Muffie nodded wisely as if this made sense and said, “Everyone else is feeling leopard.”

“The leopard moment is over.”

“Skirt lengths?”

“Too many skirts. Pants, I think. No one knows if the economy is going up or down.”

“Good luck,” Muffie whispered, and her ancient hand clad with cocktail rings containing precious stones of at least ten or twelve carats clutched Victory’s hand for a moment and squeezed. Muffie got out of the car in front of the gleaming, rich B et C building, allowing her driver to take Victory on to her own office . . .

. . . Where everyone was basically standing around waiting for her to come up with the final designs for the fall show, or at least some kind of vision so they could get on with their jobs. Worry and concern were subtly indicated on their smooth young faces. Victory understood that they had probably heard the rumors on the street that she was about to go under, even though she was dating the billionaire Lyne Bennett, whom, they suspected, she had sought out in desperation to beg him for money to keep the company going. I will slit my wrists before I ask that man for a penny, Victory thought. “What about the ballet?” someone asked.

“Tutus? No. Everyone did tutus for spring.” Except me, Victory thought, and that’s why the company is in trouble to begin with. But the ballet reminded her of the luncheon and the luncheon reminded her of a cheesy movie called Center Stage, where the teacher told a ballet student to go back to the barre. To go back to basics. And zombie-like she went into the sewing room and stared at the fabrics again. She picked up a bolt of vintage fabric that was orange and brown, covered with tiny clear sequins, and sat down at one of the sewing machines. She started sewing a pair of pants for the hell of it, because that was the only thing she really knew how to do. Most designers didn’t bother sitting down and sewing anymore, getting back to how they started out, where it was safe, where you were unknown and had nothing to lose, and you were nothing more than a freaky teenage kid with a dream . . .

And then somehow it was the next day at just after noon, and Victory was standing on the subway platform at the West Fourth Street subway station.

She hadn’t been in the subway in years, but she’d been walking down Sixth Avenue after a nearly sleepless night of still agonizing over her collection, and she’d spotted a girl in a jaunty green swing coat. The girl looked interesting, so Victory followed her down the dirty cement steps leading to the subway, and into the lunchtime crowd of frenzied and annoyed subway riders. The girl went through the turnstile and Victory stopped, looking after her, wondering what it would be like to be a girl in a jaunty green coat, twenty-five years old and completely carefree, without the dizzying weight of having to pull it off again, of having to desperately reach down inside yourself, to get it up, to risk failure . . .

It was a ridiculous job, being a fashion designer. Two collections a year, with barely time to breathe in between, having to come up with something “new,” something “fresh” (when there really wasn’t anything new under the sun), again and again, year after year. It was a wonder any of them managed to keep going at all.

She took a few steps forward. People were pushing past her, looking at her with suspicion—a woman with no place to go, directionless. That equaled death underground, where the trick to survival was to always appear as if you were on your way somewhere, somewhere better than this. Her cell phone vibrated in her hand—she’d been clutching it unconsciously like a lifeline. Oh, thank God, she thought. Connection.

“Where r u?” the text read. It was from Wendy.

“in subway?”

“u!!!!!!!”

“srching 4 inspiration”

“inspiration @ mike’s? 1 p.m.? big news.”

“whaaaa?”

“going 2 romania i thnk. + took shane bk.”

Victory nearly dropped the phone in shock.

“r u there? cn u make it?”

“Yes!!!!!” Victory pressed.

She grimaced. What did this mean—Wendy taking Shane back? She couldn’t imagine . . . but it meant she suddenly had something more important to think about than her goddamn fall collection. Wendy needed her, and thank God she could go to her. She stood impatiently in line at the vending machine and bought a Metro card, swiping the card to activate the turnstile. A rush of damp, tired air rose up from the subway tracks and a train roared in, shaking the cement platform. She was filled with sensations that were disturbing but oddly comforting—for years, before she’d made it, she’d ridden the subway every day, everywhere, and she remembered all of her old tricks, moving quickly to the side of the crowd at the edge of the open doors where it was easier to slip into the car and pushing into the middle, taking a position on the side of a pole. It suddenly struck her that the critics were right about her last collection. You couldn’t wear long skirts in the subway. You needed pants and boots. And the right attitude. She looked around at the faces in the crowded car, expressions blank and unengaged, strangers packed too close together for comfort, in which the only solution was to pretend that no one else existed . . .

And then the unthinkable happened. Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Victory stiffened, ignoring the tap. It was probably a mistake. Hopefully the tapper would get off at the next stop. She pressed herself more closely to the pole, indicating, if necessary, that she was willing to move.