now you have.” Angelique’s expression softened as she shook hands with Becky, who regarded her with worshipful eyes. Angelique had avid fans in the fashion world. She’d been discovered in her native Haiti by Mick himself, who had been on a shoot on one of the island’s dramatic beaches. The cutting-edge designer was known for going to third world countries and using local talent in his fashion shoots. He’d even won humanitarian awards for his contributions to the places he’d visited.
“You must have been so excited when Mick discovered you,” Becky said. “I’d love to hear how it came about. And is it okay to record?”
Angelique nodded. A mention on the right blog was good business. “Ah, that. It is not such a big story. I was just sixteen and as green as saw grass. I thought I was prepared, of course, because I was so keen. Haiti has some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. Every time I heard of a shoot going on near Port-au-Prince, I made myself useful, doing odd jobs and absorbing everything like a sponge. I learned to walk, to pose. I learned styling and makeup. I started asking for work. Any kind of work—fetching and carrying, running errands, translating because the people who came from the U.S. always needed an interpreter.”
“And that’s when Mick Taylor discovered you.” Becky was starstruck.
“Discover is not quite the right word. He noticed me on a shoot when I was too young to work. Then on another shoot a year later. By that time, I had my son, Francis—he’s six now. Yes, I was a teen mom,” Angelique said.
“You’re a fabulous mom, and Flick is amazing,” Daria said.
“A year after that, I had Addie and we were able to come to New York.”
“He changed your life.”
“Speaking of change,” Orson said, giving Caroline a nudge, “I hear you’re exhibiting your original designs for the Emerging Talent program.”
“I am indeed,” Caroline said, aiming for a casual tone. Deep down, she was wildly excited about the opportunity. She turned to Becky. “Don’t put that in your blog post, though. It’s not my first rodeo, and I’m a dark horse.”
“So you’ve exhibited before?”
“Several times.”
The Emerging Talent program, funded by a consortium of established designers who had formed a nonprofit in order to nurture new artists, was the most prestigious in the New York fashion world. A panel of industry experts would view the work of several designers. The chosen one would be given a chance to exhibit their collection at the biggest runway show of the season.
If the featured designs impressed the right people, it could be the start of a successful career.
“Five minutes, everyone,” called a production assistant.
“We’ll find you after the show,” Orson said. “Get the rest of the story.”
The energy in the room heightened a notch. With a critical eye, Caroline studied a cutout jersey dress she had designed. The look featured an experimental serape made of yarn from recycled sari silk. Rilla had raised objections to the woven pieces, but Caroline had held her ground. Regarding Angelique in her show-ready hair and makeup, she was glad she had. The look was arresting, otherworldly, a stunning way to lead off the show.
“You’re a fantasy woman,” Caroline said. “People are going to be picking themselves up off the floor when they see you.”
Angelique laughed softly. “I wouldn’t want to cause an accident, chère.” She tilted her head at a haughty angle, then stepped down and took a few practice strides.
“Amazing,” Caroline said. “You’re like a master class on how to walk past your ex in public.” She hesitated, then said, “Speaking of your ex, what’s going on with Roman?”
A few weeks before, Angelique had fallen in love. Roman Blake, a fit model for a big athletic brand, had seemed like her perfect match. He was stunningly handsome, with tattoos in all the right places, a shaved head that somehow made him even better looking, and—according to Angelique—mad skills in the sack. The few times Caroline had met him, she’d found him intimidating, with a flinty gaze and not much to say. He and Angelique had broken up the week before.
Angelique muttered a phrase in Kreyòl, her native patois, that needed no translation. “He is someone else’s problem now, I imagine,” she added.
“And you?” Caroline asked. “Are you doing all right?”
“I am doing fantastic,” she said, turning so the serape wafted like wings, “and I think it might have something to do with this fantastic look I’m wearing.”
Caroline backed off. She and Angelique and Daria were close, but Angelique had always been intensely private. “Thanks,” she said. “So you like it? Really?” Caroline was constantly second-guessing herself.
“Really, copine.” Angelique’s face lit with a smile, breaking through her signature coolness.
“I owe you big-time for this gig,” Caroline said. It had been Angelique who had introduced Caroline to Rilla, which had led to her getting the contract job. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you …”
“Let’s see … balance my checking account? Finish raising my kids? Find me a bigger apartment?” Angelique stuck out her tongue. “Just a few small favors.”
“I’ll get right on that.” Caroline thought of her own tiny checking account and apartment to match. Even if she wanted kids, she couldn’t afford them.
Angelique stepped back up on the riser and used a hand mirror to check her makeup. “Wearing your clothes is reward enough,” she said, and Caroline felt a rush of gratitude.
“I love everything about this look,” Daria said. “It’s going to stop the show, just you watch.”
“Thanks, Dar.” Caroline looked at them both—twin towers of excessive beauty. “There’s a special place in heaven for loyal friends.” She had enormous respect for what they did as runway models. But she never felt the urge—nor did she have the looks or skills—to join their ranks.
The industry could be hard, sometimes brutal. Up close and firsthand, she’d witnessed young women who barely made a living, crammed together in overcrowded apartments and struggling to make ends meet. Too many of them—even some of the most successful models in the business—suffered from eating disorders, financial manipulation by agencies, sexual predation, and loneliness.
As a designer, she struggled with her conscience. She was part of an industry that set up the models for a hard, even dangerous road. Early on, she’d made a promise that she wouldn’t fall prey to the industry’s worst practices. Her own designs were meant to be beautiful on any woman, not just a size 2 supermodel.
A flurry and buzz erupted as Mick himself swept through the staging area, leaving a ripple of excitement in his wake. Despite his stature in the design world, he looked unremarkable—modest, even. He was middle-aged and paunchy in jeans and a plain polo, and he had the affable mien of everyone’s favorite uncle. Those eyes, though. They were the clearest, brightest blue, the heart of a flame, and so intensely sharp they didn’t seem to belong in his ordinary face.
When he’d burst onto the scene, the press had described him as an everyman whose cutting-edge designs translated seamlessly into ready-to-wear looks. Emerging designers like Caroline regarded him as the perfect mentor—encouraging without demanding, critiquing without disparaging. She liked working for him because she’d learned so much. Looking at him now, you would never know his brand was on shaky ground and that he was just back from a stint in rehab.
He moved through the crowded space, pausing to make a comment or adjustment, greeting models and designers with an affable grin. Rilla, his shadow, followed behind, making more adjustments, though not looking at all affable.
“Well, well, well,” Mick said when he