Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,82
so Fen wanted his models to be brimming with energy. ‘Like the first budding of spring,’ is how she put it.”
“But what about the fashionistas?” Esther complained. “With all their late-night parties, won’t they fall asleep?”
“That’s why we didn’t bring decaf,” I replied. “And it seems to me that Fen was on to something.”
I pointed to the pack of journalists and buyers already circling the tents, most of whom seemed less than fully alert. Meanwhile the high-stepping models trotting about in gauzy spring fashions in the chilly autumn air seemed energized.
“They move like they’re powered by supercharged batteries,” I remarked.
“More likely cocaine,” quipped Esther.
I frowned, remembering Joy and hoping Matt would come through with his promise to speak with her. I’d spoken to Joy many times over the years about the dangers of illegal drugs. Now I knew she needed to hear the warnings from her larger-than-life father, the former addict—his words would carry a thousand times more weight than mine.
Stepping out of the van, I felt like a junkie myself, and shielded my hangover-sensitive eyes from the harsh stabbing agony of the sun. Suddenly I wished I’d held on to those Jackie Onassis tinted glasses of Madame’s.
I noticed Moira McNeely with a hand to her head, too.
“Moira, are you okay?”
She shook her head. “Headache. Massive.”
“Join the club.” I pulled a pillbox of aspirins out of the pocket of my jeans and handed it to her. “I’ve come prepared. Take two aspirins and have another cup of coffee.”
“No, I can’t,” she said handing the pillbox back to me with a look of panic. “I told you earlier in the week. I’m allergic.”
“Sorry,” I said, “I’m still fuzzy.”
“I have a cousin who can die from eating peanuts,” said Esther. “Can people die from aspirin allergies, too?”
As Esther and Moira continued to talk, I turned to open the van’s double doors and spied Bryan Goldin emerging from the Fen bus. Gone were the Billy Idol black leather duds and studded choker. His tattoos were even out of sight. Today, beneath his platinum blond crewcut, the younger Goldin wore a tailored Fen suit, cocoa brown, with a lavender shirt and tie.
As he stepped down from the bus, he paused to adjust his outfit. He glanced around—no doubt looking to see if he’d been noticed—but he didn’t spot me. After a moment, he checked his cuffs and headed across the park to the Theater tent. I saw no sign of Fen himself, but figured a man as reclusive—and frankly, reptilian—as Fen was would stay out of sight as long as possible.
For the next hour Moira, Esther, and I moved the espresso machines into the Theater tent and set them up in the spacious main lobby, with the help of a hunky young member of the Fashion Week organizing staff named Chad.
Esther’s face lit up and she turned on the charm when he greeted us, and surprisingly, Chad, who looked to be a corn-fed midwestern transplant, did not seem put off by the girl’s antifashion braids, oversized sweatshirt, and black-rimmed glasses. In fact, he smiled so warmly at Esther, I suspected she probably resembled one of his old friends back home on the farm.
Moira, however, was all business as she tested the espresso machines, and the three of them worked so efficiently together they hardly required my presence.
“Watch for the pastry delivery. It should be here any minute,” I told Esther. “I’m going backstage to have a word with Lottie.”
“Have a blast, boss,” she replied, clearly distracted by the rippling muscles under Chad’s Fashion Week T-shirt.
The public was not yet allowed into the Theater tent, so I crossed an empty lobby and entered the virgin-white runway area. The vast space seemed hollow without spectators, and I heard only the ghostly rush of ventilation fans as I walked past the rows and rows of seats to the front of the room. The white canvas walls were pristine save for carefully mounted banks of stage lights, and the smooth, polished runway was desolate.
The door on stage was bracketed by two mammoth flat screen televisions, each crowned with huge placards bearing the Fen logo. The screens crackled with silent static, and two men in Fashion Week tees were frantically working on the video system, trying to troubleshoot an obvious malfunction.
I wasn’t sure where to search for Lottie, but I spotted a small door leading backstage and thought it logical to try there first. At the door, a young, beefy security guard gave my badge only a cursory glance