90s soap opera stars alighted. As their dated sartorial style and designer hats looked tragically out of place, the telecast vision quickly switched back to the smiling ABC reporter.
“I’m hoping to talk with Super Models Kate Moss and Helena Christensen a little later on but, for now, it’s back to you Branson,” Terri-Lee continued as she wound up the live cross.
The crowd surrounding Terri-Lee cheered as the telecast vision switched back to the interior of the Kodak.
Branson fiddled with his earpiece while beaming into camera 1. The audience applauded and once again Branson milked the moment.
“Thank you, Terri-Lee. We’ll look forward to speaking to you again a little later in the show,” the M/C said and performed last year’s dance-step as he grinned into camera 2.
“Don’t go away folks, we meet 12 of the most gorgeous women on earth, right after these important messages.”
Choreographed images of the models in bikinis, splashing in a heart-shaped swimming pool, switched to a commercial for Estee Lauder’s latest anti-wrinkle skin care range.
Inside the auditorium, the giant back screen faded to purple inscribed with white and yellow flowers. The 60s were back in fashion.
At the entrance to the Kodak parking station, two sensibly dressed women were work-shopping parking rage. They yelled at each other and sounded their horns while aggressively trying to manoeuvre their late model Mercedes coupes past each other.
Neither woman would concede. A long-haired parking attendant, dressed in soiled blue jeans and a red and black flannel shirt, appeared and surveyed the narcissistic scene. He shook his head, shrugged and walked slowly back to his office. He flicked the door shut behind him, turned Eminem’s Kill You up loud and plonked his un-shined brown boots up on a paper strewn desk.
Inside the larger car, a silver Mercedes S63 AMG, sat Giselle Richter MBA, Chief Executive Officer of the Estee Lauder cosmetics corporation. To her subordinates she was universally known as ‘The Gale.’ Like a strong wind, you could always hear her coming and, like a hurricane, she seldom delivered good news.
Dressed in a brown Sanders wide leg jump suit and matching brown jacket, her prized Stuart Weitzman Retro Rose pumps co-ordinated with deceptive soft-pink Estee Lauder lipstick, Giselle jutted out her big square jaw, spotted a gap and accelerated past her opponent with tyres squealing.
Finding a vacant parking spot, The Gale raised the middle finger of her left hand through the driver’s window as her vanquished opponent drove past with horn blaring. Giselle had already “made it” and, as far as she was concerned, the more people who knew it the better. Before exiting the Merc she checked her phone and her hair, layering on more lipstick. Giselle clicked her key ring to lock the door and strode to the elevators, smiling.
“Life is full of little triumphs,” she thought as she moved forward toward the bright lights.
LIVING IN A GOLDFISH BOWL
Just two hours earlier, even more ruthless ambition had been on display in the models’ styling room deep inside the Kodak Theatre.
The self-absorbed reality that coexists with the glamour and polished theatre of fashion - the image so perfectly portrayed on catwalks, glossy magazine covers, stages and TV screens everywhere - was clearly visible during preparations for the Estee Lauder Awards telecast.
The 12 finalists were in various stages of undress. Aretha Franklin’s Good Times played on a Bose iPod dock and an armed female security officer, bored by the constant preening of her charges, sang along.
“Get in the groove
And let the good times roll
I’m gonna stay here
Until I soothe my soul.”
Several casually dressed models stood marooned in the middle of the room, surrounded by support staff in black and white Estee Lauder uniforms. Next to them was a catering station, with two cooks resplendent in white French-style chefs’ hats and jackets. Both ends of the station were covered with dozens of red roses in vases. The scene was discreetly watched over by a handful of security people and seriously obsessed fashionistas who surveyed the field and whispered knowingly into their cell phones.
Other models, including Angela and Joanne, sat at vanity stations garnished with red and yellow orchids flown in from Singapore.
Hannako, a dark-haired Eurasian girl, sat barefoot in a purple and black Christopher Kane sleeveless velvet dress and chatted happily with her boyfriend on an iPhone. Next to her, a blonde, wearing a silver Herve Leger metallic bandage dress, pretended to read a book on Kabbalah truths.
In the corner, another attention-seeking blonde girl, in a long white Alexander Wang pullover shirt and matching white Jean Yu knickers, had adopted the salute the sun yoga posture in front of her station.
Next to her, a painfully thin brunette model, wearing a large Nordstrom Asymmetrical Straw hat, blue Calvin Klein jeans with a double-prong belt and purple Haute split sleeve blouse, chewed on a lettuce leaf and stared thoughtfully into space.
The biggest attention seeker of them all was Jenna Cheney, an anorexic blonde with a reputation for exploding at all the wrong moments. A “troubled” soul, Jenna was hated by the other models for her lack of professionalism but she honestly believed if a subject didn’t involve her it was unimportant.
“I would not bother to read a book I had not written,” the unpublished model had told Marie Claire magazine during a notorious 2005 interview.
Jenna was annoyed at the muted response she had received five minutes earlier when she had breathlessly announced to her fellow competitors that the previous night she had learnt, in a dream, that she would win the 2009 Awards.
It was a sign from god, a prophecy, it was written in the stars, she was going to live happily ever after. Jenna was “like, totally certain” of it.
She had a vision of herself, bathed in the bright lights, stepping up onto the same stage that had hosted so many glittering Oscar ceremonies and graciously accepting the award while smiling lovingly at the audience. The crowd’s response, as predicted by Jenna, could only be described as unprecedented. She thanked each and every one of her co-competitors for their support, their loyalty, their friendship and kindness.
The other models had burst into spontaneous applause, which then spread like a wildfire throughout the auditorium.
Jenna dreamt she had thanked her father, her Uncle Dick, everyone at Estee Lauder, all her “real special” Hollywood friends, the makeup artists, the designers and the “wonderful” Branson. There had been no hint of envy. Everybody was “so-oh” happy for her. But then, sadly for the deluded mannequin, Jenna woke up.
Back in a less cheery reality, Jenna was only half dressed as she sat and sulked at her Kodak station. She was topless and her Dolce & Gabbana denim mini skirt was tucked into the back of her red Calvin Klein knickers.
Most men would have been impressed. Her associates were not.
Without warning, Jenna, the brooding blonde princess, jumped out of her chair, screamed at a stylist and chased her into the middle of the room.
Angela Durand and Joanne Hart sniggered as the femme fatale lurched past their relatively private dressing stations in one corner. Angela wore a tangerine hand painted Mitch Mitchell jacket and black Pearl stockings. Joanne perfectly filled a well-cut red Bordelle baby doll. Their hair was wet and matted, their faces not yet made-up. Their perfect complexions shone.
Joanne leant over and whispered something into Angela’s ear.
Her wet hair gently cascaded across Angela’s left cheek, brushed her nose, and