is notorious for starting late, that it will be ice-cold in the armory, and that it will be much more comfortable in my Town Car?”
“Over my dead body,” Zoe responded coldly, and stormed off.
Of course it was impossible to get a taxi shortly before eight p.m., when the last show in Lincoln Center had ended. “Of course all the insiders know that,” Zoe muttered to herself with annoyance, and made her way toward the subway station again. She was stressed and in a permanent state of panic about getting sweat stains on her own haute couture when she finally arrived in the no-man’s land of the East 20s (was it Murray Hill? or Gramercy?) and made her way on foot to the Armory. In front of the gates was a line at least two hundred people deep. Some were waving their invitation cards wildly, and others were demanding in shrill voices that they were on the guest list. Doormen in black suits with football-player physiques and radios in their ears like Secret Service men held their positions stoically. At 8:45, forty-five minutes late, Zoe was finally allowed to go inside. The gigantic Armory hall, with its pillars and ornamented ceilings, was still half empty. Zoe took her place on a cold metal bench in the first row. There was no trace of VIPs like Hollywood’s Sofia Coppola or fashion queen Anna Wintour. And no show began before Anna arrived. That was the law. McSlimy was probably still sitting in his warm, chauffeur-driven Town Car, peacefully drinking an Americano and reading a newspaper.
The building was the size of an airplane hangar. It had once been the headquarters of the 69th Regiment. When it was built in 1851, nobody had bothered to put in central heating. It was damn cold in there, and Zoe was hungry. Hunger was a bad sign for Schuhmachers. Zoe actually thought that she was relatively low-maintenance, all things considered. But when she got hungry, bystanders had to beware. Things could get ugly.
Meanwhile, it was five past nine. The show should have started over an hour ago. The audience was getting fidgety. But Anna still wasn’t there. McSlimy wasn’t, either. Zoe’s stomach growled dangerously. She wondered if she should just leave. The whole thing was an affront. People were saying that the shoes for the show had been held up in the airport by customs, and would be arriving in a few minutes. So let the models walk barefoot , Zoe thought. She was cold, she was murderously hungry, and as a member of upper echelons of the fashion elite, she felt completely snubbed. Then, at 9:37, the lights were suddenly dimmed, and a few figures hurried to their seats. Zoe recognized Anna even though she was wearing sunglasses. She also spotted Beyoncé and Winona Ryder. McSlimy glided noiselessly to his seat next to Zoe. He dropped a paper bag in her lap, which smelled sensationally of avocado and grilled chicken.
“Here’s a sandwich, in case you’re hungry.”
Zoe could have thrown her arms around him . . . but she just said “Thank you” and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
The Marc Jacobs show was spectacular. The collection was reminiscent of an eighties prom. Pretty in Pink meets The Breakfast Club . Jacobs allowed himself the luxury of having a new model for each of his fifty-five looks. None of them had to change and come out again. After the parade was over and Marc came up on the catwalk to take a bow, briefly and a little shyly, there was thunderous applause. Even from the typically merciless Anna. Then McSlimy took Zoe’s hand without invitation, and whisked her through the crowd out the back exit.
“My driver will take us to the after-party.”
Zoe noticed she was nodding. Even though her brain didn’t want her to, some other part of her obviously did. Whether it was her grateful stomach or her hormones, she wasn’t sure.
The Marc Jacobs after-party was at the Gramercy Park Hotel, where Allegra liked to crash when she was in town. A standard room there cost $600 a night. Zoe looked around
“Over my dead body,” Zoe responded coldly, and stormed off.
Of course it was impossible to get a taxi shortly before eight p.m., when the last show in Lincoln Center had ended. “Of course all the insiders know that,” Zoe muttered to herself with annoyance, and made her way toward the subway station again. She was stressed and in a permanent state of panic about getting sweat stains on her own haute couture when she finally arrived in the no-man’s land of the East 20s (was it Murray Hill? or Gramercy?) and made her way on foot to the Armory. In front of the gates was a line at least two hundred people deep. Some were waving their invitation cards wildly, and others were demanding in shrill voices that they were on the guest list. Doormen in black suits with football-player physiques and radios in their ears like Secret Service men held their positions stoically. At 8:45, forty-five minutes late, Zoe was finally allowed to go inside. The gigantic Armory hall, with its pillars and ornamented ceilings, was still half empty. Zoe took her place on a cold metal bench in the first row. There was no trace of VIPs like Hollywood’s Sofia Coppola or fashion queen Anna Wintour. And no show began before Anna arrived. That was the law. McSlimy was probably still sitting in his warm, chauffeur-driven Town Car, peacefully drinking an Americano and reading a newspaper.
The building was the size of an airplane hangar. It had once been the headquarters of the 69th Regiment. When it was built in 1851, nobody had bothered to put in central heating. It was damn cold in there, and Zoe was hungry. Hunger was a bad sign for Schuhmachers. Zoe actually thought that she was relatively low-maintenance, all things considered. But when she got hungry, bystanders had to beware. Things could get ugly.
Meanwhile, it was five past nine. The show should have started over an hour ago. The audience was getting fidgety. But Anna still wasn’t there. McSlimy wasn’t, either. Zoe’s stomach growled dangerously. She wondered if she should just leave. The whole thing was an affront. People were saying that the shoes for the show had been held up in the airport by customs, and would be arriving in a few minutes. So let the models walk barefoot , Zoe thought. She was cold, she was murderously hungry, and as a member of upper echelons of the fashion elite, she felt completely snubbed. Then, at 9:37, the lights were suddenly dimmed, and a few figures hurried to their seats. Zoe recognized Anna even though she was wearing sunglasses. She also spotted Beyoncé and Winona Ryder. McSlimy glided noiselessly to his seat next to Zoe. He dropped a paper bag in her lap, which smelled sensationally of avocado and grilled chicken.
“Here’s a sandwich, in case you’re hungry.”
Zoe could have thrown her arms around him . . . but she just said “Thank you” and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
The Marc Jacobs show was spectacular. The collection was reminiscent of an eighties prom. Pretty in Pink meets The Breakfast Club . Jacobs allowed himself the luxury of having a new model for each of his fifty-five looks. None of them had to change and come out again. After the parade was over and Marc came up on the catwalk to take a bow, briefly and a little shyly, there was thunderous applause. Even from the typically merciless Anna. Then McSlimy took Zoe’s hand without invitation, and whisked her through the crowd out the back exit.
“My driver will take us to the after-party.”
Zoe noticed she was nodding. Even though her brain didn’t want her to, some other part of her obviously did. Whether it was her grateful stomach or her hormones, she wasn’t sure.
The Marc Jacobs after-party was at the Gramercy Park Hotel, where Allegra liked to crash when she was in town. A standard room there cost $600 a night. Zoe looked around
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