Fatshionista Read Free Page A

of that. I was very lucky.
     
    “Um, Millie?
Marta’s still looking for you,” Marcus said from behind the curtain. “Something
about the drapes not looking right. Oh, and she wants to know what the
contingency plan is if Paris Hilton’s dog decides to get out of her purse and
shit on the floor.”
     
    Right, “lucky.”
Hmmm. Maybe I need to rethink my definition of that term.
     
    “Thanks, Marcus,
go back to hiding. I have it under control.”
     
    ****
     
    The show went off
without a hitch. No dog poop, no downed models, and thankfully, no Marta. She
stayed in the back of the hall and only emerged when the lights came up and the
video cameras came on. She was the face of the company, and it certainly was a
lovely face. Her Russian heritage was evident in her sharp cheekbones and
steely blue eyes.
     
    I sighed with
just a slight bit of jealousy. Even at seventy-two, Marta was more accepted by
the media types covering fashion than I was. How in this day and age can a
young, hip, relatively attractive twenty-eight-year-old be usurped by a tall,
thin, bony septuagenarian? Oh, right. The fashion industry: where one could
grow old, but never fat.
     
    Oh, well. It was
never about the fame for me, although I certainly wouldn’t turn my nose up at
the fortune. Money had a special way of making you accept the things about yourself
that you didn’t like. Enough money and it didn’t matter how big your butt was.
     
    God, I was
becoming as jaded as everyone around me. When did that start? Oh, right,
about two weeks after you started working here…which would be five years ago
tomorrow. How should I celebrate my anniversary? Hmmmm… Dancing? Drinking?
Partying into the wee hours of the morning with my friends?
     
    Oh, yeah. I would
be prepping the Ram Patel show. If I was lucky, maybe this time I could keep my
ass off the ladder.

Chapter 3
     
    At least I wasn’t
on the ladder. Thankfully, Ryan couldn’t run fast enough this time, and he was
now teetering at the top of said ladder, adjusting the silk saris that hung
down around Ram Patel’s name and logo. While I was glad to not be sugarplum-fairiying
it at the top of the ladder, it unfortunately meant I was out in the audience
taking note after note from Marta.
     
    “Really,
Millicent. I fail to understand why it feels as if with every show, you and I
begin anew. One would think that by this time you would understand my vision
and be able to recreate that on the stage. This décor looks like it came
straight out of the Hindu dance scene in Moulin Rouge .”
     
    It never ceased
to amaze me how something I found so fantastic, Marta simultaneously found
revolting.
     
    “Marta, it is the Moulin Rouge set from the Hindu dance scene. This is what Ram asked
for specifically. He even had pictures of it at our first meeting, remember?”
     
    “Yes, I remember,”
she snapped at me. “What are you implying?”
     
    Sigh. “I’m
not implying anything, Marta. I was simply reminding you that what we created
is to the exact specifications of the client. While I respect your creative
input, I don’t see where we can be critical when he has been quite specific
about his vision.”
     
    “Yes, but does it
have to be so literal?”
     
    Sigh. “Yes,
it has to be literal. He said, ‘I literally want it to feel as if the audience
is expecting Nicole Kidman to walk down the runway and join hands with the
waiting Ewan McGregor.’ That didn’t leave us much room for interpretation”.
     
    “Hmmm.” When
Marta wanted to hide the fact that she had forgotten something, this was her
go-to sound. It was meant to convey deep thought and intense consideration of
the preceding conversation. All it usually did was break the conversation off
and allow her to change the subject, thus saving face. We were honestly
becoming like an old married couple, set in our routine and having the same
argument in the same way every show.
     
    I read somewhere
that when you find yourself