Susanna Covers the Catwalk by Mary Hogan

Author:Mary Hogan [Hogan, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857077226
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

I wonder if the whole world would think our country is possessed by religious fervour if they could see Bryant Park today – Sunday. God’s day. I bet money none of these fashionistas went to church before they pulled on their leggings, bubble skirts and to-die-for peek-a-boo halter tops.

Me, I’m wearing the same black trousers and shirt I wore yesterday. I know it’s a fashion felony to wear the same outfit two days in a row, but as Sasha reminded me the morning of the Oscars, I’m working. I don’t have to look hot (of course, I ended up walking the red carpet in linty work clothes, but who could have predicted that?).

Today is my last full day at Fashion Week. I have an invitation to one show in about an hour. Tomorrow, I’ll be back in school, missing everything that happens here from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon. Plus, subway time. So, I’m determined to get my scoop today. Not that I have a clue how to get backstage.

‘A brilliant idea will come to you,’ Mel said last night, after we polished off the last of the Ben & Jerry’s. ‘You just have to relax and let the Universe speak to you.’

I rolled my eyes. Mel’s elective is Yoga.

Still, here I am outside in Bryant Park, staring at the impenetrable white tent, with no better idea. So, I sit. No, I’m not cross-legged in the dirt with my palms facing up on my knees. I’m on a bench, under a tree, summoning the Universe.

‘Susanna here,’ I mutter. ‘Failed fashionista. All ideas welcome.’

I even breach every city rule and shut my eyes for a few minutes. Though, I hold my handbag in a death grip.

‘The Grey Ant show was awesome!’

‘Alice Ritter’s colours are fab!’

‘Badgley Mischka’s silhouettes are to die for!’

The sounds of Fashion Weekers wash over me. I quickly open my eyes to see if a scoop may be walking by, but no such luck. Just more couture clones dishing about the shows.

‘Okay, Universe,’ I mumble, getting back to business. ‘Do your thing. I don’t have all day.’

Actually, I do have all day, but don’t want to spend it sitting here, clueless.

After about ten minutes, with the Universe totally giving me the silent treatment, doubt begins to bubble in my veins. What if I can’t get a scoop? What if the best story I can uncover is that Alice Ritter’s colours are fab? Who is Alice Ritter anyway?

I swallow hard. There has to be some way to get backstage. Think, Susanna! Again, I shut my eyes and grip my bag. Then, I take a deep breath and review my options: my press pass will get me into the tent, but not the shows. I have one fashion show invitation left. The lobby is fun for eavesdropping and people-watching, but not scoop-worthy. Fashion interns block the doors inside the shows, not that they lead anywhere. Guards check for backstage passes inside. Outside, the exterior entrances are harder to crash than Randall Sanders’ location sho—

Suddenly, I gasp.

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