Chapter 12
Kjell
"Number thirty-eight for the fitting."
Frantic jingling. Clouds of hairspray.
"Where are the shoes?"
Silk fabric flutters in front of my face. Stiletto heels clacks on the linoleum.
I never thought there could be a place more hectic than a newspaper office just before the deadline. But this is on a whole different level. Half-naked models rush through the room, with tables lined along the walls containing makeup mirrors. Hairstylists and makeup artists work tirelessly. The sound of hair dryers is everywhere, as is the buzz of voices, from which individual word fragments occasionally break free.
"Show me the Run of Show." That was Sky.
A skinny model bumps into me as she passes, and due to my tiredness from a sleepless night, I almost stumble into the clothing rack next to me. I manage to catch myself on the bar just in time before I crash to the ground along with the clothes.
I glance at Sky, who looks stern today with her hair tied up. After our conversation yesterday, I was left confused. The way she looked at me made me feel connected to her. For a moment, I wasn't myself. She was too close to me. And she seemed too real. I was on the verge of trusting her. Retreating before things got out of control was the only right thing I could do.
I quickly shake the unsettling memory of last night from my head and focus on Sky, as I still have no clear idea of what role she plays in this show. And I have a job to do; I shouldn't forget that.
"The shorts are great. The model should have an umbrella to go with it," she says to the thin man with the Prince Valiant haircut next to her.
He snorts in exasperation. "The show starts in an hour."
"But an umbrella would complete the outfit, don't you think?" Sky taps on one of the photos pinned to the wall next to her, which I can barely make out from a distance. They're definitely models. Presumably, they're wearing the clothes they will showcase in the show today.
For a breath, Sky's conversation partner closes his eyes. "Listen," he stresses, "we've all worked hard on this collection. Gustav approved every detail."
"And I have no say here at all, do you think?" Sky's expression hardens. "Is that what you believe?"
This could get interesting. I cautiously step closer. Although it's unlikely that they will notice me during their heated discussion, I maintain a safe distance.
Sky's counterpart taps his chest with his index finger. "I'm the designer here. And you are..."
"Yes?" Sky takes a step toward him with subdued shoulders. "What am I?"
Yes, Sky. That's the question. What are you?
"We both know that, don't we?" he asks, slamming the fabric in his hand onto the floor. "You have no place here."
Yesterday, for a moment, I thought Sky might be the most empathetic woman I had ever met. But as she stares at the designer with such cold determination, she reminds me once again of the Sky from before.
She pulls her shoulders back. "I'm the boss now."
So that's it. Interesting.
"Accept it," she adds with a stoic calm, as if she has been the no-nonsense CEO her whole life. I study her body language.
Held breath. Tense posture. Tightened jaw.
Is she scared? Or is this an expression of fierceness?
The designer turns beet red. "You'll regret this," he growls, then storms away so quickly that his thick woolen scarf unravels from his neck.
I should photograph that, but I can't help but watch Sky's reaction instead.
Her shoulders slump forward. The hard features on her face soften. She smooths out her oversized trousers, again and again. Seeing her standing there in front of the chaotically adorned wall makes me feel sad.
A part of me wants to walk over to her to offer comfort. But another part vehemently reminds me that she might just be putting on a show. It feels wrong, and it's much harder than it should be, but trusting her would be a mistake. Behind her attractive facade, she hides a dark secret. Plus, I have a job to do, one that depends on nothing less than Jakob's and my future.
With this thought in mind, I tear myself away from her sight and set off in search of the designer.
You have no place here , he told Sky, and that sentence resonates within me. My preliminary research has shown that Kahlo has been working at Touch av lyx for over fifteen years. He's considered Gustav Blohm's closest confidant. He surely knows something. And as angry as he is at Sky right now, he might even talk.
I spot him on the opposite wall. He's grimly adjusting a model's blouse. I pull out my camera and walk over to him.
"A snapshot for the photo shoot, Kahlo?" I ask, just to be sure.
Even as he turns around, he has a broad smile on his face. "Go ahead."
He poses next to the model, and I take several shots from various angles. His constant checking of his hairstyle and insistence on turning his face the same way each time reveal quite a bit.
He's vain. And that's how I'll get him.
I lower the camera and pretend to look around. "The collection is amazing. Absolutely fantastic."
He nods. "Well, it's not solely my work."
Pretended modesty, for sure. "But you're the creative mind behind it. Without you, there would be no collection."
The model next to him hints at applause, which further excites him. His eyes light up, and despite his casual wave, I see his chest swell with pride.
I put the camera back in my pocket and take a step closer to him. "Between us, that redhead earlier had no idea what she was talking about," I whisper conspiratorially. Getting people to talk is my job, but talking about Sky like this today still feels wrong. "I mean, an umbrella? She's crazy!"
He inhales sharply. "That's the problem with these young ones. Big mouth, no substance."
"She's the boss's daughter, right?" I continue. "Must be tough for her to call the shots now."
"Pfff," he scoffs. "If Gustav knew she was trying to be the top dog here..."
"What?" I involuntarily hold my breath, part of me not wanting to hear the answer.
He regards me dismissively. "Who are you again?"
I gesture to my camera. "The photographer," I reply. "It's such a shame Gustav couldn't be here. I would have liked to meet him."
My words elicit the first genuine emotion in his expression: regret. "Doesn't look good," he admits.
I shake my head dejectedly.
"Hopefully, he'll be back soon. Because I can't stand her for long." He nods toward the opposite side of the room, where Sky rearranges the photos on the wall. "Now she's even changing the accessories? What the hell...!"
I lack the cues to steer the conversation in the right direction, so my next question is a shot in the dark. Still, I need to capitalize on his anger. "Why is she even here?"
"Yes, that's the right question." He folds his hands into a triangle. "Gustav forbade her from ever coming back."
What? A father disowning his daughter? That's intense. She must have done something extremely terrible for him to react that way.
"What happened?" I ask cautiously.
His gaze absentmindedly fixed on Sky, he grumbles in disgust. "The kid went completely nuts. Thought the whole world belonged to her and sabotaged my show, that damned bitch."
His hatred is written all over his face, and it pains me even though I can also empathize with it.
I know Sky just like that as well: manic, egocentric, and arrogant. Not only have I experienced her that way, but the designer also knows this side of her. Is she truly a selfish, spoiled brat? Or was she like that back then, and is she different now?
Yesterday, I was sure I saw an empathetic, vulnerable woman behind her aloof facade. In my memory, I go back to our evening together. We talked like I rarely do with anyone. I don't trust everyone with my life story. Sure, maybe I had a little too much to drink. Still, it was nice how she listened to me. Too nice.
Wait a minute.
What if she's been manipulating me the whole time? Skillfully getting me to talk about myself. Has she been refilling my glass? I don't know. But she definitely showed excessive interest in my story.
Did she only pretend to sympathize with me to achieve her actual goal? What she was after all along: keeping her own secret safe and sound.
The only thing she revealed about herself was that she likes to eat pasta. And that's entirely irrelevant.
Dammit.
I reach into my jacket pocket, where the grissini from the restaurant is still tucked away. My question, which I had worked so hard to formulate yesterday and had completely abandoned throughout the evening. I wrap my fingers around the package, then squeeze. I can hardly hear the cracking sound amid the backstage hustle and bustle, but at least I can feel the breadstick breaking under the pressure of my fist.
Did she use me? And did I let myself be used by her?
The thought hurts in a place it shouldn't even reach.
This is too confusing. If I don't do something about it, my head will explode from all the questions.
With clenched jaws, I reach for my camera and march on. Wherever I find details to photograph, I stop.
At the tailoring table, I catch a conversation.
"Unbelievable that she's back," says the lady with gray-streaked short hair, her glasses nestled within it. She holds a delicate dress, likely made of silk, in her hands.
Her much younger colleague folds up the hem of a shirt and slides miniature scissors under the seam to undo it. "Where was she, actually?"
"No one really knows," the older one replies. She reaches for the iron. "She just disappeared after the show." She turns her attention to the silk dress and gently steams it.
Aha. Another puzzle piece, and the picture is slowly coming together.
Sky sabotaged a show—for whatever reason—and her parents disowned her. Now she's back to take her dying father's place, something he would never allow if he were conscious.
This is heavy stuff.
Could this be the truth I'm searching for?
Lost in thought, I pull out my camera and photograph the two seamstresses at work. Then I pan farther, observing the chaos through the lens. Many of the models sit bored in front of a dressing screen on their chairs. Their hairstyles are adorned with butterflies and flowers, and the dresses cling tightly to their bony bodies.
I press the shutter. Suddenly, Sky emerges from behind the dressing screen. For a fraction of a second, she appears pained, then she lifts her chin and strides through the room on her high heels, as if she considers herself the most important person here.
"Model number ten is missing. Where is she?" she asks the muscle-bound man with the headset, who I noticed earlier with his busy demeanor. He is the backstage coordinator and, from what I've gathered, has the most stressful job here.
He looks up from his clipboard. "She's not here?"
Sky shrugs. "She's definitely not backstage."
"Dammit." He frantically presses the button on his headset. "Uwe. Get me number ten. Right away." He squints. "What do you mean, you've already tried? Shit." Concern fills his voice as he taps his clipboard against his thigh. "And you're telling me now, for heaven's sake?" He yells into the microphone, then immediately folds it up abruptly.
Sky's face has turned the color of bleached newspaper. "What?"
"The model didn't show up for the fitting," he says, touching his forehead and massaging his temples. "Shit," he mutters to himself. "Shit, shit, shit."
"We need a replacement," Sky appears frozen.
"Oh, really? You're a real genius," the muscle guy snaps at her, then signals the designer to come over. "Kahlo, can you step in?"
A troubled expression crosses her face. With everything I now know about her, I must not be deceived by her again.
Yet I can't help but feel sorry for her.
Kahlo joins the two of them. Upon hearing what's going on, he fixes Sky with a stony expression. "You have the right size and figure."
As if Kahlo had just transformed into a monster before her, Sky flinches. "Um... well..."
I can't help but imagine Sky on the runway. In a simple, long dress. Ivory-colored. Hair down. Gracefully striding to the music. Like an angel.
"You have to do it." Kahlo signals to the backstage coordinator, who flips down his microphone again, without waiting for her reaction. "Uwe. Sky is stepping in. Get the seamstresses to come, but be quick."
"No!" Panic fills Sky's expression.
Exasperated, her counterpart covers the microphone with his hand. "So who then?" he asks Kahlo.
The designer points at Sky. "She'll do it. End of discussion."
Sky waves her arms frantically. "Absolutely not. We'll just change the order. Add more breaks between the models. Nobody will notice that a design is missing."
I furrow my brow in disbelief. The boss is too good to step onto the runway? What does this mean?
Before Kahlo can react, Sky marches over to the photo wall and starts rearranging the shots. Her hands are trembling. "You see, that works," she presents her proposal with a vigorous nod.
If she expected anyone here to applaud her for it, she's mistaken. Kahlo rolls his eyes. "This show has a concept. If we take out even one small part, it will all fall apart."
"But..."
"No," he replies curtly, causing Sky's face to turn red.
"But it's the only way," she says forcefully, and there's suddenly a strangely accusing look on her face, as if she wants to silently convey to the designer not to push too far.
He stands triumphantly in front of Sky, grinning. "Of course, there's another way. You can save the show."
"We'll do it the way I suggested." Sky's eyes glint with turmoil as she points at the wall. "End of discussion."
This behavior shouldn't surprise me, as I've seen her like this before. Still, I'm left dumbfounded by her audacity.
This is her presumably injured father's company. She should do nothing more than put on the damn clothes and walk the runway just once. It's not a big deal.
But she's not willing to do that.
With an incredulous headshake, the backstage coordinator touches his forehead. "This is going to be a disaster."
"An absolute disaster," Kahlo chimes in.