Behind her, a perky Bess, her hair clean and worked into a braided updo by Edith, twirled for the cameras in a taffeta affair whose knife pleats lifted and separated to reveal themselves as the world’s thickest fringe. An underlay of dreamy gossamer floated beneath. She smiled and giggled for the cameras until they suddenly stopped, the photographers’ attentions dissipating as quickly as they’d arrived. Cat blinked in confusion while a commotion flared up rapidly in the street. Bess’s face fell.
Two of the four founders of Mania had arrived, Keira Bishop and her identical twin, Karoline. Until now, the only photos of the Mania team on their own map were usually based in their office, plain and casual Photograms taken while they sat at their computers. This was the girls’ first public appearance.
The twins wore matching pleated dresses in pastel shades that resembled upside-down flowers; the hems were sewn under to further emphasize the upended-tulip shape, and the oversized armholes revealed clear plastic bodices beneath. Their hair had been brushed out in huge disco curls and floated down their backs in big puffy clouds. Both girls wore real pink silk ballet slippers and walked en pointe with ease, flopping up and down and twirling as they walked into the opera.
Cat and Bess stood, openmouthed, and fell into the crowd that followed the two girls, who danced their way down the aisles and onto the stage. Everyone filed slowly into their seats while Keira and Karoline moved to the edges of the black stage. Nearly fifty models streamed from the wings and arranged themselves presentation-style, each one wearing ballet shoes and a variation on the looks sported by the Mania girls. The models didn’t really look like models, though; they were muscled, and stringy, and short, and very very good at ballet.
“I think that’s the corps,” a surprised Bess whispered as they took their seats in the front row. Cat nodded. One of the Bishop girls caught her eye and winked. Cat smiled back; she couldn’t help it. The girls were clearly so excited, and she felt a proxy of delight on their behalf.
Sounds came up from the orchestra pit: strains of violin, harp, piano, xylophone; blasts of trumpet, oboe, flute. Drums sputtered out a handful of heavy taps. When the entire audience was finally seated, the lights dimmed and the orchestra played a suite from The Nutcracker.
The ballerinas danced their way offstage one by one and through the crowd, passing by the front row and down through the aisles, each one taking a moment to solo onstage before leaping off again. The Bishop twins remained posed at the back of the stage, each standing perfectly still, like little robots.
A dozen cameramen wandered through the space, pointing their lenses and zooming. The show was probably being broadcast in real time on Mania, tags appending to the images of boldfaced names mere seconds after they appeared on-screen.
Then the room went pitch-black.
Cat felt a shiver run down her spine. Bess squeezed her hand.
A few moments passed before the ballerinas—still packed into the aisles—turned on flashlights previously hidden all around the theater. The corps performed the remainder of their dance, holding their own spotlights on one another, while the orchestra played with gusto in the background.
As Cat smoothed the impossibly soft fabric of her dress, as she watched the dancers, she immediately found herself wondering how much of a gain for Mania tonight would represent—and how much of a loss for RAGE.
I have to nail tomorrow’s shoot. Cat felt the pressure with a deep certainty. Until now she’d dismissed Mania, thinking that their advertorial strategy didn’t have half the magic RAGE produced in their editorials, but…they’d participated in a glorious spectacle that had been tasteful, creative, effortlessly coordinated, and, perhaps most importantly, wholly unmarketed in advance. They weren’t desperate. At this moment, Mania was soaring toward the sun on their successes, while wretched RAGE tried to stiffen its own melting wings, the ground coming up beneath them in double time.
Sweat broke out under her armpits. She panicked, worrying about her career and the delicate fabric of the dress in equal measure. What if this is how it will be for the rest of my life? What if she got so far away from editorial work that she’d find herself begging for the appearance fees at energy drink launches, her assets dwindled and her fortunes reversed? What if, with each dress she put on, each RSVP she sent out, she was inadvertently scooping another shovelful of dirt out from under her own feet?
Cat didn’t pay attention to the end of the performance; she smiled blankly, always, now, aware of the cameras lurking nearby. Bess pulled a container of the hotel’s hand cream out of the handbag she’d hidden beneath the pleats of her dress and mindlessly rubbed it into the backs of her hands.
“Let’s get out of here,” Bess whispered as she dropped a dollop of the cream into Cat’s palm. Cat nodded and felt her heartbeat rise again with pure panic. When the crowd stood to applaud the presentation, they edged toward the stage door and slipped out into the alleyway.
“Holy shit,” Bess said. “I think I’m going to have a seizure. What a nightmare.”
“I thought it was kind of genius,” Cat replied.
“Are you serious?” Bess asked, her tone sharp. “That was ridiculous. That was designed for children with absolutely no attention span.”
“Wow, tell me what you really think,” Cat replied sarcastically.
“I think it was a spectacle. It didn’t have any value.”
“That’s condescending,” Cat snapped back.
Bess rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to be rude about it. So we disagree. Whatever.”
“Look, I know we’ve had a long day,” Cat said, “but you don’t have to be mad.”
“I’m just expressing what I actually think for once, Cat. You constantly bully me with your opinions. I’m finally expressing my own. You’re the one who’s being a…bitch,” she hissed, the word falling between them like a bomb.
“Wow. Bitch…I didn’t think we called anybody that, ever, especially not each other. Fuck you very much, Bess, because you have everything,” Cat retorted, her voice edging on nasty as she jabbed her finger toward her best friend, counting each indignity: “You have a home, and a boyfriend, and a family who loves you. You don’t need to have opinions.”
Bess looked hurt and a little bit stunned before transitioning into total and complete shock. She looked into Cat’s eyes.
“Are my pupils dilated?” she asked urgently.
Cat, annoyed and hurt, tried to walk away down the alley, carefully holding the hem of her dress above the pools of oil and gravel. “I don’t know and I don’t care.”
“I’m serious,” Bess yelled, chasing Cat down and grabbing her shoulder.
Cat stopped on a dime and looked at her friend, whose blue eyes were dominated by big, inky pupils. “Actually…yes.”
“You too.”
“We’re high,” they said at the same time.
Cat looked down at her $75,000 dress. “We’d better get back to the hotel,” she said, “before I destroy this one, too.”
Bess nodded and ordered a car. Ten minutes later, they snuck into the side entrance of the hotel, avoiding all the cameras. As far as the Mania map was concerned, Cat and Bess were still inside the Phoebe presentation.
Chapter Twenty