The World According to Vince - Jane Harvey-Berrick Page 0,29
whos most hated. Why am I hated? Because Im hot, rich and awesome. And I tell it like it is.
If your an ugly ho its not like its gonna be a surprise to you if I mention it. In public. Or on my social media. You already know your a troll—do something about it. Thats what plastic surgeons are for.
@fabulousMollyMckinney
#fuglies (Fansonly pix in my profile) #fataintfunny #fixyourteeth #nosejob #facelift #boobjob #lipfiller #drmarkdimpler
Nope, she was still a mean bitch. I sent her a text uninviting her and didn’t think any more about it.
It was a lot harder work producing a fashion show than just being the skinny tosser who shows up unwashed and unshaven to be transformed into a catwalk model. I’m talking about myself, of course, but I’d seen some female models arriving for a show looking hairier than a wookie with the temper to match.
If it hadn’t been for Grace, Rick and Cady, I would have fallen arse over tit a hundred times a day getting the show off the ground.
Grace did the boring-as-shit work like contracts, insurance, timings and sorting out the catwalk space. We’d started off with 1500 ft2 at the Spring Studios, the venue that most of the designers were using for New York Fashion Week. By the end of the first day, they’d upgraded us three times, and we’d already sold all the tickets to the largest space they had—4,800 ft2 in Studio 4 on the sixth floor. (Should have been called Studio 6—just sayin’.)
And as the week went on, we could have sold that again many times over. If I’d thought it wouldn’t be pissing with rain in February or arse-freezing cold, I’d have tried to get Central Park or Yankee Stadium. Go big or go home, right? I wanted to call Aaron Boone just in case, but Grace wouldn’t let me.
“Do this event well, and you could put it on every year. Screw up, and you’ll look like an amateur—and a knob-head—but you’ll also lose the chance to raise more money. Walk before you can run, Vincent.”
I opened my mouth to argue but she closed me off faster than Usain Bolt ordering a pizza.
“Nod if you understand me.”
Message received and understood. I nodded.
I’d tried to get Grace to be one of the models but she’d shot me down so many times, I had more holes than a cheese grater.
Cady had agreed cheerfully to be one of my models, and Rick was just told that he was in the show. He grunted, I shrugged, Cady smiled. Nuff said.
I wished everything was that easy because the models were giving me a headache—some of them, that is. Rafe and Elias hated each other (this week) and refused to share the same dressing room. I told them they could share with the dogs, but didn’t mention that there was only one dressing room anyway.
I had ten guys (including me and Rick), and ten girls (including Cady) and ten dogs (including Tap, Zeus and Tyson). Cady and Grace had tried to argue against having the mutts, but to me, that was the point of the show. And they all had to be rescue dogs, like mine. Zeus and Tyson would walk with Rick and Cady, and Tap would come with me. I’d carry her because I was a bit worried that she’d be overwhelmed by the crowd.
So as well as the models, I had seven rescue dogs ranging from a ten year-old Wolfhound called Wolfie (yeah), a Malamute called Nanuk (yup) with one blue eye and one green eye (I’d have called him ‘Bowie’), and four sweet mutts ranging in size from teacup to giant— Alfie, Mitch, Delilah and Sparky. Their ‘clothes’ were Canine Crusader neckerchiefs designed by my mate Stella. I was well chuffed with them.
But there were a thousand details that were doing me head in: the lights, the music, the seating plan, the invitations, where to put the press peeps, food and drink for the models and volunteers, getting the outfits to the studio, having enough fitters for last minute alterations, getting hair and make-up artists to work for free.
Grace had come over to my place to help me iron out the fine print.
Most things had been donated, but there were still some upfront costs that had to be paid, and if I ever meet the sod who fleeced us for the one day’s insurance, I’ll let Tyson crap in his shoes. Maybe I’ll crap in his shoes.