The End of the Runway: Chapter Four

ONCE BACKSTAGE AGAIN, Stacy began to dress. Like all Cadiz pieces, hers was a showstopper. Thick bell sleeves and obnoxious bright patterns. The boots were six inches high and simply hideous. They also hurt. Stacy didn't even want to think about walking an entire runway in them.

Anya Tom could have done it.

But Stacy was no Anya Tom, despite this bizarre day, but perhaps she could be. Stacy's head began to spin, along with the room, from what could only be the gin.

At least she wasn't nervous anymore. At least, no more nervous than usual.

The lights flickered and one by one the models began to line up, as stylists and designers added accessories and touched things up. Suddenly, the nerves returned. She started to shake. Stacy was closing the show.

Without thinking, Stacy slid out of line—easy since she was last—and tiptoed up to the curly haired model with the flask.

"Do you have any more, please?" and tipped a sort of hang ten sign to her lips. Butterflies were exploding in her stomach.

The curly haired model was clearly not in the mood. "Get back in line before they see you!" she hissed. Stacy pleaded with her hands. The model sighed, "It's over with my stuff," she said, and pointed to a clothes rack on the far side of the room. "The red coat."

Stacy tried to sneak over, hoping to get lost in the backstage mêlée, but a sharp-eyed stylist from Cadiz  spotted her and began shouting at her in French pointing to the perfect row of girls behind them.

"Pardon, un moment s'il vous plaît." Stacy was desperately recalling her high school French.  "J'oublie ma..." What would she be retrieving? "...ma medication. Je suis malade." 

"Vite! Vite!" he shouted. The rest was incomprehensible.

Stacy groped around the red coat until she felt the flask. Draping her head between some clothes, she held her breath and downed the remainder of the gin in one go. She dropped it back into a pocket and wobbled back in line. These shoes were impossible.