Chapter Three
Ivy
“Ivy?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“My heel keeps getting caught up in my dress whenever I do that turn down at the end of the catwalk. Can you walk with me and show it to me again?”
“Sure. Let me finish pinning up this dress so it can be altered and I’ll be there,” I said.
“Ivy!”
“Yep?” I asked.
“When you’re done pinning up that dress, can you talk with me about changing the choreography for the fourth song into the show? It doesn’t flow with the outfits I’ve got during that song.”
“Yes. Once I’m done pinning the dress and walking with one of the models, I’ll be right there.”
“Walking with one of the models?”
“Yes. After all that, I’ll be there,” I said.
“Ivy!”
I stuck the last pin into the dress and groaned. I loved my job, but the week before a fashion show was always the worst. Models struggled last-minute with their turns and walks because the designer never got their shit in until the last minute, and then the designer would come in and pick everything apart. It was rare for me to get through any last week of rehearsals and choreography without changing it three separate times, but this particular designer was wound up like a tight ball of bullshit.
Because we were about to change the choreography for the fourth time.
“Come here. Let me show you this walk. I think the problem is you’re kicking your heels up too far. This turn doesn’t require you to lift your leg as much because the piece isn’t your shoes. It’s the flow of the dress below your knees. Here. Watch.”
I walked down the catwalk with my hand on my hip. The model I was working with was wearing my favorite piece. Inspired by the ‘graceful peacock’-- as the designer so eloquently put it-- the multicolored fabric shimmered underneath the lights. The halter-topped dress flowed nicely down the model’s thin frame, but when the model turned and the dress flared out, the white and grays and coppers underneath the facade of the dress sparkled, representing the albino peacocks.
It really was a beautiful piece.
I stood at the end of the catwalk and beckoned to the model. She put her hand on her hip and started walking, but I noticed her problem before she even got to me. She was limping in her heels. She was doing a great job of covering it up. No one had noticed it until this point. But it was clear she was in pain. And with the turn happening on her weaker ankle, that was why she was struggling.
I watched her turn, trying to favor her stronger ankle, and her foot got caught up in her dress.
“Okay,” I said as I reached out to catch her. “This is where you need to be honest with me.”
“Please, Ivy,” she said with a whisper. “I really need this job. All I did was trip this morning. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment after all this today, but I can’t be pulled from the show.”
“Okay. Okay. That’s fine. Look at me.”
The model, with tears in her eyes, stood on her feet as I drew in a deep breath.
“We’ll change the turn. But you’ll need to practice. I’ll get you a turn that happens on your stronger ankle, but because you’re right-foot dominant you’ll really have to practice. We can’t have you wobbling on this catwalk during the fashion show.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“As much as you can, ice and warm that ankle. Stay off of it. Sit when you’re not being asked to stand. Take care of yourself. Your body is literally how you work. So treat it kindly.”
“Yes, Ivy. Thank you so much.”
“All right. Come here. Let’s figure out another turn.”
The turn alone took me almost thirty minutes to choreograph. We had to eliminate the limp with how she walked, how she turned, and how she walked back. Perfection was always something I demanded on set because it set me apart from every other choreographer. High-end designers expected perfection, and if I delivered that on every occasion, my career would take off further than I could’ve ever imagined.
And this was no exception.
“Ivy!”
“Coming,” I said.
I high-fived the model and motioned for her to go sit before I went and found the designer.
“Hey. Sorry. Okay, you wanted to change the chor-”
“On the fourth and fifth song,” the designer said.
“Okay. Can I ask why?”
“It doesn’t fit with the color scheme I have going on for this show. It’s an animal exhibition. To bring humans into connection with the world around them. The fourth and fifth songs are strong. Like tigers or jaguars. That’s why I have those color palettes for those two songs. Yet these women are moving like gazelle. Like the prey of tigers and jaguars.”
“In their defense, the shortest one is five-foot-ten and her legs are two-thirds of her body,” I said with a grin.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” the designer asked.
Well, it was.
“No. Just a simple observation. If you want, we can remove the heels and put the models in flats. That will give them the look of-”
“Flats? On a runway? No, no, no. Leave the designing to me, Ivy,” the designer said in an annoyed tone. “No, no. We need the choreography to be stronger. Fluid and graceful, but powerful as well.”
“Uh huh. Okay. Well, give me an hour to come up with something, I’ll run it by you, and if you approve we can get the models re-trained on the new choreography.”
“Excellent! Come find me when you’re done.”
The designer blew past me and I had half a mind to trip the son of a bitch. I loved my job, but re-choreographing two distinct numbers for the third time was going to be exhausting. I pulled out my phone and walked into the corner, then started playing the music in my ear. I closed my eyes and listened to the songs over and over again, then started to walk down my own little catwalk.
Turns and twists. Hip sways or none at all. I tried out seven different creative ideas before one came to me, and my eyes ripped open as I smiled. I looked at my reflection in the windows as I backed up, taking myself in as I hung my arms at my sides and puffed my chest out.
I ran through the choreography once before I went to go get the designer.
I showed her the choreography and she loved it. Thank fuck. I pulled the models aside that were walking through the two songs and took the time to help them relearn the new things they were supposed to be doing. No one was happy. Ever since the designer blasted onto the scene, her loud mouth had been picking apart, analyzing, and dictating everything. The catwalk wasn’t set up in the shape she wanted. The wrong models were wearing the wrong pieces of clothing. Shoes needed to be changed out. Makeup needed to be redone. Everyone was being given a run for their money, but we were all gritting our teeth and sticking it out.
“And five, six, seven, eight!”
I walked with the girls and ran them through the turns. I made sure their chests were puffed out and their eyes were a little wider than normal. No smoldering in these two songs. We weren’t being sexy. We were being strong, proud tigresses. Making our appearance known to those around us. It took me an hour with the models to get them to nail it, then the designer wanted them all dressed so she could see it put together.
The designer spent two hours picking apart hair and makeup before we got the girls set up for the runway.
I walked around the sides of the catwalk, watching the models walk out again and again. I analyzed their every movement until we could run through the two songs without any suggestions flying from my mouth.
“Shoulders back, Melanie!”
“Chest out, Luce.”
“Don’t lock your knees, Bernice! You’ll go down like a sack of-”
The model hit the floor and I hopped up onto the catwalk. I rushed to her as she tried to get up, her legs trembling with exhaustion. We’d been running the choreography for over thirty minutes, and that was with working through lunch and being there since six in the morning. I slid the heels off her feet and helped her up, watching as she heaved a heavy sigh.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Hopefully that won’t happen in the show,” the designer said.
“All right, everyone. Listen up! We’re taking an hour-long break. Get yourselves some food, some water, and some-”
“No, no. Wait. We can’t break now. We still-”
“We’re taking a break,” I said as I eyed the designer. “Now.”
I ushered the model off the stage and got her sat down with some water. The manager of the show came up to me and applauded me for stepping in. But I wanted to ask that same damn manager why he hadn’t stepped in earlier. I could hear the designer stomping around, making her way for the back of the stage.
I smoothed the model’s hair back before I turned around on my feet.
“Why are we taking a break after such a tremendous failure?” the designer asked.
“Because the failure happened out of exhaustion. It’s two in the afternoon and these models have been here since six in the morning. With no breaks. You might think you’re working with horses, but I know we’re working with people. They take a break, and then we work on something else. We’ll come back to the choreography before we all break to go home.”
“Where’s the manager?” the designer asked.
“We’re taking a break!” the manager yelled from a room down the hallway.
The designer huffed away and I shook my head. Every once in a while, they would get a stick up their asses and demand to have full access to their set. But it was for reasons like that one that they never had full control. Sometimes the designers could get so wrapped up in the perfection of their show that they failed to remember they were working with people and not work horses.
The last week before a fashion show always sucked, no matter how much I loved my job.
I sat down with all the models and we ordered from the cafe down the street. I wanted to make sure they ate. The models on my sets always ate. They didn’t have to eat junk, but they did have to eat. So I ordered a foray of foods. Spinach and nuts and dried fruits and thinly-sliced meats and cheeses. Some crackers and some hot and cold teas as well as coffee for those that needed a caffeine boost. I was the choreographer, sure. But I took it upon myself to make sure the models were looked after. They needed someone on set who always had their best interests in mind. Who could balance their need for work alongside their need to take care of themselves.
I made myself their champion because they usually didn’t have anyone else.
The small trays of food came in and we all ate together. In relative silence, of course. Because we’d all been up since five in the damn morning. But I could see that the more they ate, the more energy they had. Light returned to their eyes and some of their hands stopped shaking. Even I felt a lot better after my snack tray of foods. I made it a point to never eat what the models weren’t eating. If I ordered lunch for them, then I ate those same foods. I wasn’t going to munch on pizza or a hamburger in front of women who actively had to watch their weight for their jobs.
I wasn’t heartless.
After the hour was up, the girls got up and started getting dressed. Some of them had smiles on again, and that made me feel better about putting them back on the runway. I didn’t know where the designer was and I didn’t care. The show that weekend would be a success, whether or not the designer was there. I turned on the music for the entire show and we ran through it, removing the costume changes and sticking to one pair of heels. The hair and makeup and clothes could be dealt with later on in the week. What I needed to do was solidify this choreography so we could move past it and on to other things.
And the women walked it almost perfectly.
“Yes! Way to go!” I exclaimed.
The girls all clapped as I hopped up onto the catwalk.
“Just a few small notes and I think we can finally put this puppy to bed,” I said. “Luce, you still have a tendency to hunch a little. Keep repeating to yourself to keep those shoulders back. You’re a confident woman. Make sure it’s known.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Bee, I’ll work to smooth out that hiccup in the catwalk, because you find it every damn time.”
The girls laughed and Bee nodded her head.
“I do. Even when I tell myself where it is, I still gravitate towards it.”
“I’ll make sure to get it fixed,” I said. “And Lexi?”
“Yep?”
“Remember what I told you earlier. Take care of yourself,” I said.
“I will Ivy.”
“All right! I think it’s time for hair and makeup. Go sit in your chairs, girls. It’s time for someone else to get picked apart besides me.”
The girls went and sat down in their chairs and I went to find the designer. They loved being chased down. Some of them, anyway. I found her sitting in a chair staring out the window, her hands threaded together in her lap and her head cocked off to the side.
“They’re ready for hair and makeup.”
But the designer didn’t say a word.
“They’ll need your approval before they can break for the day,” I said.
“I didn’t realize it was two o’clock,” the designer replied.
I sighed and rolled my eyes before I walked up to her side.
“Sets should have more people like you, Ivy.”
“I try to do the best I can,” I said.
“You’re more than just a choreographer,” the designer admitted. “You’re a… a voice for those models.”
“They don’t usually have one, so I take it upon myself to be one.”
“And that’s a good thing. Hair and makeup? They’re just glad to be there to flex their artistic muscles. And stage managers aren't hired by me. They come with the venues. The only person I have control over hiring is the choreographer.”
“And I’m honored that you chose me,” I said.
“Consider yourself my go-to choreographer from now on.”
“What?” I asked.
The designer finally turned her head up towards me before she stood from her seat. The woman was very petite. Four-foot-ten on a good day, but had a fire in her eyes that was unmistakable.
“I have multiple shows coming up over the next year for my new lines. I’m doing them seasonally, like fashion designers should. A couple of them will be back here in the city, and I’d like you to choreograph them.”
“I… would love that. Really,” I said.
“I’ve never met someone who stood up to me like that. High-end designers usually enjoy people who bend over backwards for them, but not me. I get so in my head creatively and I get so passionate that it sometimes overrides everything else around me. You stepped in when you needed to and didn’t back down. I need someone like that on a set.”
“Then you’re looking at the right person,” I said with a grin.
“Is that model okay?”
“Once she got some food in her, yes.”
“Good. I owe her an apology.”
“You do,” I said.
The designer let out a small laugh and shook her head before she put her hand on my back.
“Come. Let’s go take a look at the hair and makeup before we disperse for the day.”
Did I mention how much I loved the final week of fashion shows?