uninvited ass cheek on Zoe’s desk once again.
Blonde Poison clearly didn’t see a problem in referring to her new boss by his first name. Zoe herself hadn’t seen McSlimy since their encounter in the elevator. Not that she minded. She was still extremely pissed off at him.
“Thank you, Madison. You can tell Mr. Fiorino I’d rather take the subway,” Zoe answered. You had to hit an alpha man where it hurt the most, didn’t you?
Madison looked a little disturbed by this decision. Zoe figured that her few brain cells had to work extra hard to traverse the empty space in her brain and recalculate the information. But as Zoe studied the subway map a little later, it became clear to her that there wasn’t really a subway line from the Chrysler Building to Lincoln Center. So she walked in her three-inch Louboutin heels until she was finally able to hail a cab on 5th Avenue.
The paparazzi were stationed in front of the tents, waiting for the stars. Zoe felt tremendously important as she strode over the red carpet in her Victoria Beckham dress. She had accessorized with a Chloe hobo bag from two seasons ago that she’d snatched up at a sample sale. A PR woman from Ralph Lauren gave her a cool once-over, as though she’d secretly scanned Zoe’s bag and found out that it didn’t belong to the current collection. But when she saw the name Allegra Sollani on Zoe’s invitation, she instantly pasted a saccharine smile on her face and led Zoe into the huge tent with a feather-light hand on her elbow. First row. The place cards to her left and right informed her that she was seated between “It Girl” Alexa Chung and McSlimy.
“Did you enjoy your walk?” McSlimy asked before sitting down next to her.
He wore a fashionable two-day beard, a slim-fitting dark suit, shoes that appeared to be from Savile Row in London and had certainly been handmade by illegal Tamil child laborers, and his charming lopsided smile. His hair stood up in all directions, orderly in its disorder. Doesn’t this man own a comb?
Zoe nodded graciously and made an honest effort to punish him by ignoring him for the rest of the show. Men play only minor roles in my life, men play only minor roles in my life, men play only minor roles in my life , she repeated like a mantra in her mind.
The lights went out, the DJ turned up the bass, and Lenny Kravitz sang “Are You Gonna Go My Way.” It was strange to sit so close to McSlimy in the dark. It somehow felt extremely illegal. He smelled like McNeighbor and Issey Miyake. His arm touched hers very lightly. But then the first model appeared and shook Zoe out of McDreamy’s force field. Karlie Kloss wore a floor-length, high-cut evening dress of smoky-taupe chiffon, which flowed around her size-zero body. The look was accessorized by huge silver earrings. Right before she made her turn at the end of the catwalk, the flashes of the cameras fired like machine guns.
Zoe’s show schedule today was practically laughable:
10:00—Ralph Lauren
11:00—Rachel Zoe
12:00—Calvin Klein
1:00—Elizabeth & James
2:00—Patricia Field
3:00—Marchesa
4:00—Anna Sui
5:00—Reed Krakoff
6:00—Betsey Johnson
7:00—Proenza Schouler
8:00—Marc Jacobs
Every hour of the day was filled with killer heels, brilliant-white smiles, practiced pouts, and of course those endless camera flashes. First in the big tent, then next door to the small studio, back to the tent, to the press lounge for an espresso and a glass of champagne, and then back to the tent. The highlight of the day would be the Marc Jacobs show, which happened off-site in the 69th Regiment Armory on Lexington Avenue between 25th and 26th Streets. Very far from Lincoln Center. McSlimy and Zoe hadn’t exchanged a word with each other the entire day.
“Would you like a ride to the Marc Jacobs show?” he asked when they almost walked into each other at the exit.
“Thank you, Mr. Fiorino, but I’d rather take a taxi.”
“You know, of course, that Marc
Blonde Poison clearly didn’t see a problem in referring to her new boss by his first name. Zoe herself hadn’t seen McSlimy since their encounter in the elevator. Not that she minded. She was still extremely pissed off at him.
“Thank you, Madison. You can tell Mr. Fiorino I’d rather take the subway,” Zoe answered. You had to hit an alpha man where it hurt the most, didn’t you?
Madison looked a little disturbed by this decision. Zoe figured that her few brain cells had to work extra hard to traverse the empty space in her brain and recalculate the information. But as Zoe studied the subway map a little later, it became clear to her that there wasn’t really a subway line from the Chrysler Building to Lincoln Center. So she walked in her three-inch Louboutin heels until she was finally able to hail a cab on 5th Avenue.
The paparazzi were stationed in front of the tents, waiting for the stars. Zoe felt tremendously important as she strode over the red carpet in her Victoria Beckham dress. She had accessorized with a Chloe hobo bag from two seasons ago that she’d snatched up at a sample sale. A PR woman from Ralph Lauren gave her a cool once-over, as though she’d secretly scanned Zoe’s bag and found out that it didn’t belong to the current collection. But when she saw the name Allegra Sollani on Zoe’s invitation, she instantly pasted a saccharine smile on her face and led Zoe into the huge tent with a feather-light hand on her elbow. First row. The place cards to her left and right informed her that she was seated between “It Girl” Alexa Chung and McSlimy.
“Did you enjoy your walk?” McSlimy asked before sitting down next to her.
He wore a fashionable two-day beard, a slim-fitting dark suit, shoes that appeared to be from Savile Row in London and had certainly been handmade by illegal Tamil child laborers, and his charming lopsided smile. His hair stood up in all directions, orderly in its disorder. Doesn’t this man own a comb?
Zoe nodded graciously and made an honest effort to punish him by ignoring him for the rest of the show. Men play only minor roles in my life, men play only minor roles in my life, men play only minor roles in my life , she repeated like a mantra in her mind.
The lights went out, the DJ turned up the bass, and Lenny Kravitz sang “Are You Gonna Go My Way.” It was strange to sit so close to McSlimy in the dark. It somehow felt extremely illegal. He smelled like McNeighbor and Issey Miyake. His arm touched hers very lightly. But then the first model appeared and shook Zoe out of McDreamy’s force field. Karlie Kloss wore a floor-length, high-cut evening dress of smoky-taupe chiffon, which flowed around her size-zero body. The look was accessorized by huge silver earrings. Right before she made her turn at the end of the catwalk, the flashes of the cameras fired like machine guns.
Zoe’s show schedule today was practically laughable:
10:00—Ralph Lauren
11:00—Rachel Zoe
12:00—Calvin Klein
1:00—Elizabeth & James
2:00—Patricia Field
3:00—Marchesa
4:00—Anna Sui
5:00—Reed Krakoff
6:00—Betsey Johnson
7:00—Proenza Schouler
8:00—Marc Jacobs
Every hour of the day was filled with killer heels, brilliant-white smiles, practiced pouts, and of course those endless camera flashes. First in the big tent, then next door to the small studio, back to the tent, to the press lounge for an espresso and a glass of champagne, and then back to the tent. The highlight of the day would be the Marc Jacobs show, which happened off-site in the 69th Regiment Armory on Lexington Avenue between 25th and 26th Streets. Very far from Lincoln Center. McSlimy and Zoe hadn’t exchanged a word with each other the entire day.
“Would you like a ride to the Marc Jacobs show?” he asked when they almost walked into each other at the exit.
“Thank you, Mr. Fiorino, but I’d rather take a taxi.”
“You know, of course, that Marc
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