IT’S THREE
O’CLOCK in the morning. She’s alone and almost asleep in the voluptuous bed
when she hears the rustling sound and feels the gloved hand slide across her
cheek and —THWAMMMMP!—clamp tight across her mouth.
A shudder shoots
through her like an arrow carved from ice. Every sinew, every membrane, every
cell of her imperial body freezes.
She can’t
move. She can’t talk. She can only dread what is happening to the most powerful
woman in the world of fashion—the woman her jealous peers, dropping to their
knees, have crowned La Fashionista.
Some ignorant and misinformed lowlife is
trying to kill her.
It’s only
been a few hours since her friends from Paris threw the awesome après-ski shindig in her
honor—twenty-five Croesus-rich socialites plus the top five international
retail-stock moguls, to say nothing of her swarm of magazine people—to present
her the gold Aphrodite.
Then the
drunken scene with Philo—her kissy-sweet paramour proceeding to make a perfect
ass of himself groping the young wife and ex-model thing from Copenhagen. Can
anyone blame La Fashionista for
storming out—alone and in a huff?
Returning
to the Tower Suite of the elegant hotel, she slams the Aphrodite down on the
bar, hurls the chinchilla halfway across the room, splashes brandy into a
glass, and takes an enormous swallow. This she follows with five deep breaths
before pressing the button on her iPhone.
With Die Valkure blasting, she leans in front
of her laptop screen and scans the list of industry peeves and annoyances to
unload at the noon staff brunch.
Eagerly, she adds a scornful word or three and highlights a sentence in
red for those Neanderthals in legal.
She tosses
down the rest of the brandy and in the mirror catches a final glimpse of the
matronly curve of her bust, the skin on her face pulled Botox tight around
cat-like eyes and serious lips, the frosted gray curls dangling limply in hopes
the Parisian stylist flying in at ten will be on time—and, of course, that
gorgeous chain of Tiffany pearls triple-stranded across her throat.
Calm now
in her Gucci nightgown, La Fashionista
snaps off the light and sinks into the softness of the four-poster with the
Louis XIV canopy. She pulls the satin sheet and coverlet up around her
shoulders. Then she turns on her side
and faces the row of casement windows, the drapes closed tight against the
glistening moonlit slopes of Chamonix.
The eyes
flicker, adjusting to the absence of light, seeking to close. When they do,
even La Fashionista’s slight smile
bears the look of confident power.
And
then—THAT DREADFUL GLOVE!
The glove
has a sweaty, greasy odor, not the subtle fragrance of the expensive lotions
and moisturizers and rare emollients privileged to kiss her body—and, not to be
forgotten, those drops of Chanel lingering on her neck and wrists.
But now a
second glove replaces the first. She struggles but feels her strength ebbing.
The second glove is soaked with a brashly sweet wetness that inflames her
nostrils and screams Give up, Lady, for once
someone else is in command.
Good
Christ, don’t they know La Fashionista
is the one and only Paisley LaForge, the voice of Gorjuss, the magazine everybody reads first because it is the Holy
Bible of fashion and the editor is God Herself?
Don’t they
know she can make or break a new line with a single scathing word from her
fertile, chichi vocabulary—and that La
Fashionista has come all the way from New York to breathe new life into the
dying crop of indolent French designers?
She hears
what sounds like the squeak of metal. Or is it a hum? Whispers—yes, there must
be more than one.
If only she could talk. If only they could
hear her thoughts on the subject, her clever suggestions. But that glove!
You may
help yourselves to the pearl thing, she wants them to hear her say—it’s an
original. Sorry for not bringing the
rest of the jewels. But if you’d be willing to settle for some fantastic fakes,
check the black box on the cabinet. And next to it on the bar is the Aphrodite—take
it, please.
She can arrange
other things—this is France, after all. Doesn’t she have the ear of the
President after that article on the man’s awesome new wife—her stunning
wardrobe? And she knows the hotel has
some terrific job openings—you’ll get to wear spiffy uniforms with dangling
gold braid.
La Fashionista can get you into
clothes—ooh-la-la, can she ever! How fabulous you’ll look strutting up and down
the Avenue des Champs d’Elysees,
drawing flattering stares while everyone shouts—look, oh look at them, aren’t
they natty, aren’t they sharp, don’t they know how to dress, aren’t they the
frosting on the cake, the cat’s meow?
Can’t
you please take that nasty glove away—show a little courtesy for La Fashionista and her ideas? I am trying my best to cooperate.
All right,
whoever you are, if you want to play hardball yours truly is also known behind
her back as the Iron Lady and as such
can have your asses ‘renditioned’ (to use the glitzy new word) back to New York
where she’s on a first name basis with the Mayor and has friends in the D.A.’s
office.
At the
snap of the Iron Lady’s fingers,
certain elements of the industry will be privileged to enter your cell in the
wee hours to gouge out your eyes, shove a nightstick up your tight, little
assholes, and remove your darling little pricks with a switchblade.
One or all of the above, fellas—your choice!
Don’t mess with the Iron Lady.
The angry
surge of contempt has her going now and she kicks out a leg and moves an arm as
she struggles to raise her head from the pillow.
But the black
glove moves swiftly from her mouth and with the other glove presses two black
thumbs behind her neck while the fingers of both hands spread across her
jawbones and begin the process of squeezing. Squeezing tight around her thin
neck and those precious pearls. Tighter even. And then—
AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaack.
The scream
is barely out of her mouth. Amid the jangle of pearls she feels the sudden,
serious wrench. Much too far—Jesus guys!
She hears
the ‘snap’—no, make a note that it is more like the ‘crack’ of a stalk of fresh
celery breaking. But it is too late.
Everything is morphing into the strangest
color. Nothing like it in anything La
Fashionista has ever written or
seen—nothing at all. Then a blank page.
And now
even that is gone.
********
