Away for the Weekend

“A novel! Now that is a thing to want!” For some reason his laugh makes her think of cinnamon. “You know what you should do? I’ll tell you. You should write about me!” With one hand he cuts into the next lane and with the other he thumps himself on the chest. “You wouldn’t believe the life I’ve had. It would be a bestseller.” And while he weaves rather recklessly through the traffic, rarely looking at the road, but frequently shouting good-naturedly at drivers who are even worse than he, he tells her the story of his life. Which, at a rough estimate, contains enough material for a dozen novels, each of them marked by hardship and struggle, and quite a lot of joie de vivre. He laughs again. “Everything but the kitchen sink, you know? And every word is true.” He sounds his horn as a man in a Humvee comes close to ending the story once and for all. “And then I came to this country,” he finishes up. “Where anything can happen, you know?”

“Yes,” says Beth, “I know.”

The cabbie comes from a place where you might also say that anything can happen, but most of it is unpleasant. “Here, I have a chance. I can make the best of things, you know? Nothing’s perfect, but you can make the best of things.”

Does she? Make the best of things … the best of things … The three shells and the plastic Snoopy hanging on a red ribbon from the mirror clack against the wooden cross and the glass beads on the piece of string. Make the best of things. Instead of the worst.

Horns honking and brakes squealing, the cab lands in the drive of The Hotel Xanadu.

Beth stands on the pavement, waving good-bye until he disappears. And then she marches into the hotel. But instead of going upstairs, she goes straight for the beauty parlour on the first floor. If she is going to make the best of things, she might as well have someone who knows how to style hair and put on make-up take charge.

The party is being held in the Grace Kelly Room of The Hotel Xanadu. The walls have been decorated with blow-ups of Vogue covers through the decades and tiny star-shaped lights have been strung from one side of the room to the other. Waiters weave through the throng like bees through a meadow, carrying trays of canapés that are more a suggestion of food than a meal. As Taffeta promised, everybody who is anybody on the LA fashion scene is here – models, designers, journalists, buyers, and all their PAs. Many of us are nervous of meeting new people, and Beth has always been more nervous than most, often making herself ill with worry. But tonight she is as fearless as a blade of grass. Tonight she is Gabriela Menz. She spent nearly an hour just staring at her made-over reflection in the bathroom mirror, saying silently to herself, Think Gabriela, think Gabriela… And it seems to have worked. She greets each new person with the confidence and efficiency of an assembly-line worker installing her part of an engine. Smile, shake hands, murmur something about Los Angeles or fashion or how excited you are to be here; smile, shake hands, murmur something about Los Angeles or fashion or how excited you are to be here; smile, shake hands, murmur something about Los Angeles or fashion or how excited you are to be here…

Beth stands near the door, propped against the wall for both moral and physical support. Tonight she is wearing shoes that make the ones she had on earlier look like loafers and a dress that fits her like a bandage. The skirt is so short it feels as if there’s a fan blowing on her thighs. Her eyelashes feel as if they’ve been glued together (which they have) and her face feels as if it’s been varnished (which it might as well have been). But she knows she looks like a million dollars. Indeed, she doesn’t look like just a million; she looks like a million packed in a Louis Vuitton bag and locked in the trunk of a Bugatti Veyron. Lucinda practically swooned when she saw her. The other girls looked like their smiles hurt them. Taffeta, who tends to dole out compliments like a miser doling out alms, adjusted the shoulder of Beth’s dress and said, “Well, that’s more like it, Gabriela.”

Think Gabriela Menz, Beth tells herself. Be her… She does a pretty good job. Most of the talk is about clothes. Who’s wearing what. Isn’t that a McCartney…? Do you think that’s really a Morgana…? What are going to be the big names next season and the season after that. Sambucco…? Wu…? Austin Finch…? The major trends. Mid-calf…? Maxi…? Mini…? Feathers…? Bows…? Beth listens, laughs and nods, giving the impression that whether or not something is cut on the bias or double-stitched are questions that keep her awake at night. What do you think about linen? someone asks, but all Beth can think of is bandages – the mummy look – all the rage this spring. She smiles and nods. And what about crops? Corn? Wheat? Beans? She smiles and nods some more. Giving up on ever having a real meal again, she nibbles and sips. She knows Taffeta is watching her – measuring her, judging her – so she makes certain that Taffeta likes what she sees. That’s more like it…

Thinking that – at least in this part of the nightmare that her life has become – the worst must now be over, Beth allows herself a sigh of relief, as slim as the hips on a size 0 model. But it could be a sigh too soon.

Suddenly, a hand grips her arm – lightly and firmly as plastic cuffs.

“Gabriela, honey,” purrs Taffeta. “I have some people here you absolutely have to meet.”

The people Gabriela honey has to meet are Mo and Inda Linger, two of the hottest young designers in the country, and Estella Starr, a model whose face could only be seen by more people if it were put on a postage stamp. Beth turns to find them all lined up behind her, and smiling. It’s like staring at a wall made of Chiclets.

“This,” says Taffeta, her cool fingers still on Beth, ‘is the girl who designed that dress.”

This announcement is greeted with a chitter of approval.

Ohmigod, really…? Awesome… Fantabulous…

“I can’t believe you’re still in high school,” says Mo. “This is kind of embarrassing, but when I was your age I was still following the flock, baa baa baa…”

Inda laughs, a sound reminiscent of a bottle of soda being shaken. “I don’t want to be the one to make the bad pun, but, really, your angel dress is so divine…”

“I’m starting my own label,” says Estella, “and that dress is just the kind of thing I’m looking for. Only maybe I’d change the bodice detail and drop the hemline? What do you think about that?”

Beth has got through the evening with nods and smiles, and so she nods and smiles now, in an enthusiastic if ambiguous way.

“Though I do wonder about the palette…” murmurs Estella. “It could be that stronger, less innocent colours would really set off the purity of the design and give it an even sexier edge.”

Beth nods; Beth smiles. “Um…”

“You know what I really wanted to ask you?” cuts in Inda, the glitter in her false lashes seeming to make her sparkle. “I know that you’re incredibly talented, but what and who are your inspirations?”

“My inspirations?” echoes Beth. How on earth should she know? Not only does she have no idea what dress they’re talking about, the clothes she buys don’t have names. They might as well be asking her which architects or scientists have influenced her the most. I owe everything to Christopher Wren and Isaac Newton.

“Gabriela?” prompts Taffeta.

“Well … my inspirations …” Beth mumbles. “That’s a very good question.”

Taffeta’s smile glints like sharpened steel. “I believe it is. And we’d all like to hear your answer.”

“Well…” It may be true that the only thing Beth knows about “fashion” is how to spell it, but there is something that she does know quite a lot about and that, of course, is literature. She takes a deep breath, and plunges in – substituting the words “fashion” and “designers” for “writing” and “writers” where appropriate. “I don’t think I can pick just one or two influences. I just sort of immerse myself in all the styles and trends from today and yesterday and decades and centuries ago… I mean, fashion is organic, isn’t it?”

“Oh, but organic materials are so expensive,” murmurs Inda.

Mo nods. “We do a lot of stuff for the big outlets. You can get certificates to say things aren’t made in sweatshops, but organic material really jacks up the price.”

“No, I didn’t mean that. I meant that it’s kind of a living thing. You see something here that you like, and then something else there. And then you start putting things together or taking out the best parts, and it all starts to grow, doesn’t it?”

Because no one responds, Beth keeps going, chattering on as if she’s a sound system that’s been programmed for continuous play. If she had half a second right now to think about it, she might wonder why she’s always been less articulate than a talking doll; stuttering and stumbling, certain her opinions will be as welcome as