Fatshionista (24 page)

I gave them all
one last smile, then slipped on the headset and finished checking things off my
list. This show was going to be fantastic, I just knew it. I only hoped Daniel
would be there to see it.

“Millie? You on?”
Lizzie’s voice came crackling over the headset.

“I’m here,
Lizzie. Where are we with everything?”

“We’re good to
go. Models are finishing hair and makeup. Daniel’s assistant is back here to
help with the fittings, and we have our crew handing out the outfit bags. Sound
cues and light cues are good to go. We had one small issue with the fire
marshal, who thought we were over capacity, but the head count proved we still
had five left before we were going to be shut down.”

“Shit, that’s
cutting it close. Who did we have to kick out to keep it under the maximum?” I
knew we had to kick someone out; there were too many people crowding into this
place for me to believe that someone willingly gave up their seat.

“It was a couple
of journos from Italy. No major publications, and they’re hanging outside, hoping
to rush in when the media coverage starts. I have security keeping an eye on
them, and they know that anyone else who tries to come in is going to have be
turned away.”

I glanced around
to see if the major players had made it in on time. Some editors and
celebrities were notoriously late for fashion shows. Unfortunately, this time
we wouldn’t be able to accommodate them. I was sure there would be some
backlash about that, but I couldn’t risk the fire marshal shutting us down.

“Great job,
Lizzie. Any sign of Daniel or his mother?”

“Well, I’ll be
damned. They just walked in. Both of them, only this time she has no luggage.”

I sighed with
relief. At least he was here. We would deal with everything else after the
show. We only had about fifteen minutes until we were set to begin—no
time for me to go back there and reassure him or even find out what had
happened. We had all assumed it was because of the blog post, but maybe it was
something else. I tapped my pencil against the clipboard, fighting the urge to
bolt backstage and find out what had happened.

“Millie, Daniel’s
here; he wants to talk to you. I’m giving him my headset; just a sec.”

Immediately I was
on alert. I knew he probably wanted to reassure me, and I knew there was no way
he could have found out I was the one who wrote the post that was causing such
a frenzy today, but I still had a stone sitting in my stomach as I waited for
his voice to come over the headset.

“Millie?”

I couldn’t help
but smile at the sound of his voice. Whether it was relief or excitement or
butterflies, I didn’t know. But just the sound of his voice made me feel like
everything was going to be okay.

“I’m here,
Daniel. Are you all right?”

I could hear his
soft chuckle and the smile in his voice as he said, “I am. So sorry to cause
you any anxiety. I was thrown for a loop this morning when Scarlett called me
to tell me about the blog post.”

Damn that
Scarlett.

“But Mom came and
found me and informed me that she did not fly eight thousand miles to watch my
show without me.”

There was a pause
I wanted to fill with chatter, but I felt like he was searching for the right
words to say something, so I stuffed mine down and just waited.

“Millie, I’m so
sorry if I upset you this morning. Obviously we have some things to discuss,
but it was wrong of me to disappear. You’ve worked your ass off for me, and I
couldn’t think about anyone but myself. Please accept my apology, Millie, and I
would like to take you out to dinner after the show.”

My heart skipped
a beat at the idea of us on a date, a real date where he was straight, I was on
fire for him, and we were no longer client and vendor.

“I would love
that, Daniel,” I whispered into the headset. “I have some things I need to tell
you—”

“It’s me again;
Daniel had to go deal with a jacket that wasn’t hanging right. But you can go
ahead and whisper sweet nothings into my ear if you’d like.” Lizzie’s laughter
could be heard out in the house.

“Ha, ha. Keep it
down; we can hear you cackling all the way out here. Let me know when he’s
ready; we can delay just a few minutes now that we know he’s here.”

I glanced around
me and was overwhelmed by the sheer number of press and people packed into the
audience. I had produced many shows, but the sense of anticipation in the
audience was at a level I had never felt before. I knew it had been the right
thing to do to come clean about who he was before the show. It would all work
out, I just knew it. And Lord willing, I would finally be able to get that man
naked.

“Lizzie, is
Daniel done checking all the models? We have about five more minutes, and then
I’m going to start calling the show.”

“Yeah…” Her voice
had a hint of anxiety that I didn’t want to hear this close to the start of the
show.

“What? What’s
going on now?” I couldn’t handle one more thing blowing up today.

“I don’t know
what’s going on. Daniel and his mom were over here next to me, talking about
her trip; they both seemed fine. He made a joke about how much luggage she had
brought for a quick trip, then she said it was mostly gifts. I couldn’t make it
all out, but he said something about her not knowing anyone here to bring gifts
for, and she said they were not from her. Sounded like someone from home asked
her to bring them here for someone else. I couldn’t make out the rest, but I
did catch the name Amandeep—sounded like maybe it was a neighbor.”

My heart dropped
into my stomach. It couldn’t be. There was no way.
Calm down, Millie.
Amandeep was a common name in Delhi.
Deep breaths.

“Um, did they say
anything else?”

“Uh…Millie, we
might have a problem.”

Oh no. This
couldn’t be happening.

“Millie, Daniel
looks like he’s kind of yelling at his mom, and she’s just shaking her head. I
can’t make out what they’re saying, but…”

“But what,
Lizzie? What?” At that point, I was frantic to find out if my worst fears were
true.

“I did hear your
name, not from Daniel, but from his mom. Did she meet you today backstage?”

I hung my head
and stared sightlessly at my clipboard. “No. I didn’t meet her this morning.
Lizzie, whatever you do, don’t let Daniel leave, and don’t give him that
microphone.”

“Millie? What’s
going on? What are you not telling me?”

Shit, I had to
let her know. It would come out sooner or later, and maybe if she knew, she
could keep him from making a scene. As it was, I was fighting the urge to slink
out the back and make a run for it.

“Remember I told
you I spent a year living in Delhi when I was in college?”

“Yeah. What does
that have to do with Daniel, his show, and his mother?”

“Amandeep Singh
is my Aunty-ji. The one who’s family I lived with when I was there. I don’t
know how it’s possible in a city of fourteen million, but I have a sinking
feeling that somehow Daniel’s mom knows her. The gifts are for me. My aunty
sent me an email the other week that she had a surprise coming for me, but I
didn’t know it had anything to do with Daniel.”

“Does she know
you’re working with him?”

“No, we don’t
talk about work that much. She has no idea about designers, and she says it
bores her. I guess this time it might have been wise for me to have told her
about all this.”

“Millie, I don’t
understand. Why is Daniel back here pacing and looking like he wants to tear
someone’s head off just because his mom brought you some presents from her
neighbor?”

The alarm on my
phone went off, alerting me that it was time to start the show.

“I’ll explain it
all later, Lizzie. Just do as I said and don’t let Daniel anywhere near that
stage until the end of the show. Cue lights, cue music, cue models.”

I had to focus on
the show and pray that Daniel could contain his rage until we were done. By now
he had figured out that if I had been in Delhi for a year, I might just be able
to speak Hindi. Which would mean that I had understood his conversation with his
mother the other night and knew he wasn’t gay. And that I was the only person
in the US who was privy to that information. So either I told the author of the
blog or I
was
the author of the blog. He wasn’t stupid; I had told him I
wanted to be a writer.

Dear Lord,
please just let the man show some common sense and put his work first and let
us settle this after the show.
I wanted to run; I was literally perched on
the edge of my seat, my legs trembling with the need to bolt and not deal with
the shitstorm waiting for me backstage.

The house lights
went down, the music started, and the models were walking.

“Millie? I think
we might have a problem…”

That was all the
warning I needed. I slammed the clipboard into the knapsack and was seconds
from flying out of the chair when all of a sudden the audience gasped. I
glanced up at the stage and saw Daniel storming down the runway, searching the
audience for a face. My face.

“You.”

With one word,
everything came to a halt.

Oh shit.
Please don’t let him point; please don’t let him point to me. Oh dear God. Oh
shit. Oh no; he just pointed. He just pointed right at me. Why did I have to
sit in the front? Just let the floor open up and swallow my chair, my
clipboard, my headset, and me.

The music
stopped. The two models on the catwalk stood frozen in place, awkwardly
wondering whether they should continue strutting their stuff or stand in slack-jawed
amazement at the spectacle I was quickly becoming. The cameras that had just
recently been pointed at the models turned on me. The flashes were going off so
quickly it was like a strobe light.

It was as if
every decision I had made over the last two months had come back to haunt me in
one flamingly public moment.

And with that,
the man whose name was emblazoned on the giant banner above him gave me one
last cold look, dropped the microphone, and exited stage left. Fashion week had
officially ground to a halt. And apparently I was to blame.

Monkeys were
fighting on the rooftop across from me. The sound of horns and the smell of
food cooking on the street below surrounded me while I sat with my arms around
my knees and my chin propped on them, taking in the beauty and chaos that was
Delhi.

The light breeze
ruffled the baggy cotton of the pants on my salwar kameez. My hair was braided
down my back, and at first glance I looked like any other Indian woman sitting
on her roof in the dusky hour of sunset, watching the world go by.

I was still in a
daze from the last forty-eight hours. I was mentally and physically exhausted,
but I couldn’t sleep. My head and my heart were both churning around and
around—reliving every action, every decision, and everything that had
brought me here to this moment.

It always amazed
me that in the middle of this chaotic, dusty, crowded place I could find peace.
It was the only place that felt like home—somewhere I could let down my
guard, lick my wounds, and figure out what to do with the mess I had made of my
life.

As the cameras
had continued to take my picture after Daniel’s dramatic performance, I had
calmly gotten up, left my headset with the sound of Lizzie’s voice hollering
over it in the chair, picked up my bag, and walked toward the back of the house
and out of the building.

In a daze, I
caught a cab back to my place, packed a bag, called the airline, booked a
flight for four hours later, and stopped by to tell Avis where I was headed.

I also told her
to shut down the blog and asked her to mail my letter of resignation to Marta
for me. I was quitting it all: the job, the blog…my life. I had no idea what I
was going to do, but I knew the first thing that had to happen was healing my
heart.

It had broken in
two when Daniel looked at me with that mix of hatred and sadness and then
walked off the stage, leaving me to deal with the aftermath.

I couldn’t sleep
on the plane. I knew I angered the man next to me, who only wanted to talk
about how excited he was to see India for the first time. I tried to smile and
nod, but I was so numb I could barely interact with anyone.

I made it through
customs and dodged the dozen or so men who always wanted to help the lone
foreign women with their bags. I smiled politely for as long as I could, but
when the seventh one approached, I snapped. My Hindi poured from my mouth as I
told him in no uncertain terms that I could handle my own damn bags and to
leave me the hell alone.

Granted, it was
not my finest moment, but it did result in every other baggage walla steering
clear of me.

When I made it
out into the terminal and saw my Aunty-ji waiting for me, her arms wide open
and tears coming down her face, that was when I gave in and cried. I held her
for what seemed like hours. All my Indian cousins and uncles were there, too.
They were all there to support me. No one knew what had happened; they just
knew I was coming home and that I was broken.