flats were my very first designer purchase, and they were the shoes I wore at twenty-three as I left my small life in Texas with hopes of tackling the fashion world in New York City.
Chapter One
Josephine
“Where to?”
I glanced up in time to watch the driver toss a hastily concealed cigarette butt out the window and cringed. I knew the stench of secondhand smoke would cling to my layered gown, but I was already running ten minutes late and the chances of finding another cab were slim to none.
“Upper East Side,” I answered, sliding into the backseat. “Carlyle Hotel.”
He pulled out into traffic and I tried my best to check my complexion in his rearview mirror. Our eyes met in the glass; I blushed and settled against the seat. What does it matter? It’s too late to fix anything now anyway.
“Ah. The Carlyle,” he repeated with a thick Italian accent. “Must be a fancy party.”
Fancy didn’t begin to cover it.
“It’s the New York Fashion Gala,” I offered, not sure if he was interested in talking or if he was just amusing me.
“Sounds like a party I’m happy to be skipping,” he said, lazily turning back to check if the left lane was clear before swerving over sharply. I fell against the window before I could catch myself and scrunched my nose to ease the pain as I collided with the door handle.
“You look good though. Pretty dress,” he offered with a lighter tone than he’d used the moment before. Maybe he felt bad for insulting the gala, or maybe I did actually look nice in my rented Dolce & Gabbana gown. Either way, I was happy to hear the compliment. I needed all the confidence I could get.
I still couldn’t believe I was en route to the gala. When my invitation had arrived (in a gold envelope smelling of baby angels, no less), I’d screamed with excitement for all of two minutes before the stress of attending such an illustrious event crept in. The gala was the fashion event of the year. Every big-time designer, model, socialite, and blogger would be in attendance. Normally I read about the juicy details of the event on blogs and celebrity websites the day after it happened, but for the first time ever I was going to experience it all firsthand.
“So why are you going to the gala? Are you wunna them models or something?” the cabbie asked, eyeing me in the rearview mirror as if assessing whether or not I could cut it on the runway.
I snorted. “No. I’m a fashion blogger.”
He nodded as if impressed.
“My buddy Geno started a blog, but it’s mostly about the best hoagies on Long Island. What’s yours called? I’ll tell my daughter to look it up,” he said, reaching toward the console for something and swerving toward the car next to us in the process. I flinched and reached for the door handle, ready to jump for it and get the hell out of his death trap. Just tuck and roll. You’ll survive.
“Whoops,” he said, righting us on the road and reaching back to give me a paper and pen.
Aw man. He’d just about killed me, but it was because he wanted to pass my blog along to his daughter. Am I prepared to die for the sake of my blog? Oh hell. I jotted down the URL and passed the paper back to him.
“What Jo Wore,” he said, reading off my blog name with his thick accent. “Clever. You Jo?”
Hearing him read my blog name with his heavy accent brought a smile to my face.
“Josephine.”
He lifted up onto one side so he could slip the piece of paper into the back pocket of his pants. I can safely say that’s as close as my name has ever been to a cabbie’s ass.
“Well, Josephine, I’ll be sure to tell my daughter I gave a ride to a famous fashion lady. She’ll be impressed.”
I nodded, not bothering to correct him. I might have been a “fashion lady” but I was far from famous.
For now.
…
When we arrived, there was a line of cars wrapped all the way around The Carlyle Hotel. I peeked through the window to see a string of sleek limousines with a few Maseratis thrown in for good measure. Suited hotel attendants rushed to the limousine doors and whisked gala attendees out one by one. Meanwhile, my cabdriver tried to discreetly light another cigarette and then openly flipped off every limousine driver that tried to cut him