“Yeah.” Bliss bit her thumb. She was sitting forward on the edge of the chair, not quite comfortable enough to take up too much space. She held her black, modeling portfolio on her lap. “He’s cool.”
Bliss still hadn’t figured out who or what Kingsley had been in her past, although she had to admit he made the present pretty fun. He seemed to have it in his mind that Bliss was his girlfriend, and the two of them spent most of their free time together. Kingsley always seemed to have the latest invitations to the best parties, and with him at her side, Bliss no longer felt like a wallflower, but more like a social butterfly. Besides, her own growing fame was making her increasingly confident among the glittering denizens of New York nightlife. Even Mimi had sourly mentioned how sick she was of seeing Bliss’s name in boldface in the newspaper columns.
“How’s Oliver?” Bliss asked.
“Fine,” Schuyler said abruptly. In truth, Oliver had been a tad distant lately, after being so commiserative before. Maybe it was a reaction to her pulling away from him, or his own reservations about the changing nature of their relationship. The transition from best friend to human Conduit was not an easy one to maneuver.
They stopped talking when a willowy brunette walked through the glass doors. She was wearing a loose peasant blouse belted at the hips, skinny denim shorts, patterned tights, and wedge heels. The effect was quirky and offbeat, as if she’d thrown the outfit together at the last minute, when in reality it had probably taken hours of studying runway shots and careful calculation of each element’s relationship to the outfit as a whole—weighing the options as meticulously as a an artist mixing paints.
“Bliss? Schuyler?” she called.
“Chantal?” Schuyler asked.
“No, I’m Keaton, Chantal’s assistant.”
“As in Diane or Buster?” Schuyler joked.
Keaton ignored her. “Chantal’s late at an accessories meeting, but she told me to bring you in,” she said condescendingly.
Keaton led them through the white carpeted hallway, where girls dressed in similar fashionable eccentricity glided through the maze of cubicles in four-inch heels. Rolling racks of clothing were parked against the wall, with cards and notations on hangers that read “JAN—FRONT OF BOOK,” “REJECTS,” “GO,” “BRANNON MTG,” “RETURNS,” and “INDEX.”
Chantal’s office was a mess of modeling portfolios, and one solid wall was filled with hundreds of models’ glossy eight-by-tens and Polaroid pictures. There were blue pages of next month’s cover, mock-ups of the February issue, and a little teacup-size terrier yapping in the corner.
“Wait here,” Keaton ordered. “Don’t move.”
Schuyler and Bliss did as told, even though Bliss really wanted a glass of water and Schuyler was dying to use the bathroom. But the atmosphere at Chic was so intimidating, and Keaton so humorless, neither of them wanted to risk it.
An hour later, Chantal finally arrived. Bliss expected another tall glamazon, but Chantal was a small, short, pinched-looking woman with a pixie haircut and cat’s-eye glasses. She wore a loose APC sweatshirt and baggy trousers, as well as comfortable (but limited edition and therefore, punishingly expensive) Japanese sneakers.
“Hi girls,” she said briskly, then immediately called out, “Keaton! My Polaroid! Didn’t I tell you to bring it?”
She sat at her desk and flipped through each of their portfolios quickly. “Yes, saw that. Nice. Ooh. Not bad. Like that one, not so much that,” she muttered. She slammed both books closed and instructed them to pose against the one blank wall in her office as she took several shots of each girl with her camera. Bliss went first.
It was all business as usual until Bliss suddenly fainted as the flashbulb exploded in her face.
“Oh my God. She’s not anorexic, is she? I mean, it’s fine if she is, God knows all the girls are. But I can’t have her doing that on the shoot,” Chantal said, more annoyed than concerned, as Bliss crumpled to the floor.
“No, that’s not it,” Schuyler said, worried. She knelt down and put a hand on Bliss’s forehead. “It’s a little hot in here.”
Bliss was making odd groaning sounds and dry-heaving. “No . . . Go away . . . No . . .”
“It’ll be hotter on location,” Chantal said darkly. “God help me if she vomits on my carpet.”
Schuyler glared at her, annoyed that the booking editor seemed to care more about her office than Bliss’s health.
“Bliss? Bliss? Are you okay?” she asked, helping her friend to her feet. Bliss blinked her eyes open. “Schuyler?” she said throatily.
“Yeah.”
“I need to get out of here,” Bliss implored.
“Keaton will walk you out. I’ll let Linda know,” Chantal said as she picked up the ringing telephone. It was obvious the booking editor had moved on to other concerns once the threat of projectile regurgitation had subsided.
Schuyler helped Bliss out of the office. “Steady. Easy.” She pressed the down elevator button and glared at a Christie-Best girl, who gave them a curious look.
“I blacked out,” Bliss said. “Again.”