AUDREY
‘ W E ’ RE DOING A FRESH , VERY DEWY LOOK TODAY. HIGHLIGHTER , gloss, fluffy brows … sound good?’
‘And concealer?’ I say hopefully. The make-up artist laughs – her name is Nicole, and despite having met her approximately thirty seconds ago, I’m obsessed. She doesn’t look any older than me but she’s devastatingly cool, gravelly-voiced with salt-white hair, ornate tattoos and a dramatic hourglass figure.
‘That’s a given,’ she confirms, silver rings flashing on her fingers as she squeezes foundation on to the back of her hand. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ I murmur, lowering my gaze as she starts to sweep a brush across my face. ‘I didn’t sleep so well last night.’
I also didn’t realise how bad my dark circles were until I was plonked down in front of a painfully well-lit mirror to have my hair done. I really, really don’t want to walk this runway looking like a Halloween decoration.
‘Nothing a little colour correction can’t fix,’ Nicole says lightly, dabbing the offending areas with an orange-y cream. ‘This your first Fashion Week in New York?’
‘Um – first Fashion Week, actually.’
‘Wow. Who are you signed with?’
‘ AVW Models. I mean – in New York, at least. Bradshaw-Slater back in England.’
‘Heavy hitters.’ She whistles. ‘You heading to London next week?’
‘Uh-huh. Not sure about Milan and Paris. It’s all a bit … up in the air.’
‘I get that.’ She nods, moving in with the concealer. ‘My schedule this week is a nightmare.’
‘Are you doing a lot of shows?’
‘Plus private bookings. What about you?’
‘Oh, uh – I’ve got a few lined up,’ I say, not wanting to jinx myself by admitting the actual number. ‘My agent warned me that they might not all pan out.’
‘Sure. You homesick yet?’
I blink at her reflection, less startled by the question than the realisation that my answer is no. I haven’t had the chance to be. Castings take place all day and all over the city, and it’s my responsibility to hit up as many as humanly possible. I only ever stop to scarf down a street pretzel or double check my directions, and when I get back to the model apartment, I’m usually too tired to shower, let alone pine for the BBC .
‘Not yet,’ I manage. She smiles knowingly, proffering a small tube of mascara. I take it from her, nonplussed.
‘Most girls prefer to do it themselves,’ she explains. ‘Just a tiny bit. Upper lashes only.’
‘Cool.’ I nod, hoping that she won’t notice my trembling hands. This show’s call time was 6 a.m. and the sheer feat of regaining consciousness that early makes me nauseous. I was in such a daze when I left that I got on the wrong subway train – then, in my rush to get off, I left my book behind. It was a paperback that I’d picked up at the airport called The Lonely City, which felt apt, I guess.
Anyway. I figured I’d find some food when I got here but an assistant grabbed me for a refitting the moment I arrived, and I’ve been feeling shaky ever since. I manage to apply the mascara without any mishaps, at least, but when I turn to hand it back to Nicole, I see that she’s flagging down a flushed-looking girl with a ‘ VOLUNTEER ’ lanyard around her neck.
‘Can you grab us a pastry or something? And a black coffee?’ she asks. The girl nods seriously, and zips off.
‘The pastry is yours but the coffee is allll mine,’ Nicole says mildly, turning back to the mirror and picking up a pot of blush. ‘The last thing you need right now is caffeine.’
‘Thank you,’ I say sincerely. She meets my eye.
‘You’ve got to look after yourself,’ she tells me. ‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Eighteen,’ she echoes. ‘So you know it’s up to you now, right?’
I press my lips together and nod, attempting to look determined. I don’t want to make obvious to everyone else what Nicole so clearly suspects– that I’m entirely, hopelessly, out of my depth.
Four months ago, a stranger walked up to me, handed me a piece of card and changed everything. I was in London to visit a university that I wasn’t sure I wanted to attend – I wasn’t sure about uni at all, actually, so I guess it felt like the universe was intervening on my behalf. Now I’m on the other side of the planet, getting paid to wear beautiful things. It’s unreal. A crazy, consumerist fairy tale, and I want so badly for it to somehow become my real life. But it doesn’t feel real, and I worry that that’s because I’m not actually any good at this. That I never will be, and very soon everyone is going to realise that they made a terrible mistake.
‘Hey,’ Nicole says softly, tugging me back to reality. I meet her eyes, which are startlingly blue, and she smiles. ‘If you’re here, you’re here for a reason,’ she says. ‘Okay?’
Ten minutes later, I’m repeating those words in my head like a mantra. I’m here for a reason. I’m here for a reason. I’m—
‘Jesus Christ .’ The girl next to me groans. ‘These shoes are killing me. I’m a size eight and these are sixes. ’
I glance over and sure enough, her feet are spilling out of the strappy sandals she’s wearing. I’m lucky enough to be wearing too-big boots with a handful of tissues stuffed into the toes, but still, I find it mystifying that in an industry where our measurements are more important than our names, we’re so rarely given shoes that fit.
‘They’re fine,’ the stylist says dismissively. ‘You’ll only be wearing them for five minutes.’
The girl scowls. The stylist doesn’t notice, too busy fussing with the voluminous bow collar of my dress. It’s burgundy silk, paired with a tight black belt to match the boots. There’s a leather trench coat draped over my shoulders and heavy gold earrings dangling to my neck. I’m wilting under the weight, and the second that I finish my circuit of the runway I’ve got to strip it all off and dive into a velvet three-piece suit in approximately one minute flat.
I think I might have fainted if Nicole hadn’t made me eat. The belt, the stress, the heat – it’s swelteringly hot in here, here being an old warehouse overlooking the Hudson River. They chose a sparse, industrial setting to contrast with the opulence of the collection, apparently, but it’s miles away from my next show in Bowery, which starts in an hour’s time. I have no idea if I can get there in time. Or what happens if I don’t.
‘You’re done. Go get your picture taken,’ the stylist says, pointing me towards a photographer. Said photographer is tall and wan with pale brown hair, artfully mussed. He says nothing as he waves me into a group shot with three other girls, none of whom I recognise. We all bunch together, though, cheesing like we’re best friends.
‘Okay,’ the photographer says eventually, an apparent dismissal. Next thing I know, a woman with a clipboard has taken my arm to guide me towards the line of girls beside the stage. She consults said clipboard, places me between two of them, then walks off without a single word.
It’s weird, being treated like an inanimate object. I can’t imagine I’ll ever get used to it.
‘Audrey.’
I turn, startled to hear my name, and see Marika, her long black hair in a ponytail just like mine. I’m convinced that I look like an egg with my hair slicked back but with Marika it only emphasises the height of her cheekbones, the shine of her flawless ebony skin. She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever met – that I’m ever likely to meet. She’s also my roommate for the week.
‘Are you heading to Bowery after this?’ she asks, which is typically direct. Marika doesn’t really do small talk. It’s one of the few things I know about her.
‘Bowery, yeah. Are you?’
‘Yes,’ she says, like it’s obvious – which I suppose it is, given the context. ‘We should share a cab.’
‘Sure!’ I say brightly. Cabs are expensive, but they’re covered by my agencies right now, along with my other expenditures. I’m not sure exactly how much I owe them; plane tickets to New York aren’t cheap, and neither is rent, or comp cards – the glossy A5 printouts of my headshot that I have to carry everywhere. But neither of my agents ever seem particularly bothered about the money, assuring me that it’s all ‘an investment’. An investment in me, I suppose, which is nice. Alarmingly loaded, yes, but mostly nice.
‘Okay.’ Marika nods. ‘Meet me out back?’
‘Sounds good. Thanks.’
Marika flashes me a brief smile, which is unexpected. As is her offer. We’ve been sharing a room for a week now and she’s mostly kept to herself, which is totally fine – it’s not like I’m such a social butterfly either, and as much as I want her to like me, I know there’s no forcing it. Attending five schools in six years taught me that lesson the hard way.
‘Hi, can I get everyone’s attention?’ a clear voice suddenly calls out, and everyone backstage falls silent. They stay silent, too, because Miranda Browning has spoken.
I know next to nothing about high fashion, but I know Miranda Browning. Just about every celebrity on the planet has worn one of her designs to an awards show at one point or other, and then there are the iconic Browning bags. It’s a simple design, but Miranda transformed them into the ultimate status symbol by only producing a finite amount each year and gifting a select few to whoever happens to be dominating pop culture at the time. Actresses, activists, influencers, politicians – the official list of recipients is reported breathlessly, analysed intently. The rest trickle down to the highest bidders.
All this and she’s barely forty. It’s kind of staggering, honestly.
‘So, this is it!’ Miranda says brightly. ‘We’re finally here, and I just wanted to take this moment to thank you all. This show represents the hard work of every single person in this room, and I’m so, so proud.’
She’s standing at the top of the stairs that lead to the stage and smiling down at us like a benevolent queen in a simple black jumpsuit, her auburn hair held loosely in a claw clip. I know she probably can’t see me but I find myself smiling back all the same.
‘I also want to tell you girls that you shouldn’t be afraid to let your personality shine out there,’ she continues, turning towards us. ‘My entire career, everything I do – it’s all about celebrating women. Uplifting them. When they wear my designs, I want them to feel brave and beautiful and powerful. Every woman deserves that.’
I hear Marika make a small scoffing noise, then – almost like laughter. I glance over, surprised, only to see that her expression is perfectly blank. I quickly avert my gaze, wondering if I imagined it.
‘Thank you,’ Miranda concludes, looking misty-eyed as she clasps her hands together. ‘This is my fifteenth Fashion Week and it means every bit as much to me as the first. Really. Thank you so much.’
She bows her head, backing away as everyone starts to applaud, myself included. The atmosphere is so buoyant that I almost forget to be nervous until sparse electronic music starts to pour from the speakers above.
‘Places!’ someone yells as the lights dim. Marika has disappeared, retaken her place in the line. A hush falls as we’re chivvied forward, the air thick with anticipation.
The girls at the front are disappearing, which means that it’s time. I suck in a breath and swing my arms, tipping back my chin. This is the first real fashion show I’ve ever walked in, and it couldn’t be bigger. All morning I’ve been half-expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and tell me that there’s been a mistake. But I’m still here. And maybe like Nicole said, it’s for a reason. But even if it’s not, in thirty seconds, I’ll be out on that runway, a hundred cameras flashing in my face and immortalising this moment for ever. My face, these clothes, this gorgeous, dizzying city – all inexorably connected, now and for ever.
I’m here.
And that simple, irrefutable fact makes me feel a little more solid, somehow. I hold it in the forefront of my mind as I start to walk, the stage lights leading me out of the dark.