dress that only she could have designed), her colleagues (simply but elegantly turned out) and the other finalists – Nicki, Isla, Hattie and Paulette – all of them, as Gabriela predicted, dressed to seriously injure if not actually kill (but in an oh-so-last-week kind of way).
“Oh my God!” Lucinda squeezes Gabriela’s hand as if she were the last drop of toothpaste in the tube. “We’re late. Everybody’s here already. Taffeta will think we’re unreliable. Now what do we do?”
“We’re not late.” Gabriela wouldn’t think twice about keeping the President waiting while she gets her hair right, but she’d rather go bald than be late for Taffeta Mackenzie. “They’re all early.” Hoping to score points and make her and Lucinda look bad. “Didn’t I tell you we can’t even blink around them? They’re like hungry lions. Show any sign of weakness and you’re dinner.”
“Oh, no…” moans Lucinda. “I don’t know if I’m up to this. Those girls are way more sophisticated than I —”
“You have nothing to worry about.” Gabriela straightens her shoulders and raises her chin. “You’re with me.”
As if Gabriela’s movements have sent a signal across the room, Taffeta glances at the watch on her wrist and then looks over at the door. Eight on the dot. Ignoring the fact that Nicki is talking to her, she waves, her smile of approval moving from Lucinda to Gabriela and settling on her like a laser.
“Oh my God!” breathes Lucinda. “Look at Taffeta’s face. She’s happy to see us!”
Gabriela returns Taffeta’s smile. “What did I tell you?” Her lips barely move as she talks. “Come on, let’s show the competition how to schmooze.”
Lucinda beside her, Gabriela moves slowly towards the table, confident and cool, all the while hearing the presenter’s voice in her head:
Taffeta rises to greet them. “I’m Taffeta Mackenzie. Lucinda Abbot, right?” She extends her hand. “And you must be Gabriela Menz.” Her eyes move down the simple silk sheath in tropical fruit. “I recognize your style.”
Though the other contestants keep smiling, glances move between them like fleas between dogs, suddenly aware that if Taffeta Mackenzie has a favourite, it isn’t one of them.
Taffeta introduces her colleagues – her deputy, the Dean of Students, the head of Admissions, the Careers Advisor. “And I believe you girls have already met?” She gestures vaguely at the others, as if she’s already forgotten their names.
“Yeah, we came from the airport together,” says Nicki.
Hattie and Isla nod.
Paulette, whose smile looks as if a stiff wind would crack it, says, “Wow, that’s an awesome dress, Gabriela.” She wrinkles her nose. “But, you know, it looks kind of familiar. Would I have seen it somewhere?”
Gabriela has no trouble recognizing a challenge when she hears one.
“Old movies? You mean like from the nineties or something?”
“No, older.” Gabriela lets the scarf fall off her shoulder. “I got the idea for this dress from this movie I watched that was made in the thirties. It was in black and white! Can you believe it? No colour! Anyway, the woman who ends up ruining her life, she had this incredible negligee.”
Hattie gives an embarrassed laugh, though not, of course, for herself. “Isn’t that just like
“I didn’t copy it,” says Gabriela. “I was inspired. I changed everything about it – the length, the material, the fall of the skirt – all I kept was its essence.”
Taffeta touches her shoulder. “That’s the kind of creativity I like to see. That’s what real art is all about.” She removes her Hermes Birkin from the chair beside hers. “Why don’t you sit next to me?”
Gabriela’s night goes on from there, rising as effortlessly and brightly as a helium balloon. She can’t remember ever enjoying herself more. It’s like every fantasy she’s ever had come true. Gabriela loves her friends – her friends are great – but though they like to shop and wear clothes as much as the next girl, they do have other interests. They don’t look at the shell of a tortoise and think: wow, that pattern would look great on a coat. They don’t look at a dress in a movie or in a store window and think: drop the neckline, make it longer, add ties and only wear it with ankle boots. She’s never been with so many people with the same interests – and with the same passion. They talk; they laugh; they share thoughts and ideas on everything from tatted collars and tailored skirts to strapless bras and open-toed shoes. Taffeta has a million stories about Hollywood, LA and the fashion industry, and drops celebrity names the way a waiter roller skating on ice drops dishes. Even Nicki, Paulette, Hattie and Isla warm up as the night goes on. Still guarded but not as prickly, they no longer want to push Gabriela down the nearest laundry chute; they just want to be her.
By the time Taffeta says that they’d all better get their beauty sleep since they have a big day tomorrow, the restaurant is almost empty.
“That was awesome,” Lucinda whispers as she and Gabriela follow the others out. “That was totally awesome. And Taffeta really, really likes you.”
Gabriela, too happy to speak, just smiles. This is so definitely her lucky day.
But, as things will turn out, tomorrow not so much.
The dinner for the Tomorrow’s Writers Today group is being held in one of the hotel’s smaller function rooms on the main floor. There are five categories in the competition – fiction, non-fiction, journalism, poetry and drama – and four contestants shortlisted in each category. Tonight’s event brings together all the contestants for the first time, as well as representatives from the corporate sponsors, all dressed like the President attending a summit and wearing the same kind of all-purpose smiles.
Beth and Delila are ten minutes early, but already there are people sitting at all four tables. They stop in the doorway for a few seconds so that Beth, who of course is sorry she couldn’t reply immediately, can answer the text her mother sent her while they were coming downstairs.
“Shoosh, man, will you look at them?” Delila sees no need to whisper. “I feel like I’m in court, there are so many suits.”
Beth, having assured her mother that she’ll double-check about nuts, looks up. Delila’s right about the suits. Indeed, the only people – male or female, judge, student or waiter – who aren’t wearing one are Delila (who is wearing a turquoise, orange, light green and yellow tunic over orange cotton trousers) and Beth (who is wearing her new grey dress).
But the sight of all these suits doesn’t make Beth think that she’s in court. It makes her think that the other contestants are all here for their college interviews – with Harvard, Princeton or Yale. And, from the look of them, that they’re bound to get their first choices.
“You think I should go back and change?” whispers Beth. She doesn’t want to stand out.
“Too casual?” Delila gives her a you-really-take-the-last-piece-of-cake look out of the corner of her eyes. “You look like a pilgrim. All you need’s a white handkerchief on your head.”
“I have a skirt and blazer my mom got me for my grandmother’s funeral.” That might be better. It almost looks like a suit. “I cou—”
“Listen,” says Delila. “You have got to stop worrying like you do. It’s not really conducive to your mental health – or mine.” She shakes her head. “Man, I’m surprised you ever leave the house in case an air conditioner lands on your head.”
It’s falling pianos that Beth usually worries about.
“Here’s the rule,” Delila tells her. “You don’t worry about nothing until it happens.
“I can’t help it if I have a sensitive nature.”
“Sensitive nature, my Aunt Winnie’s goitre,” says Delila, eloquent as only a poet can be. “What you have is a sensitive mother.”
Beth’s phone makes the grunting sound that means it’s getting another message from her sensitive
