The Year of Living Famously (23 page)

By the end of that day, I not only had numbers for Hannah and CeCe, I'd talked to their stylists. I told myself again and again that it didn't matter whether I was getting this attention because of Declan or not, because I, Kyra Felis, was designing three more dresses for the Academy Awards.

 

The remaining few weeks before the Oscars were a blur of frantically scribbled designs, constant meetings about fabric and patterns, phone calls with stylists and the ever-increasing media attention.

Dec was the man of the hour, and he loved it. He barely
slept during those weeks, but he didn't seem to miss it. He went to the set nearly every day, and the cast and crew stayed late to allow him time to be interviewed by every conceivable show, paper and magazine. The cast and crew loved him, as most people did, but most of all they loved that they were working with an Oscar-nominated actor. It was something they could talk about for the rest of their careers.

I hardly saw him during those weeks, except to have him fall into bed next to me at the end of the day, and awake to find him reading his lines.

“You asleep?” I'd say.

“Nah.” He would kiss me. “How are the dresses coming?”

“Slowly.”

I would tell him about the fabric for Lauren's dress, which I'd had to change four times in order to find one that appeared light enough but would support the beadwork. Then there was the seam on Kendall's, which kept buckling over the hips no matter how many times I had the factory redo it. I didn't tell him that I wasn't sleeping much either, because when I did, I dreamed about a tiny version of me riding on Declan's wide, flapping coattails. Instead, Dec would kiss me again, then jump in the shower, and I'd make my way through the house to my office, and we would start it all over again.

It was as if the Academy Awards were a mountain that we were both waiting to climb. We were at base camp, preparing for the push to the summit, and neither of us could think of anything else.

Leaving the house was an unbelievable pain in the ass. No longer was it possible to simply trot out to my car and make a coffee run. Photographers had learned where we lived, and they parked at a turnaround a mile away, waiting for Declan or me, or hopefully both of us, to come speeding around a corner. The few times we tried to have din
ner together recently, they seemed to know where we'd be, forever awaiting our arrival with their cameras and their shouts of “Declan! Kyra! Look over your left shoulder! This way!”

I talked to Bobby about this, and he advised me to “roll with it.” “It's not going to stop,” he said, “so just take it in stride.”

Kendall Gold, meanwhile, said it was sure to get less intense eventually. The watchers couldn't be everywhere, and although every celebrity had paparazzi problems, it wasn't normal for them to always be around, to be able to divine where we were going. Graham had told us the same thing.

I began to wonder if someone was deliberately leaking our plans. There were so many people in our household, in our employ, many of whom might know where we were at any given time—Trista, Uki, Berry, Tracy, Alicia, Angela, Liz, Graham, Max, Adam and Denny. Declan said I was being paranoid. I thought maybe he was right, because I was starting to feel a little crazy. Whenever I left the house, even for something minor, I had to notify Denny, then fight with him about which of us would drive, and whether I should go in a back door or walk in the front like an ordinary person (albeit an ordinary person who is followed by a couple of paparazzi).

I might have been okay with all of this. I might have been able to handle it, except that on top of it all the letters from Amy Rose had started again. For some reason, Declan hadn't heard from her for a while, or maybe he and Graham and Max had kept her letters hidden. But then she started sending them to me.

The letter frightened me, and yet it strangely touched me. It was something I might have written to a paparazzo, or Amy Rose herself, if I'd thought it would do any good.

“W
hat are you wearing?” Margaux asked me. “I mean, my God, it's the fucking Academy Awards!”

We had finally gotten on the phone at the same time. Between my newly hectic schedule and Margaux's juggling of her lawyerly duties and the infertility treatments she'd decided to try, we usually only had time to leave each other messages.

“I think I've got my dress taken care of.” I told her about the copper dress I'd designed myself.

“Where's the pin?”

“At the shoulder.”

“Perfect. So how are the other dresses coming along?”

I groaned. “I'm freaking out. Sometimes I look at them and think they're great. Other times, they look like complete shit, and I know I'm a fraud.”

“You're not a fraud! You deserve this.”

“Well, it's been one setback after another. I've only slept maybe four hours a night for the last week, but I think they're finally ready. The fittings are today.”

“So how is
Lauren?
” Margaux said this as if she was asking about a particularly deadly airborne virus.

“A pain in my ass.”

“Jesus, talk about pressure. The Oscars are only days away.”

“Don't remind me.”

Forty-five minutes later, I was at Lauren's place in Santa Monica. It was a large beach house, the ocean a blazing blue outside the French doors of her living room. I was surprised to find the house tasteful—Stickley furniture, light-colored Oriental rugs, long, comfortable chenille sofas, flowing ivory curtains that puffed and billowed with the breeze. Interior designer, I thought. Definitely. I refused to think that Lauren, on her own, might have decorated the place.

She kept me waiting for thirty minutes.

“She should be right here,” the stylist said, who also sat on a Stickley chair, awaiting Her Highness's arrival. “She's usually not this late.”

Finally, Lauren floated into the room wearing a short black wrap dress that was probably D&G. Sunglasses pushed back her mane of oatmeal hair and sat high on her head, as if any minute she might jump into a convertible and drive down the coast.

“Sorry,” she said in an amused tone. “I was on a call with Marty.”

“Scorcese?” the stylist said, impressed.

“Yes, you know how chatty he can be. Anyway, Kyra! Hello!” She swooped down on me and air kissed me on both cheeks. “What have you got for me today?”

In one sentence she made me feel like a soap salesman who had stopped by the farmhouse.

I ignored the question. “If you're ready to try on your dress, I can make whatever adjustments you like and have it ready for you tomorrow.” I didn't mention that after this
visit, I had to see Kendall, Hannah and CeCe, and that I would probably be up most of the night hand sewing the alterations to their dresses as well. That is, if anyone liked them.

“Great!” Lauren said breezily. “Let's see it.”

I moved as confidently as possible to the mauve velvet garment bag I'd laid over a couch. I unzipped it and took out her dress. It was a butter-yellow, formfitting, chiffon gown with a beaded bodice and a hem that had a deep triangular cut so Lauren's famously long legs would show with every step. I was inordinately proud of this dress, despite the woman I had made it for, because after all the fabric searches and changes, after all the anxiety and self-loathing, it had come out exactly how I had seen it in my mind—ephemeral and glamorous. I had even hand sewn the beading myself.

“Ah,” Lauren said. She cocked her head to one side and then another, studying it. Meanwhile, I held the dress aloft. I was so much shorter than she, I had to hold it high, and my arms began to quiver as she circled me, assessing the gown.

“It's stunning,” the stylist said finally, although she looked at Lauren for confirmation.

“Mmm,” Lauren said. “I might as well try it on.”

She stripped slowly, her eyes still on the gown, first untying the cloth belt that held her dress together, then letting the dress slide off her shoulders and fall to the floor. Under the wrap, she wore matching bra and panties I had seen at La Perla. The bra was sheer, clearly showing her high breasts and large nipples. The panties had tiny satin strings that held together two sheer triangles, one which barely covered her ass, and the other which broadcasted the fact that Lauren Stapleton waxed off all her pubic hair.

I immediately averted my gaze, laid the dress back on the couch and began searching for the tape measure and pins
in my bag. But I couldn't help wondering—had Declan slept with her while they were “dating”? Had he gotten an up-close and personal view of Lauren's ultra-Brazilian? The thought made me sick. And then angry. By the time I turned around, holding a pair of large scissors and a mouthful of pins, I must have looked deranged.

“My!” Lauren said. “Ready for action, aren't we?”

I grunted and gestured for her to try on the dress.

She slid it over her head, and once it had settled on her hips and she had stepped into a pair of shimmery ivory sandals, the stylist gasped. “I love it,” the stylist said.

Lauren stepped up to a full-length mirror that had been moved into the room for the occasion. “It's nice,” she said, “but it hangs funky around the waist, don't you think?”

I took the pins out of my mouth and pushed them back into their cushion, because the truth was, I didn't think any tailoring was needed. The dress was flawless. The yellow of the gown made Lauren's hair seem golden and angelic, the beads accentuated her breasts, and the hem gave flashes of her tanned, smooth legs every time she moved.

“I think the fabric hangs perfectly on your waist,” I said. There was no puckering of the fabric there; the seam was imperceptible.

“I don't know.” She posed in the mirror, her eyes never leaving her lithe, Amazonian body.

“I think this is the dress,” the stylist said. “It screams glamour, and it's so much better than the others we have.”

Lauren sent the stylist what seemed like a warning look. “I'm not sure. I mean, the hem has to be changed for sure. This slit thing in the middle needs to come higher.”

“If it comes any higher, you'll be showing off your nifty wax job,” I said.

I regretted it immediately, because Lauren turned to me with a triumphant little smile. “Well, make it so it's higher
but not
that
high.” She giggled, a false laugh that seemed to trill through the living room and out the French doors to the sea. “Just make the changes,” she said, speaking now in a tone I was sure she used with her cook when ordering her soy smoothie in the morning. “I'll let you know if I'm going to wear it or not.”

 

Hannah's fitting was next. After leaving Lauren, I felt anxious again, unsure.
What
did I think I was doing designing dresses for the Academy Awards when I hadn't held a steady design job in years, hadn't sold a line in over two until just recently? The answer nagged at me. I was in this position because of Declan. It was that simple. I wouldn't have been designing gowns for the stars were it not for my husband.

Some confident part of my psyche tried to rally, arguing that while Declan had provided the opportunity, I was here because I was a damn good designer. I tried to stay with this mind frame as I unzipped the garment bag housing Hannah's dress. We were in her stylist's office. Hannah was perched on the edge of a desk, wearing white pedal-pusher pants and a white blouse. With her white-blond Marilyn Monroe hair, she looked old-world and timeless, but it was that image I had decided that I wanted her to eschew, at least for a night.

“Now, here's what I'm thinking,” I said as I slowly drew down the zipper. “It's black, first off.”

“Hannah doesn't wear black,” the stylist snapped. “I thought we told you that.” She stood to the side, a short, fit woman with spiky brown hair and a sleeveless T-shirt.

“Hear me out,” I said. “I know the image you usually go for is something classic and elegant, but I think you should shake it up a bit.”

“Shake it up?” the stylist said snidely.

Hannah held out her hand. “Go ahead.”

“I'm not suggesting you go goth or anything like that, but instead of your gentle, feminine look, I think you should be feline and powerful. Instead of your pinks and pale yellows, I think you should be in streamlined, daring black. And instead of ruffles and fishtail pleats, I think you should show a little skin.”

With that, I shook the dress out of the bag with a flourish. It was a sheer black gown with a nude lining. The deep V in front cut all the way to the navel, where a very large circle of Harry Winston diamonds rested. The skirt was flowing and fluid but with a thigh-high side slit.

“It's fantastic,” Hannah said. She took the dress behind a screen and minutes later, she emerged. She had put on the black stiletto heels I'd brought with me in her size. She threw her shoulders back, stuck out a long, pale leg and put her hand on her hip. “What do you think?”

“Damn,” the stylist said. “It works.”

I beamed. It did work. Hannah had been transformed.

Surprisingly, the fittings for CeCe and Kendall went just as well. For CeCe, I'd designed a flirty, floral-print, Moschinoesque gown, a sure departure from the cargo pants and funky tops she usual wore. For Kendall, I went with a pink satin dress with a halter neck and the circle pin at the base of a very low back.

Lastly, I had to put the finishing touches on my own dress, a burnished-copper gown with tiny silver ribbons sewn through it for a shimmering effect. The bodice was corseted and the skirt had a tiny hoop under it so that my waist appeared minuscule. I thought the copper would complement Declan's eyes, and when he first saw the dress, two days before the Oscars, he looked as if he might cry for a second.

“God, you're beautiful,” he said.

We were in my office and I stood before the window, the sunlight resting on my bare shoulders.

“You're just emotional because you're tired,” I said.

“No, love,” he said. “It's you.”

 

The next day I heard from the stylists of Kendall, Hannah and CeCe. They would all be wearing my dresses.

Liz Morgan and I whooped and hollered and slapped high fives, practically dancing around my office. Uki clapped politely and watched us with wide eyes. Maybe I
was
good enough.

“Now you've just got to hear from Lauren,” Liz said.

But the hours went by with no word from her or her stylist. Liz called a few times, but she only got voice mail.

“I've left two messages,” Liz said. “Should I call again before I go home?” It was already four-thirty.

“No,” I said. “And you can go home to Jamey if you want. You've been working way too much.”

“I'll wait with you.” She picked up a stack of orders that we had been neglecting.

I crossed the room and hugged her. “Thank you,” I said. “You're a good friend.”

I turned to Uki. “What about you? Do you want to leave early today?”

She shook her head no. “Too much to do.”

I putzed around my office then, working on one task, then another, unable to concentrate on anything for long. Between my nervousness for Declan and my anxiety over the dresses, I was a jittery mess.

At six o'clock, the phone rang. Liz held up crossed fingers and snatched it up. “Kyra Felis's office. Yes, how are you, Kathy?” she said, nodding at me. Lauren's stylist. “Uh-huh. Sure. I understand. Okay, okay. Well, I'll let her know. Thanks.” She hung up.

“And?” I said.

“And,” Liz said, standing from the desk. She had a pinched
expression on her face, but suddenly it broke into a smile. “She's wearing it!”

This time, even Uki screamed.