Page 203 of The Faking Game
“Nothing.”
The cat flops down beside Nora’s free hand and starts to purr. She’s got one hand on me and another stroking down the cat’s back. I recognize defeat when I see it and turn onto my back beside her.
“The fashion show,” I ask. “Can I be there beside you?”
Her gaze slides to mine. “Do you want to be?”
“Of course I do. It’s been in my calendar for weeks.”
A smile spreads across her face. “Thank you.”
* * *
I help Nora to the fashion show, carrying garment bags to the car. She’s in a sleeveless black dress that fits her like a glove, with her hair up in a ponytail. Her expression is tight. It’s no-nonsense, focused, ambitious.
I love it.
She’s a force when she’s in her element. There’s no people-pleasing backstage at the venue, her hands capable and her voice smooth and in control. She helps models don the looks she’s crafted and fixes a last-minute hem.
When a zipper catches, she turns to me. “You have strong hands. Can you help me?”
I take the skirt from her. “I’ll fix it.”
“Be careful,” she warns me, and I can’t resist a smile.
“You know I’m good with my hands.”
She rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”
“Anything for you, trouble.”
When it’s almost time, her models stand in a tight row backstage. Nora smiles at them all. It’s an encouraging, kind, beautiful smile, and she shines amid all this busyness. She knows exactly what it’s like to be in their shoes.
“Thank you,” she tells them. “I appreciate each and every one of you. Have fun out there.”
I move closer, lean against the wall behind her. There’s a large black curtain that separates our area from the runway. The designers can’t come outside; it’s one of the few ironclad rules today.
Everything has to be anonymous.
The whispers are hushed, and silence settles over the room, and through the curtain, the presenter’s voice comes muffled but audible.
Contestant number six!Applause rings out, and Nora gives a nod to the first model, a redhead in an asymmetrical dress that falls to the floor. I’m no fashion expert, but even I can recognize Nora’s skill.
One after another, the models walk out.
On the monitor, we can see what the audience sees. Her clothes on the models, walking in front of a fully packed audience and a row of judges. Nora leans against me. I wrap my arms around her waist, her back to my front, and feel the tension slowly bleed out of her.
“Oh my god,” she says. “I did it.”
“You did it.”
“Look at that one,” she says when the final model walks in a long flowing skirt and asymmetrical top. “I love the way that fabric looks. It was so hard to work with, though.”
I kiss her hair. “You’ve done so well.”
“Yes I have, haven’t I?”
My arms tighten around her waist. “Are you praising yourself?”
