The Love Trap by Nicole French

33

Skylar seemed to have done a good job taming my mother—better than I could. So much that she and I were able to sit together for most of the time I was prepped for the gala. While Freddy styled my hair into the half-up bouffant, Yu-na told me about everything she had done in Boston over the last three months. As the makeup artist worked, I heard about visiting the aquarium and the Freedom Trail, playing mah jongg with Sarah, and entertaining Jenny and Luis. Skylar, it seemed, had lent my mother her own family to help her heal. And apparently it had worked.

“I think we’re done,” Lake said as she fluffed my skirts one last time after the glam squad had finished. She stood and checked her watch. “And not a minute too soon. You’re scheduled as one of the first arrivals, around five thirty. It’s four forty-five now. You guys need to get going.”

It was hard to imagine that it would really take forty-five minutes to cross Central Park, but she was right. The arrival order for the Met Gala was as carefully curated by Cora as the guest list and the seating chart. I was a major donor and also a recognizable face in the city now—not on par with any of the number of Hollywood celebrities who would be there, but definitely worthy of the red carpet.

Lake wasn’t able to attend the actual event, but like many of the other stylists and lower-level designers, she would be available in another part of the museum for touch-ups during the night. Considering every attendee was basically a walking exhibit of each designer’s art, we all needed our own personal curators as well. Mine now included my mother on top of the rest of them. I had promised I would sneak them into the exhibit I’d worked so hard on if at all possible.

“All right,” I announced as I walked back into the living room where Eric was enjoying a cocktail or two with Skylar and Yu-na. “Are we ready?”

“Oh, wow,” Skylar said. “Janey, you look incredible!”

“It’s very nice,” my mother said, which was the best compliment I was likely to get from her. I wasn’t expecting more. After all, this wasn’t exactly the Jessica McClintock knockoffs she had tried to talk me into during high school.

“Thanks,” I said.

Eric stood, and I looked him over approvingly. “Wow. I know I’ve seen you in this before, but I’m still stunned. Lake, this is incredible.”

“Our work is incredible,” Lake agreed as she walked over to brush something off Eric’s jacket.

Eric, however, appeared totally awestruck. “Hot damn, Lefferts. You look…”

I twisted back and forth in my finery and touched my hair self-consciously. Freddy had done a fantastic job with the sixties style, piling it high à la Amy Winehouse, with new red streaks shouting “PUNK!” along with the lush tartan, ripped hem, and spiked shoes.

“You don’t think it’s a little too Tracks?” I asked, referencing the record shop from Pretty in Pink. We had watched it together last night.

He stepped close and pushed a stray fire-engine red lock off my shoulder. “I thought I made it very clear that the record store owner is the hottest one anyway.”

I blushed. Beside us, Lake grinned.

“You look perfect,” she said. “A perfect match.”

Over her shoulder, I caught a glimpse of the two of us in the mirror.

“You hear that, pretty girl?” Eric murmured, his voice rumbling with promise. “A perfect match.”

I had to agree.

* * *

The DVS limopulled up in front of the red carpet—which was actually a deep midnight blue—at exactly five thirty. Tony stepped out of the passenger seat and came around to open the back door for the rest of our security detail, and then us.

“Holy shit,” I murmured as I took in the walls of reporters and photographers, the bright, tented entrance extending down the famous steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the swirl of guests already making their way up the entrance. It was clear by the way the photographers already writhed for a shot that we were some of the first “names” to arrive—and our notoriety didn’t even approach the lineup behind us.

“It’s going to be great,” Eric said as he straightened his collar.

His tone was calm, but I could see he was still nervous, likely more about Carson’s potential presence than having his photo in the paper. He’d been fussing with his clothes since we’d gotten in the car.

“Stop that.” I batted at his hand, which was tugging on his jacket again. “You’re going to stretch it out.”

“My lapel?”

“It’s wool. That’s easily distorted.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then shut it. “Fine, pretty girl. Are you ready?”

I turned back to the cameras, trying not to shiver. “What’s that saying?” The shakes in my voice obviously overrode my attempts at bravado. “‘You’ve arrived’?” I turned to Eric. “It doesn’t get better than this for me. I did it. I’m here. At this level.”

He smiled. “You were already at this level. You just had to wait for the rest of us to catch up with you.”

Lake, who had ridden with us, primped my dress and touched up my lipstick, then took a lint brush to Eric one final time. “All right, loves. You’re perfect. I’ll be in the back with your mother and your friend when you’re done with the red carpet. Now go shine.”

I grasped her hand, unable to give her the hug I really wanted because:

“‘Taffeta, darling,’” Eric murmured.

I grinned at him, then turned back to the designer. “Thank you so much, Lake. For everything.”

Tony opened the door with a friendly smile. I took a deep breath, grabbed Eric’s hand, and stepped out into a barrage of flashing lights.

“Mr. de Vries!”

“Jane!”

“Over here!”

“Who designed your dress?”

I turned to answer the question. “Lake McHugh.”

Several reporters scribbled down the name.

“Why didn’t you tell them it’s you?” Eric asked as we took a few more steps and paused again for pictures. Lord, how in the hell did celebrities do this all the time without sunglasses? I was already seeing stars.

I shrugged. “I—well, Lake really did most of the work. She should get the credit.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Eric replied. “You’ve been working on these clothes nonstop for weeks.”

Behind us, there was a roar from the crowd as someone particularly famous must have exited their car. We were losing interest from reporters, and I did want to make an entrance. For Lake’s sake as a designer.

And, I realized, I wanted my own recognition.

“Jane! Eric!” called another reporter, beckoning us over. This one wore a clear badge from the Post. “Who are you wearing tonight?”

“Do it,” Eric urged.

I took a deep breath. “It’s codesigned. By Lake McHugh…and me.”