Chapter 16

*Natalie*

Cristello’s looks like a palace and takes up a quarter of a city block. It is a freestanding Italian Renaissance style building, made of sandstone and brick with columns of marble and arches extending stories into the sky. Giant windows surround the place, and tonight, the outside of the building is lit up in dancing violet and indigo lights. The sidewalk surrounding the entrance is alive with music pumping into the street as we approach from down the block.

Zane and I walk hand-in-hand along the sidewalk, me in a dress I bought this afternoon when I went out shopping… I lucked out and slid into a canceled appointment at 11:00 today with April, a twenty-something stylist at Sak’s. She had racks of clothes set out for me with vibrant, fresh pieces hanging, rows of shoes lining the floor, and accessories set out on an island. She had so many beautiful pieces, I felt like I was in a candy store.

“You’re going to find that there are a lot of short dresses and skirts this year, the tighter the better, and lots of cut-outs. And a really fun mixture of menswear inspired pieces with ultra-feminine pieces. Let me show you how to wear them…” She’d said.

…I came home with five shopping bags and that stupid little Jacquemus bag my crush-girl from my fantasy I told Zane about had… except mine is white… It doesn’t fit my phone. Or any phone. *But I love her anyway…*

For tonight, I chose a tight, sheer silk short-sleeve dress with a design like abstract jungle foliage in shades of spring and grass green, cascading into abstract royal blue, periwinkle, and aqua butterfiles outlined in black, a mini fit-and-flare skirt with lettuce edges and a hip-high slit up the front. There is a cutout in the chest with a slit down almost to my belly button, the sides of my breasts exposed, the dress coming together again in an upside down V at my collar bone, the neck high; I am wearing it with a pair of cagey-looking Louboutin pumps with an S-shaped swirl over the foot, gold jewelry accents, and my black Louis Vuitton mini Capucines handbag, holding it by the top-handle.

I feel like a new woman tonight. I am fresh, daring, sexy… fully *alive*. I look up at Zane as we walk, admiring his sharp, sculpted jawline and cheekbones, full lips, striking blue eyes, and those long lashes... He looks over at me for a moment as we walk, his icy eyes sparkling with his signature mischevious look. I swoon for him, even still. We smile at each other and I squeeze his hand tighter, noticing our rings touching as our fingers intertwine... His royal blue dress shirt slides just right over his shoulders, his fitted silk vest with swirls of royal blue and spring green complimenting his eyes and accentuating his trim waist. There is a chill in the evening air, but we left our jackets in the car, and I pull in closer to him.

The music is getting louder as we approach the entrance to the building, and well-dressed people are stepping out of black cars and walking inside. A small group is gathered on the sidewalk by the entrance, and a group of paparazzi are gathered by the door shouting at celebrities and models walking in. A black Bentley approaches and a brunette woman with creamy skin and a glittering white dress steps out of the car. A buzz goes through the paparazzi.

“Miranda! Miranda!” They shout at her, cameras snapping as she makes her way from the street and across the wide sidewalk in front of the entrance. She pauses and turns to the cameras, flashes flickering like lightening on her face, she poses for them, giving them a smile, and then turns and walks toward the building. “Miranda!” they chorus after her as she ascends the Cristello’s signature three, long, red velvet steps, “Miranda!” they call as the doormen open the glass doors for her, and she sweeps inside, not looking back.

Zane and I make our way through the small crowd and sweep by the paparazzi. I glance up at them as we walk past, and I feel a flash on my face and hear a camera snap. I look at Zane and hesitate. He pulls me foreword, onto the red velvet steps. I hurry along, pulled by Zane’s grip, and the uniformed and gloved door men open the door as we are ushered in. Inside is a marble foyer leading to more sets of brass-framed glass doors.

“Did they just take our picture?” I murmur into Zane’s ear.

“Yeah, they totally just took our picture. We’re a good looking couple,” he says, sweeping his hand over my ass and giving it a little slap. I smile and laugh as we walk through the foyer.

“Tickets or guestlist?” Another doorman asks.

“Guestlist,” I reply.

“Have your ID’s ready and head to door number one,” He says to us.

We look ahead, and there are two sets of doors leading in, labeled above, and we shuffle to door number one as I reach into my purse for my ID, Zane reaching for his wallet.

We approach the doors, and there is a podium with a doorman standing behind it wearing a headset.

“Names,” this doorman says.

“Natalie and Zane Morrissey,” I say.

He flips the pages on a clipboard on the podium, and then looks back to us.

“ID’s,” he says.

*Relief.*

I half-expected us not to be on the list.

We show him our ID’s, and he crosses our names off his clip-board VIP Guest list in deep blue gel-ink.

“Hand,” he says, and I extend my arm to him, and he stamps a rubber stamp into the pad, and grabs my wrist, flipping it over and pressing his stamp into my inner wrist. I look at it, but it is invisible ink. He steps back, allowing me past, wipes his stamp with an alcohol wipe, and then stamps Zane’s inner wrist and Zane steps past him and back to my side, sliding his hand back into mine. Another doorman opens the glass brass-framed door ahead of us, and we are ushered inside.

Inside is larger than life. The preparty music is pumping and we walk in over a glowing cobblestone floor in a black and white swirling design. I lift my eyes, taking in the Grand Ballroom up ahead, the entrance under an awning of foliage and roses, pink marble columns extend stories into the air, supporting arches reaching up to the top of the 65-foot vaulted ceiling. The ceiling itself is domed and adorned with exquisite murals depicting scenes from Greek mythology, framed in inlaid patterns with gold leaf trim, and is lit up in shades of violet and indigo tonight, the lights swirling and dancing over the ceiling and columns. Sweeping pink curtains draped over high curtain rods cover the many giant windows. The T-shaped stage is lit up and ready to go, tall panels standing at the back of the stage, the center the tallest, and two panels of declining size on either side, projected onto with visual show of clouds, lightening, pyramids in the desert, exotic cats, and various other scenes playing across all of them. The General Admission audience is already filling in on the far side.

There is a restaurant on the second floor, the guests closest to the balcony on display to the crowd. The arches over the balcony are lined in lavish foliage garland with pink and red roses woven in, the balcony floor lined with planters of blooming red and pink rosebushes.

We are swept down a hallway bordering the ballroom, and turn the corner, the hallway opening into the entrance to the Gallery where the fashion show would actually be held. My eyes widen as I see the sweeping violet curtains pulled open – it is a mini-version of the ballroom – inside another T-shaped stage, this one smaller and more intimate, the catwalk elevated about a foot off the ground, more panels behind it with interlocking A’s, one right side up, one upside down, the Alexander Accardi signature logo, projected in warm white light. Black chairs line the stage in long rows, three rows on either side, and there is a small amount of standing room in the back. This room couldn’t hold more than 250 people total.

“Wrist,” an usher at the Gallery entrance says.

I outstretch my arm to him, showing my inner wrist. He shines a tiny blacklight on it, and it glows with a blue Accardi interlocking A’s symbol with “VIP” underneath. Zane flashes his wrist, and the same appears on him. He frowns a little, and I think he is annoyed at the symbol on him. He isn’t much for brands.

“Morrissey?” The usher asks us. “Yes...” we respond, simultaneously, exchanging a look. He nods and crosses our names off his list, and then taps the tablet screen, blocking in two squares on his electronic seating map.

“Come with me,” he says, and we follow as he briskly leads us into the Gallery, a new usher taking his place at the podium to greet the next guests, and I am alive with excitement as we hurriedly follow after him. He sweeps us right up to the front row near the end of the catwalk, and gestures for us to sit.

I look at Zane, and raise my eyebrows, and then quickly slip into my seat, *before the fricking clock strikes midnight and the magic wares off…* Zane slides into the chair beside me, and I slide my bag into my lap.

*These seats are amazing! You can’t get better than this… Even Zane looks mildly impressed.*

I slide my knees toward Zane, feeling his smooth pants on my legs. We smile at each other, and he slips his hand into mine again, and I cup my other hand over his, holding his hand between mine. The rest of the chairs begin to fill in as ushers bring people to their seats, and my anticipation rises. I think of Soraya, and Vanessa, and Drea, and Sophie… and of what Zane is going to think as he watches them walk… Their bodies perfection, each one of them so different… And they’ll be wearing literal works of art as we watch them walk…

I look around and notice about two-thirds of the seats are filled, and the attendants are all in their fashion-week show-off best. Many ladies in black, lots of looks incorporating wide-leg tailored trousers with a corset or bra top, younger model types pepper the crowd in in short-glamorous dresses and asymmetrical cut-outs and men in suits accompany them, pointed-toe shoes peek out from toes, and there are some stand-out outfits: one elderly woman with a face full of wrinkles, grey hair, and a mischievous smile dressed in a bright yellow outfit with giant balloon shoulders in tulle, and marigold silk pants, a black and white polka-dot shirt underneath, and loafers in swirls of yellow and black.

As the last of the seats are filled and the people settle in.

The lights dim.

And there is a hush over the crowd.

The stage lights come up, and the panels light up in blue and indigo, the Accardi logo changing to a vibrant blue, like our wrist stamps.

My heart races. The excitement in the audience is palatable.

Musicians walk in, taking their places at the drum/mixing machines and microphone just off the catwalk.

The music begins, the bass and unusual rhythms setting a dangerous and sexy mood.

And the first model walks out.

Its Sophie.