The End of the Runway: Chapter Five

THE DREAD MOMENT arrived not fifteen minutes later. Stacy's head was swimming, but she felt relaxed. Queasy, but relaxed. It was better than the alternative. Anya's moment had came and went but Stacy was too busy figuring out how to balance on her new heels to notice much. When the second to last model emerged onto the runway, Stacy began counting in her head and watching for her signal.

And before she even knew what was happening, she was being pushed by a minder on stage, high-heeled boots and all. Although she had never done this before, Stacy knew enough to fix her focus on the horizon line in front of her and its dark shapes. It was all a haze, really. Bright strobes of flashing light flanked Stacy—the sum of hundreds of magazine and newspaper cameras—blurring everything on each side. Since she couldn't see anything, Stacy just kept meticulous count in her head, careful to pace herself evenly, "fifteen... sixteen... seventeen.. left foot, right foot, left foot." Walking too fast—or worse, too slow—could throw the whole show careening off its carefully choreographed timing. It seemed to be working.





Suddenly, the fixed point straight ahead began to come into focus. Amorphous shapes began to define themselves, like when they eye doctor switches lenses during a vision test. First they became dark blurry ovals, then shoulders and heads began to emerge. People, a whole row of them, came into view. Then, a man in the center with a crimson blazer, dark glasses, chestnut hair.

Red Linton—it had to be. Stacy almost lost her balance from the shock. She teetered forward, knees jabbing in opposite directions. She recovered, quickly, but her brow was now thick with perspiration. She was expecting him there, of course, but not directly in her line of vision. Not when she had nothing else to focus on.

"Concentrate," Stacy thought. "Twenty-two... twenty-three... twenty four..." Red was staring right at her. The lights were awfully hot. This outfit was ridiculous, the whole tent was swirling.

The end of the runway approached, Stacy was short of breath and nauseous. Where was she supposed to turn? She remembered 1/4 of a meter. Was that the same thing as half a foot? That seemed almost reasonable. She locked her gaze on Red as she tottered toward him, aware for the first time that she had drank too much.

By this point, Stacy had long since lost count. Her hands were shaking, drenched in a cold sweat. Now, she realized, she was in a full-blown panic—drunk, and standing two feet from the end of the runway. One foot, half a foot.

Then, Stacy froze and clutched her stomach. It wasn't the panic, she realized, it was the nausea. The hot lights, the eyes, everything was fixed intently on her. This was no jaunty fashion pose. Suddenly, she let out a dry heave. Even though loud thumping music played overhead, she could hear the collective sound of five hundred jaws dropping.





Still frozen, Stacy retched again, but this time it was the real deal. She lurched forward and tripped over the toe of one of her towering high heels. With no room at the end of the runway, Stacy couldn't regain her balance with her other foot.

The last thing Stacy recalled before losing consciousness was tripping over the stage and tumbling right into Red Linton's lap, preceded by a cascade of her own vomit.