because you’re scared. You know who would really love an opportunity like this? Me. Me, Victor! I have worked so hard to get this for you! So get your ass on a plane and get to New York. Because if you don’t, there is no helping you. This is your shot at victory!”
She sounded like her old cross-country coach. She hung up before Victor could utter one more whine at her. And then she buried her face in Naomi’s pillow and cried. With regret, with exhaustion, with loss. This was it for her. She had nothing—no job, no clients. She had done everything right, and she had nothing to show for it.
Carly apparently cried herself to sleep. She never heard Naomi come in. She never heard her leave for work. She was awakened by the ping of a text. Her eyes were puffy, and she groggily groped for her phone. The text was from Victor.
Like . . . where are we supposed to go.
With a shout, she sat up. Victor was in New York.
* * *
Later, when Naomi and her roommates asked how Victor’s show went, Carly said it was great, but in truth, it was all a big blur.
They had worked all day Thursday and through the night. Friday morning, the place was a madhouse. There were models and makeup artists, hairstylists and seamstresses. People were ironing, people were rushing around looking for shoes or bags or the little bows that were supposed to go in someone’s hair.
Victor had found an inner well of strength. He was everywhere, perfecting the garments up to the last minute. There was a glitch with the sound, and Carly thought that was it, finally the death knell to this thing. But the sound guy got it up and running just in time. The show started fifteen minutes late, but the room was full, and the lights went down, and on a big screen at the back of the runway, a summer sky appeared with birds flying across.
When the music started, the first model appeared wearing the red suit. She had stark red eye shadow and a stick of hair about a foot long that stood straight up from her crown. The next piece was white, with the long sleeves Carly had worn.
Carly was impressed and relieved and happy, and also numb as Victor came out for the last walk down the runway when all seven pieces had been shown. She knew that for him, it wasn’t as much a fashion victory as it was a personal accomplishment, and he was beaming. He was proud of himself.
There was a lot of applause when the show was over, and then a crush of people waiting for a chance to tell Victor he was great. Some of his old cast members for Project Runway had come, and she watched him laugh and talk with them. He seemed like a different person. As if the weight of his show had been lifted from him at last.
After the show, Carly and June stood propped up against the same wall, June looking as exhausted as Carly felt. “I can’t believe you did it,” June said.
“What? I didn’t do it. You did it. Victor did it.”
“No, you did this, Carly. You got that boy off his ass. I don’t know how you did it, but that was all you. Let’s just hope it takes.” She pushed away and walked to where Victor was now talking to reporters. When he saw his mother, he threw his arms around her and hugged her tightly.
Carly smiled. She supposed she ought to be in there, spinning the story just right. But she was too tired to think. She didn’t know where she went from here with Victor, or if she wanted to go with him at all. He didn’t pay her much, and even if he was her only client, she wasn’t sure it was worth the anxiety.
She wanted to call Max and tell him about her Calvin Klein. She wanted to tell him about this entire awful week. She wanted to know how his presentation went. She took her phone out and was remembering that he’d be in class just now when she became aware of someone sidling up to her. When she glanced to her left, she started. Carly would know that face anywhere—Ramona McNeil was as formidable in person as she was on the phone. She had a folder and a phone in one hand, a large coffee in the