“Sorry. Who are you with?” The hipster’s looking down his nose at me, through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses I suspect are fake. He stands behind a desk that guards the entrance of Gareth Miller’s narrow garment-district studio. Directly behind him is a tall, maple-paneled door.
Behind him is the studio. And I am about to go inside.
I’m dressed in my best work outfit. A fitted black tee with an off-center V-neck and a midi-length skirt from fabric I silkscreened with vintage arcade characters. Plus-size Donna Reed meets Freaks and Geeks.
As the guy rearranges his plaid scarf, I’m pinching the Donkey Kong on my stiff, cotton skirt. “I’m with SoScottsdale. It’s a Phoenix-based design blog.”
A second guy with knee-length shorts and a floppy cap joins Mr. Skinny Jeans behind the desk. It’s not lost on me that the two of them are crowded into a space I couldn’t fit in.
“SoScottsdale? What the hell is that?” says Mr. Skinny Jeans.
Mr. Floppy Hat reaches over Mr. Skinny Jeans’ shoulder and taps a few times on the computer’s keyboard. “Oh, you know. That new whack-a-doodle down at Blue PR wants us to do more regional stuff. Open up a couple of the reviews. Says we need more street-level buy-in.”
“Whatever the hell that means,” says Mr. Skinny Jeans. He stares at the monitor for a minute. “Yeah. I see it here. SoScottsdale. But someone’s already checked in. Kennes Butterfield.”
He gives me a dismissive nod. Like everything’s all worked out now. “But I’m with SoScottsdale. I’m Cookie Vonn.”
Behind Skinny Jeans, Floppy Hat snorts with laughter. He turns away, but I see his shoulder shake. “Well, you might want to tell them that, sweetheart. Kennes Butterfield’s the name they put on the list. She got here an hour ago.”
A chic woman with a pixie cut, clad in fitted jeans and an Elizabeth and James Dover tee, breezes in. She doesn’t stop at the desk. Mr. Floppy Hat holds the door while checking his cell phone.
The door is open for maybe ten seconds. I see a slice of Miller’s profile. Just his nose, really. And the edge of his dark hairline.
The door closes with a heavy thud. Closes on my opportunity to ask Miller how a kid from Montana created a fashion empire. To meet LaChapelle and personally plead with him for a scholarship. It’s over.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
“But Gareth Miller’s in there.” I’m sort of stuttering. Like a stupid. Fucking. Idiot.
Skinny Jeans and Floppy Hat are both laughing. I leave through the front door as one of them says, “Yeah. This is his studio. He’s bound to be here once in a while.”
I’m standing on the curb outside Miller’s gray building as taxis whizz by and lights pop on in offices across the street. I’m having a meltdown. But for some people, it’s business as usual.
I pull my phone out of my bag.
“I’m sorry, Cookie. I really am.” This is how Terri answers the phone.
“What the hell is going on, Terri?” I say.
“Marlene had to send someone else to the preview at the last second,” she says. The wail of a baby drowns out her next sentence.
My teeth are clenched. I’m pacing and waving my arms. But nobody looks. Because this is New York. I could be in a flaming Big Bird costume and no one would notice. “Who?”
“Marlene will explain when you get back to the office,” Terri says.
“When I get back to the office? Terri, are you serious? Somebody should have explained before I made a total fucking ass of myself at G Studios.”
Terri’s voice is weak through my receiver. Taxis honk. Somebody yells something like “You can’t park in the red zone.”
“Cookie, you’re right. I should have called. But every surface in my house is covered in projectile vomit. I could barely get out of bed this morning. It sucks. And I get why you’re mad. But—”
I ignore her. I can’t turn off my temper. “I got up at the crack of dawn to be here by nine. I had to walk down here since I couldn’t afford to take a taxi and also eat. And by the way, the Continental is a total dump. I mean, what kind of room has four twin beds? Who’s supposed to be sleeping in there? One Direction without Zayn Malik? Oh, and I’m pretty sure the gangsters on the hotel stoop have a plan going to harvest and sell my organs. Then, I get to the studio and—”
“Cookie!” Terri’s using her angry-mom voice. “I know. Listen. I wanted to call. I should have called last night. While I was still feeling okay. But this girl, Kennes Butterfield, or whatever her name is, she missed her plane. And there was a chance she wouldn’t make it. I know how much you wanted to go. So I was hoping she wouldn’t make it.”
“She missed her flight?” I ask. I have a sinking feeling. The kind you can’t exactly explain. The kind that won’t go away.
“Yeah. Between you and me, this girl is a piece of work. I guess she got into a fight with another passenger. Got grounded at O’Hare.”
Silence. My rational brain tries to say its piece.
There are tons of flights out of O’Hare. People get in fights on planes all the time. There can’t be a connection between the glossy-headed bitch on my flight and what’s happening now.
Except that’s not my luck. Not my life.
Terri’s still talking. “Her rich daddy got her a seat on a private plane and she beat you to New York. Some people have all the luck, I guess.”
My stomach drops further.
“And look, I know it’s not ideal, but the girl’s not a blogger,” Terri says with a sigh. “She’ll pass you her notes and pics. You’ll still be the contributor of the article. You’ll get hits and some exposure.”
“If she’s not a blogger, what’s she doing there?” I ask.
There’s a pause. “Oh God. Justin’s gonna throw up again. Gotta go. Try and have a nice day in the city. We’ll work everything out when you get back.”
I stand outside where full sun now hits the studio building.
The one upside of being forced to buy the full-priced ticket is that I can change my flight. I’m going home.