Catwalk. Part 9

"Thank you."

Because we're all starving and because this is an Italian restaurant, we have no problem figuring out what to eat. I go for their lasagna, Paige tries the chicken parmesan, and Fran goes all out with a small pizza.

"Tomorrow I go on a diet," Paige announces after we're done.

"Hey, this was our first real meal in two days," I tell her.

"And we'll have to call it an early dinner too," Fran points out.

"Does Paige know where we're going tonight?" I ask.

"You mean you know?" Paige puts on a pouty face.

"Okay, fine," Fran tells her. "I've got tickets to Wicked Wicked!"

"Sweet!" Paige is all smiles now. "I've been dying to see that. I heard they were coming to LA, but this is way better."

I'm not sure if it's the lasagna or the lack of sleep last night or just plain jet lag, but I'm seriously sleepy now. "I don't know about you guys," I tell them. "But I want to be awake for the musical so maybe I'll head back to the hotel for a nap."

"Not me," Paige announces. "I plan to shop for at least another hour or two."

So, once again, we part ways. As I hop in a cab to return to the hotel, I'm thinking how great it is to have this unexpected little break today. It's like a Paige break. As much as I love my sister, I needed it. Back at the hotel, it's fun having the whole place to myself. I try to imagine what it would be like if I I was the Prima Donna Princess instead of Paige. How would it feel to have everyone catering to me, ironing my clothes, ordering me strawberries, making me a bath? But then I'm sure I'd just feel silly. Really, I'd rather do it for myself. And so I make my own cup of green tea and I draw my own steaming bubble bath...and finally I snag the cashmere blanket and get into the neatly made bed (compliments of housekeeping) to settle down for a nice relaxing nap. was the Prima Donna Princess instead of Paige. How would it feel to have everyone catering to me, ironing my clothes, ordering me strawberries, making me a bath? But then I'm sure I'd just feel silly. Really, I'd rather do it for myself. And so I make my own cup of green tea and I draw my own steaming bubble bath...and finally I snag the cashmere blanket and get into the neatly made bed (compliments of housekeeping) to settle down for a nice relaxing nap.

By the time I wake up it's after six and Paige is coming into the room with a bunch of shopping bags, going on and on about how great the shopping in New York is and how it beats LA. And she's trying on a new pair of lime green shoes and squirting herself with perfume.

"Prada Infusion d'Iris...sent here by Prada." She sighs dreamily. "Along with a bunch of other Prada goodies too. Can you believe it, Erin? Prada knows my name."

"Who exactly is Prada anyway?" I sit up in bed and watch her. "I mean, I know that Michael Kors is Michael Kors-at least I think he is."

"Kors was actually born Karl Anderson Jr.," Paige informs me.

"But he's a real person, right?"

She's removing something from a large bag. "Yes, a real person." She holds up a pale green dress with a bold black stripe running diagonally through it and smiles.

"And Ralph Lauren is really Ralph Lauren and Liz Claiborne was really Liz Claiborne and Tommy Hilfiger is-"

"Erin?" Paige pulls her eyes away from the striking dress and stares at me like I'm nuts. "What exactly is is your point?" your point?"

"Who is Prada?"

"Oh." She laughs. "Well, Prada is the family name and the name of the company. It was just leather back when it was started by Fratelli and Mario Prada, back in Milan, like about one hundred years ago."

"Seriously?"

She nods then turns to look at herself in the mirror as she holds up the dress like she's trying to see how it goes with the shoes-and I have to admit it actually looks really good. "And later on Mario's daughter-in-law...or maybe it was his granddaughter-I can't remember exactly-but Miuccia Prada came on board, like in the seventies, I think. Remember I told you about Miu Miu?"

I just nod.

"Well, Miu Miu is her line, which came later. So anyway, in the seventies, Miuccia began to modernize the House of Prada by producing things beyond luggage. She came out with the famous Prada handbag and then went on to belts and a pretty sleek line of clothes that was totally revolutionary to fas.h.i.+on in the eighties and then, of course, their shoes." She holds out a foot. "They are rather famous for their shoes."

"So is Miuccia Miuccia Prada the Prada we're talking about when we're talking about Prada?" Prada the Prada we're talking about when we're talking about Prada?"

Paige gives me a tolerant smile as she carefully removes the pale green dress from the padded hanger. "Yes, something like that...you're learning."

"And so Miuccia sent you the perfume?"

She laughs "Well, not personally. But someone in the House of Prada did. And that's enough for me."

As she slips on the dress, I decide maybe it's time to get out of bed and think about getting dressed myself.

"How do I look?" she asks as she turns around to show me her outfit.

"Fantastic," I tell her. "That color is really good on you."

"Guess which designer?"

I go for the obvious. "Prada?"

"Close." She chuckles. "Miu Miu." And now she's strutting back and forth between our bedroom and bathroom like she's in a fas.h.i.+on show.

"Pretty funny," I tell her. "You looked like something the cat dragged in this morning and tonight you look like you could do the Prada cat catwalk."

She chuckles. "Well, thank you...I guess." Her hair flips as she does a quick turn then stops suddenly, turning to me as if an idea has just occurred to her. "You know, Erin, Prada is one of the few designers who actually features new models at Fas.h.i.+on Week..." Her forehead creases as if she's in deep thought, but then she shakes her head. "But, no, even if they asked, I think I'd have to decline. I need to keep my role in fas.h.i.+on clear. I am Paige Forrester, fas.h.i.+on expert for On the Runway. On the Runway. Not a model." Not a model."

"Seriously?" I study her closely. "Are you saying that if Miuccia Prada herself asked you to be in her big show next week, you would simply tell her to forget it?"

She shrugs. "Oh, I don't know about that. But let's just say that's not not going to happen." Now she frowns at me. "Good grief, Erin, aren't you going to get ready for the theater? We should be leaving in about thirty minutes." going to happen." Now she frowns at me. "Good grief, Erin, aren't you going to get ready for the theater? We should be leaving in about thirty minutes."

"I'm up already," I tell her. "And, don't worry, you know it never takes me as long as you."

"Yes, and we won't go into that right now since I still need to do my makeup and hair."

I want to point out that her hair and makeup already look perfect, but I realize I might as well talk to the wall. Instead I go to my bag, which I haven't fully unpacked yet, and I begin pulling things out. I soon have a pile of clothes on the floor, but I quickly discover that I don't have anything nearly as sw.a.n.ky as Paige's outfit.

Now it's not that I want to look like her, but I realize I might've blown it by not packing something more theater-friendly. And, although I know we have a bunch of great designer clothes-most of which I ironed last night-I also know they're supposed to be for when we're doing the show or publicity. Both Helen and Fran made that perfectly clear before we left LA. So I can't go there. I finally decide on my black turtleneck sweater, denim skirt, leather jacket, and boots. I systematically lay them out on the bed and begin to dress.

"What are you doing?" Paige demands.

I've just pulled my sweater over my head and peer out the top hole of the turtleneck. "Huh?"

"What on earth are you putting on?"

"My clothes."

"But we're going to the theater the theater, Erin. This is New York. New York. We might even be We might even be seen seen tonight." tonight."

I kind of laugh. "Yeah, unless we suddenly become invisible."

She goes over and picks up my denim skirt, holding it like it's a soured dishrag that's been in the sink too long. "You are so so not wearing this, Erin Forrester. Seriously. What's wrong with you?" not wearing this, Erin Forrester. Seriously. What's wrong with you?"

"I didn't pack anything very dressy," I admit.

She frowns and stomps off to the living room, where I can hear her complaining to Fran. "Erin has totally lost it. I cannot believe she's this hopelessly fas.h.i.+on-challenged." Now I go out there, in just my turtleneck and underwear, and stand behind her and listen as she goes on about how pathetic I am. "My very own sister and she has absolutely no sense of style-none whatsoever. And this is Manhattan and next week is Fas.h.i.+on Week and we're supposed to be the stars of On the Runway On the Runway and she's putting on an outfit that totally-" and she's putting on an outfit that totally-"

"Calm down," Fran holds up her hands to stop her then looks at me curiously. "That what you're wearing tonight, Erin?"

I look down at my bare legs. "Well, no...I planned to put on a skirt."

To my surprise they both laugh at this. And I'm slightly relieved to have lightened the moment-albeit at my expense.

"I didn't really pack anything formal," I explain, apologizing.

"But this is Manhattan and you were supposed-"

"Paige," Fran interrupts. "Chill out. And go finish your makeup or whatever you were doing. I'll handle this."

Paige groans and turns around, stomping back to the bathroom.

"I'm sorry," I tell Fran. "I just packed things for what I figured I'd want to do during my spare time, like see the Statue of Liberty or MoMA or take in a film. No big deal, you know."

"Yes. I understand, but Paige is making a good point too. And since she's right-you girls could be seen tonight, you could even be photographed-we need to think of this as a publicity appearance and you need to look hot."

"Fine." I shrug. "I have no problem with that...if it's even possible."

Fran laughs then goes to the closet where she begins to peruse through the studio clothes and finally pulls out a charcoal gray dress. "It doesn't look like much without the accessories," she says as she hands it to me. "It's Marc Jacobs. Go ahead and put it on while I round up the belt and shoes."

I slip the dress on and look at it in the mirror. It's not terribly special looking, but I have to admit it looks much better than what I was about to wear. Very cla.s.sic lines and elegant.

"Here you go," Fran tells me as she hands me a s.h.i.+ny yellow belt and a box that has a pair of yellow and black pumps inside.

I put them on and then look at myself again. "Not bad," I tell her.

"I'd say it's pretty good." Fran puts a long silver necklace around my neck, then steps back and smiles.

Now Paige emerges from the bathroom and looks me up and down. "Tres chic," she says with an approving nod.

"So, fas.h.i.+on emergency averted?" I ask. "I'm allowed to go out with you tonight?"

"With a little makeup," Paige says as she pushes me toward the bathroom.

"I'm going to look like the ugly ducking," Fran calls after us.

And although Fran looks nice enough in her little black dress and pumps, as the three of us wait to go into the theater on 51st Street I have to admit that Paige and I look great. And we do catch people's eyes. I can tell they're looking at us like they're trying to figure out who we are. And, although it's hard to admit, I suppose it's actually kind of fun.

Chapter 11.

"Bad news," Fran tells us Sat.u.r.day morning as we're having breakfast in our room. She's studying her BlackBerry with a dark frown. "Our camera crew never made it into New York last night. They're stuck in Chicago-unexpected blizzard."

"Does that mean we cancel on the Dylan Marceau visit today?" Paige asks with a worried brow.

"No way," Fran tells her. "We worked really hard to set that one up and if we don't show we might never get the chance again. Dylan is getting more and more in demand and we don't want to offend him."

"I could film the visit with my camera," I say. "The quality won't be as high as the crew's cameras, but at least we'll have some footage."

"And at least we won't blow off the appointment and offend the Dylan Marceau people," Fran adds.

"And possibly get ourselves uninvited to his show next week." Paige refills her coffee cup. "That would be really sad."

"You really think you can handle this on your own?" Fran asks me.

"I'll do my best." I try not to look too happy because I know I should be as b.u.mmed as they are about losing our camera crew today. But the truth is I'm totally excited to think I'm not just "playing" Camera Girl today, but actually doing it. And that means two things: One, I do not need to worry about being filmed and two, with the crew stuck in Chicago I have a chance to get the best shots. Or so I hope.

"I'll let JJ know where we'll be just in case they catch a flight and make it here in time to come over and help us out." Fran goes into the kitchen to make the call and we hear snippets of the conversation. "Still snowing? Well, there's nothing you can do about that." Fran sighs loudly. "Erin's going to try to get some footage. Sure, I'll tell her. You kids just take care and get here as soon as you can." Then she says good-bye. "Sounds pretty bad," she tells us. "They spent the night in the airport and it doesn't look like anything will be flying out for at least two more hours."

I know I shouldn't feel as pleased as I do. And to make up for this, I silently pray for the crew's welfare and safety.

"And JJ said to tell you that you'll do fine, Erin. He said just relax and film your subjects like you're just watching them."

"Just watching watching them?" them?"

"Those were his words."

I nod. "Okay, that kind of makes sense." I also want to say that his advice sounds like an oversimplification to me, but then again, JJ's the expert. Not me. Hopefully this will be a good learning experience.

We arrive at the Dylan Marceau studio a little before ten. I'm not really sure who this designer is, but I know that Paige is totally excited to meet him and Fran seemed really pleased that we lined him up for an interview. So I'm thinking this guy must be one of the "top designers" and therefore I brace myself for someone who's a little too full of himself.

"I'm Autumn," a small brunette tells us after the receptionist announces our arrival. "Dylan's creative director."

"Hi, Autumn, I'm Paige Forrester," Paige says as she hands her business card to the woman. "Unfortunately, our camera crew is stuck in Chicago due to bad weather." She nods toward me and makes a quick introduction. "But Erin is an experienced camera operator and I'm sure we won't be disappointed."

"Great," Autumn says. "Sounds like we're ready to rock and roll. And I'm actually relieved that you don't have a huge crew with you. Hopefully that will streamline the tour and speed things up a bit, because as you know, we're crunching on some serious deadlines here."

"And we want to be totally respectful of your time."

As they're talking I turn on my camera, plug in the mic, and adjust the lens. And, just like that, we're off and running. Autumn proceeds to give us what has become the typical tour of a design studio. And, really, this place isn't much different than the ones in LA. However, there does seem to be some positive energy here. The designers are really into their work, but maybe that's just because Fas.h.i.+on Week is coming fast. I do notice that the s.p.a.ces here seem smaller than some of the LA studios, but I suspect that's because Manhattan real estate is scarcer than it is at home. The largest room is where the actual garment construction happens, and that s.p.a.ce is a whirl of activity and actually pretty fun to catch on camera. Paige doesn't even go in there, and I try to get as much footage of the cutters and sewers as I can before Autumn whisks us on our way.

There's also a fitting room, where we get a glimpse of models and mannequins with garments in various stages of construction, and I catch what I hope might be some interesting footage. And there's the usual conference room, offices, a s.h.i.+pping room, and a few other less-interesting s.p.a.ces, as well as a room which is posted "Authorized Personnel Only." Autumn winks into the lens of the camera as she points to the sign. "And that, as you can guess, is top secret until next week."

We finally end up in what Autumn describes as the "nerve center" for the whole operation. The lower portions of the walls contain sleek built-in cabinets with large drawers and open shelves that hold sketchbooks, photograph alb.u.ms, and magazines. The upper portions of two walls are like giant drawing boards and have some random sketches of clothing scribbled here and there-almost like graffiti. Another wall is a colorful collage of fabric swatches and trims and things. The fourth wall has photos of finished garments and shots from various fas.h.i.+on shows. And there's an oversized desk in the center and several molded plastic chairs in varying colors around it. The total effect is creatively pleasing and it's fun to get on camera.

"This is where Dylan gets his brainstorms," Autumn explains. "In other words: Design Central." She opens one of the sketchbooks and I focus my shot on it as she flips through the pages. "Naturally, this is a book from a previous season." She chuckles and I move the camera to her face. "As you know, some parts of this business must remain under wraps until the time is right." She glances at her watch. "Speaking of time, I apologize for Dylan. He seems to be running late."