Glamour (17 page)

“Of course, but every minute counts.”

I’m just hanging up when my mom comes into the room, and her expression is not happy. “We have a problem,” she tells me grimly.

“We have lots of problems,” I say quickly. “And I don’t have time for — ”

“You’ll have to make time, Erin.”

“Look, if it’s about yesterday, I’m sorry. I just got caught up—”

“No, no—this isn’t about that. This is about Paige.”

“Paige?”

Mom lets out a frustrated sigh. “She is seriously hungover.”

“Hungover?”

“Yes. And we need to leave for
Britain’s Got Style
in an hour and a half.”

“So, tell Paige to get un-hungover,” I say.

“I wish it were that simple.” She shakes her head. “I think you’ll have to handle it for her, Erin.”

“Me?” I frown. “Handle what?”

“Britain’s Got Style.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Right. By myself? I’m no style critic. There’s no way I can stand in for her.”

“Well, there’s no way she’s going to make it. Right now she’s in there throwing up.”

“And what about Dylan in all this?” I demand. “Is he in
there throwing up too? Or did he simply contribute to the delinquency of a minor?”

“The legal drinking age is eighteen here, Erin.”

For drama, I slap my forehead. “Oh, that’s right. Maybe that’s why they have Fashion Week here. Most of the models can be of legal drinking age.”

“Point taken.” Mom is pacing now. “And if it makes you feel better, Dylan is actually fairly contrite.”

“I assume Dylan just sat by while Paige got totally wasted last night?”

“In her defense, they both said she didn’t have that much to drink. It’s just that she forgot to eat.”

I ball my hands into fists and shake them in the air. “Isn’t it bad enough that we’ve got Fran over there, practically dying—and not because she partied too hard either—and then Paige pulls a stunt like this?”

“How is Fran?”

I quickly explain what I know about the impending hurricane and how I’m trying to set up a medical transport to get her out of here.

“Isn’t that terribly expensive?”

I nod. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Is the show covering it?”

“I have no idea, Mom. But I need to hurry and find out if Fran wants me to book it or not.”

“Yes. Of course. Go and find out. I’ll check on Paige again.”

“And here’s an idea,” I toss at her as I’m halfway through the doorway. “Tell Dylan to take some responsibility for what happened with Paige. And maybe he’d like to replace her as a judge for
Britain’s Got Style.”

Mom shakes her head. I hurry next door to find Fran with the Weather Channel on again, and I can tell by her expression that the news is not good. I quickly relay the information about the air ambulance and how we need to decide immediately. I mention what time it would get here and then drop the bombshell about how much it would cost. Her already pale face seems to get whiter.

“But this is the kicker,” I say. “If the hurricane causes the air ambulance to be grounded in Nassau, you still have to pay. Even if they can’t get you out.”

“Seriously?”

“That’s what she told me. I only spoke to one medical transport service. I don’t know if they’re all like that. The woman did say there’s a possibility they can safely fly in and out—
if we move fast on this.”

Fran points to the TV and shakes her head. “It’s too iffy. The storm could be here by noon … or later tonight.”

“Or not at all,” I offer.

“Yes … or not at all.” She waves her hand. “You need to go get ready for
Britain’s Got Style.”
She looks at her clock. “Really, you should be in hair and makeup by now, Erin.”

“Right …” I turn and leave. No way am I going to tell her what a mess
that’s
going to be. I head for Paige’s room, but then I see Luis and Shauna coming down the hallway. I quickly give them the lowdown on the hangover.

“What are you going to do?” Shauna asks me as I knock on the door of Paige’s room.

“I have no idea.” When no one answers, I pull out the key card Paige gave me when we arrived, slide it through, and let us in. “Hello?” I call.

Dylan comes out of the bedroom with a guilty expression.

But Shauna and Luis simply greet him as if it’s no big deal that he obviously slept here last night.

“Hey, Erin,” he says to me, looking sheepish. “Your mom told me about your idea for me to replace Paige on the show. I’m sure no one would notice.”

Luis thinks that’s funny and he jokingly introduces the possibility of dressing Dylan up like Paige. “Dylan could probably make a big splash on their show.”

“Hilarious,” I say as Shauna points me to the makeup station. I frown at her. “I don’t really see the point in getting me ready,” I tell her as I sit down. “There’s no way I can pull this off without Paige. We all know I’m no fashion expert.”

“Well, at least you’ll look nice for the day,” Shauna says, using a sponge to blend foundation.

“I have an idea,” Mom says as she emerges from the bedroom.

“How’s Paige?” Luis asks with sympathy.

“Wiped out, but resting.” Mom goes over to where Dylan is sitting by the window with a sad expression. She points at him. “It will require cooperation from you. Paige says your show’s not until tomorrow. So you’re probably not too busy today.”

He shrugs. “Not too busy.”

And just like that, like my mom thinks she’s turned into a CIA agent, she starts describing a wild techie plan that is supposed to save the day. She wants me to wear a hidden earphone and for Dylan to be offstage watching the show via one of our cameras, which will be linked directly to his laptop. He will feed me fashion advice, direction, and critique.

“No way!” I shake my head, causing Shauna to jump back and scowl at me. “That is crazy.”

“Why?” Luis asks. “It sounds like fun to me.”

“That’s because you don’t have to do it,” I tell him.

Dylan comes over to my chair. “I think we can pull it off.”

“Seriously?” I frown at him. “But you wouldn’t be the one on the hot seat, now would you?” I turn to Mom. “What happens if we lose our connection? Or if the
Britain’s Got Style
people figure it out? And besides that, isn’t it a little unethical?”

“We do that in the news all the time,” Mom tells me. “Sometimes we need to get a message to the anchor while he’s on the air and we can’t always get it written out quickly enough. So we use—”

“But won’t they see it?” I ask. “An earpiece?”

“I can cover it with your hair,” Luis says quickly.

“And I can help conceal it on your neck,” Shauna offers. “I’ve done things like that before.”

“And you can wear big earrings and something with a collar,” Mom suggests.

“This is crazy,” I tell them, but they’re already scrambling. Mom’s on the phone with our crew, checking to see if they have the equipment. Dylan’s on his computer trying to find out more about the British style show. Shauna leads me to the walk-in closet in the bedroom to find an appropriate outfit.

Meanwhile Paige looks a little green around the gills, curled up in a fetal position on the bed, groaning softly. I actually consider sniping something mean at her, but thankfully stop myself. Not only do I stop, but I feel slightly disgusted with myself. Especially in light of what Rhiannon told me last night. I can’t believe how angry and judgmental I can be sometimes. A lot of times. Really, what is wrong with me?

So instead I go over and gently touch Paige’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry you feel so lousy,” I say quietly. “I hope you get to feeling better soon. I’ll do what I can to rescue this.”

“Thanks,” she whispers.

Okay, I know that’s a small step for most people, but in light of knowing how Paige got in this position and in light of the position she’s put me in, it’s a giant step for me.

We arrive at the hotel where the show is being
recorded this week and, to my relief, Mom is up front with the producer of
Britain’s Got Style.
Without going into too much detail, she explains that Paige suddenly became ill and that because I’m not used to going solo yet, I will be wearing an earpiece and getting some direction.

“If you have a problem with this, we understand,” she tells him. “But it was the only way we could accommodate you. We really want this opportunity to have your show be promoted on ours.”

He looks at me. “And you’re comfortable with this?”

I make what I hope doesn’t look like a forced smile. “I think so. We’ve been practicing a bit and it should be okay.”

He pats me on the back. “All right then. Just be sure to tell that elusive sister of yours that she owes us one.”

I nod. “I’ll do that.”

It takes about twenty minutes before we’re all set and ready to go. During this time I discover that another guest judge on the show is Eliza Wilton. I try not to act shocked, but I’m
wondering what sets Eliza up as an expert. Sure, she used to do some modeling. And now she’s partnering with Rhiannon. But an expert? Of course, I have to weigh that against myself.
An expert?
Ha!

“I’m a little disappointed,” she tells me as we’re leaving the green room. “I was really looking forward to going up against your sister today.”

“Against
her?” I frown. “You mean as in competition?”

She smiles smugly. “You obviously haven’t seen this show.”

She’s right; I haven’t—at least not an entire episode. I saw some very brief clips of it before our London trip. Not that I want Eliza to know that.

“There’s always some friendly bantering and competition between the judges,” she informs me. “It’s part of the fun. Everyone trying to one-up everyone else.”

“Right … fun.”

She chuckles. “I’m guessing we won’t have a problem with you.”

“Probably not.”

We go out to the set. A well-lit runway runs through the middle of the ballroom and a stage with black leather chairs and a long glass table is sitting parallel to it. Cameras and crew are positioned around the perimeter. We are introduced to the regular judges, a who’s who in the British fashion world. Then we’re led to our places, where we sit in front of fixed micro-phones—a relief, because it’s one less wire to worry about.

“If you can hear me, nod.” I try not to jump when I hear Dylan’s voice through the earpiece. I nod as I scoot my chair a bit closer to the table.

After a few more minutes of adjustments, the lights come on and the host and former supermodel, Chloe Brinkman,
does her spiel. She introduces the judges, including the guest judges, and gives a brief explanation of why I’m here in lieu of my sister. Then she gives Eliza and me a chance to say a few words about ourselves, why we are on the panel, and if anything special has caught our attention at Bahamas Fashion Week.

Eliza goes first and is almost as smooth as Paige would be if she were here. And then it’s my turn, and suddenly I hear Dylan’s voice in my ear. We’ve prearranged a cue system, so if I don’t want him to speak I simply touch my chin. And that’s what I do.

“I’m the co-host of
On the Runway,”
I begin. “But as our viewers know, my sister, Paige Forrester, is the one who has the real fashion sense. She’s a natural. In fact, she sometimes uses me as an example of fashion
don’ts
.” This elicits some chuckles. “However, I’ve been learning a lot about fashion this year. Paige is a great teacher, even though my interests in fashion differ from hers.” Then I briefly mention eco fashion, green design, and world trade.

“That’s great,” Chloe tells me. “You’re probably aware that this has been a big focus of our show as well. You’re in good company.” Then she introduces the premise of their show, which is not so different from the American version, where designers compete with each other for the prize of getting to create and show their own styles at London Fashion Week next fall. “As you know we’re down to the final five,” she says with enthusiasm. “And they have been here in the Bahamas, working for the past two days on a resort wear outfit.” She gets a catty smile. “We’ve made their challenge a bit more rigorous than usual, because we have limited them to only natural materials that are found on the island.” She points to
me. “Someone as environmentally conscious as Erin Forrester should appreciate this particular show.”

Now, like any other show, the music gets loud and the spotlights turn to the runway. As the models take their turns parading up and down the platform, Dylan, who’s watching them via his laptop, gives me some tips as to what is good or bad about the ensembles. And it’s weird, because after the second model, I almost think I get it. Even so, I’m not sure I can verbalize it. And then, as the third model is coming out, Dylan’s voice goes dead. I discreetly reach up to touch the earpiece, but it makes no difference. For whatever reason, I’ve lost him.

Soon it’s time for critique and, although I pay attention to the other judges, I want my words to be my own. Even if I make our show look stupid, I decide to simply be myself. Design by design, I take my turn and a couple of times I even go first. I say why I think the shredded palm skirt is predictable and why the coconut husk vest is a bust. All in all, it’s kind of fun. I can’t believe it when the outfit I liked the most—the raffia dress trimmed in shells—wins. But I’m hugely relieved that we’re finished.

“Nicely done,” Mom tells me as I join my crew. “Very smooth and natural-sounding. And that comment about the coconut bust was really funny. Did Dylan come up with it?”

“As a matter of fact, Dylan and I got disconnected shortly after the show began.”

She blinks.
“Really?
Well, in that case, you did a fantastic job, honey.
Good for you!”

As we head out to the lobby, Dylan meets us. “Why didn’t you use any of my comments?” he asks me in a slightly offended tone. I explain about the disconnect.

“So that was basically a waste of my time,” he says in a disgruntled tone. Before I can even think of a response, Eliza joins us with her usual catty smile.

“Hey, Dylan,” she says in what seems an overly familiar way. “What are
you
doing here?”