Chapter Nine: Vogue Material

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It’s amazing how closely people are paying attention. Off the Record has nearly 3,000 followers, and the engagement is wild.

GoldenHarvey, you’re a cute puppy, but no, Jamie is not a psychopath. Ali, on the other hand...

UpperWestRead looks like a smart account, and from that tweet, I can tell I’m right.

There’s a lot on the calendar today, and I won’t have time to read every reply.

Carla’s email pops up, already demanding that my brain work prior to my second cup of coffee.

Her agenda consists of editing down the fashion show photographer’s list because we have one runway platform riser, and only seventy-five photographers who shoot the show can fit on it. There are about two hundred people on the current list based on the show requests we received.

It’s pretty easy to prioritize media outlets, though. It’s always yes to people who are shooting for The New York Times, International Herald Tribune, Vogue UK, etc., and no to any publications that can easily pick up their images from wire services like Getty Images and the like. Due to space, we have no choice but to be cutthroat.

Photographers definitely get angry, but we have developed thick skin and know how to ignore their angry email rants. The problems arise when the people we sent a decline to show up at the venue anyway, just trying to push their way in.

On top of editing this list, we have to start seriously nailing down our celebrity front row. I always think in terms of “the money shot.” Honestly, sometimes I think that one image of three bold-faced names matters more than the clothes. I need three A-list people seated next to each other to ensure we have a media-worthy shot to service out to the press. Bonus points if I can come up with a trio that makes sense together.

Carla walks into my office just as I’m flipping through Us Weekly.

“I’m hearing Calvin Klein’s got Naomi Watts and Uma Thurman, and Marc Jacobs will probably stick with his usual: Sofia Coppola, Chloë Sevigny, and Dakota Fanning,” I say, looking up.

Carla rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I heard that too. And apparently Catherine Zeta-Jones is going to Michael Kors.”

“No surprise there. Can you find out who Lorenzo’s talking to? I’m sure he has some A-listers up his sleeve,” I say, snapping the magazine shut.

“Ooh, let’s reach out to Kate Winslet.” I’m already half-reaching for my phone.

“She won’t come,” Carla says, resting her iced tea on my desk. “She’s nominated for an Emmy, and the awards are a week later.”

“Ugh, right,” I mutter, frowning. “We show before Calvin. Maybe we can get Uma?”

“Maybe,” Carla says. “We’ll need budget for hair and makeup, though.”

“We’ll need glam budget for all of them,” I say with a sigh.

Carla checks the time on her Blackberry. “Okay, I have to run. I have an appointment with Glamour. I’ll let you know what I hear from Lorenzo.”

She walks out and closes the door to my office behind her.

Opening Instagram for the first time today, I go straight to Alexandra’s profile. A bedroom selfie, showcasing her perfectly applied makeup and that ever-so-slight smirk she thinks looks effortless.

I always loved this quote I found in Vogue years ago: “Natural beauty is rarely achieved naturally.” That’s Alexandra in a nutshell. Beautiful, but synthetic.

She posted two minutes ago and already has 200 likes.

Looks like she’s trying out a new Instagram filter. So brave, Alexandra. So brave.

Moving my gaze from my phone to my computer, I see Lucy’s email pop in: a laundry list of questions I need to answer. But before I can click, I glance back at Alexandra’s page.

And boom. Post deleted.