45. A Study in Contrast

Don’t. Poke. Your. Eye. 

No matter how many times I wield a mascara wand, I’m still convinced something is going to spook me, and I’ll end up stabbing myself in the eye. It wouldn’t take much. A rogue breeze would probably do it. 

But I really don’t have time for any mascara wand induced medical disasters today. I have about three minutes to finish getting ready, and then it’s off to the Gala. 

With one last stroke, I put the mascara away and straighten, taking in the finished product. The lighting in the Runway restrooms is more flattering than in most dressing rooms, but I can still only hope I don’t end up looking like a clown when the paparazzi flashbulbs go off. 

I feel a little exposed in the delicate silk gown. It’s dove gray, but a subtle turn has it seeming almost gold in the light. Fluid would definitely be the way to describe it, both the feel of the fabric and how it moves like water as I walk. 

Nearly a year of fashion education tells me that a dress like this calls for simplicity. Tiny diamond stud earrings, a slim silver cuff bracelet, and silver strappy sandals. My hair falls in soft waves, pulled to lay over one shoulder. I turn and look over my shoulder to get a view of the back. 

The back ... more like backless. Talk about feeling exposed. There’s nothing interrupting the span of skin from my neck to the low small of my back, except a thin silver chain draping across my shoulder blades. 

Last year’s dress definitely covered a lot more skin. 

A glance at my phone on the counter tells me my three minutes are up. 

Here we go. 

“Hey Lark,” I call out as I make my way back to our desks. “Thanks for handling the phones. You’re good to go now. Miranda will be heading down to the car any minute, anyway.”

“Oh, Andy,” Lark breathes. I glance over, and she’s staring at me wide-eyed, mouth in a perfect ‘oh’ shape. “You look ... wow!”

I flash her a smile while tucking my phone and some other essentials into a matching clutch. 

“Thanks, Lark. Maybe next time it’ll be you playing dress up and rubbing elbows with the glitterati.” 

“Oh that would be so cool! Do you think Miranda would ever do a Broadway theme? I mean, ‘contrast’ is fine, but could you imagine if Idina Menzel were there? Or Cynthia Erivo? Oh my gosh they could sing Defying Gravity together! Do you think they’ll be there tonight? Andy, if they’re there you have to get me their autographs! You have to!” 

Lark’s been creeping closer and closer to me over her monologue, and by the end she’s gripping my shoulders and shaking me. 

“Okay, okay,” I giggle, taking her arms and putting them back at her sides. “If I see them, I’ll do my best to get their autographs. But I’ll be working the whole time, so I can’t make any promises.”

Lark slumps against her desk, looking wistfully at the ceiling. 

“You’re so lucky you get to go. It’s going to be a magical night, I just know it!”

I roll my eyes. “If it’s magical, it’s because I planned everything down to a ‘t’. Really, these things are more about social politics than fairytales.”

Lark just shakes her head, still lost in fantasy land. “It’s definitely going to be magical,” she lets out with a wistful sigh. Then, as if a scene change had just been called, she straightens up and snatches her bag from her desk. Like usual, it’s overflowing. 

“See you tomorrow, Andy! Don’t stay up too late!” 

And with a flounce, she’s gone, leaving me staring after her and shaking my head. 

I go back to organizing my clutch, making sure I have everything I need and can possibly fit in the too-small space. 

“Honestly, Andrea. Themes exist for a reason.”

I look up, fully intending to correct Miranda’s assumption, but the concept of breath escapes me when my eyes collide with all that is her. 

I’ve seen the ensemble in photos, and even snuck a peek of it on the rack, but those are nothing compared to ... this. 

The strapless gown is all structure. A dramatic sweep of folds along the bodice are tucked into a wide, matching belt, and the fabric accentuates every single curve before it hits the floor.  It’s ivory, with a pearlescent sheen. Paired with Miranda’s white hair and pale skin, it should wash her out. Instead, the subtle contrast makes her glow. 

She wears pearl drop earrings and a single statement ring, but her iconic hairstyle is the real accessory. 

Miranda normally acts as though there’s a spotlight shining down on her. Tonight, she simply is the spotlight. 

My eyes finally make their way back to her face to find her smirking at me. 

“I know,” she says, though I still haven’t said anything. I still haven’t even breathed. “What I don’t know is why the person who drafted the invitations seems to have misunderstood them.”

I force myself back into the moment, breathing through my nose instead of gulping for the air I desperately need, and let a smile stretch my face. 

I don’t say a word. I just walk toward her, then past her, into her office and through to her private bathroom. After two weighted moments, the faint clack of heels against marble echoes off the walls. 

She’s curious. Just like my childhood cat. 

I stand in front of the mirror, far enough away in the expansive room to see my ensemble from top to toe. I feel my pupils dilate when I see Miranda appear in the mirror’s reflection. 

My eyes glued to her in the mirror, I watch as she takes slow, careful steps, closing the distance between us until she’s standing mere inches behind me. Her eyes are on my back. 

I can’t hold back a shiver when I feel a delicate finger trace the thin, metal chain between my shoulder blades. 

I wish I had a camera to capture this moment. This - this - is the contrast I was going for when I chose this dress. 

There are certain lines that shouldn’t be crossed, since I’m attending the Gala for work, rather than pleasure. As an assistant, I’m not meant to stand out. But how can I not when the theme is contrast? I wracked my brain for weeks until it finally hit me.

Contrast is in how you stand out from your surroundings. Well, I’ll be at Miranda’s side all night. She is my surroundings, the only thing in my environment that will matter. So I used my meager powers as assistant to the most powerful woman in fashion and publishing to see what she would be wearing, and plan my own outfit accordingly. Studying us together in the mirror, it’s more perfect than I ever imagined. 

Miranda’s structural gown to my fluid one. 

Her glow to my slight shadows in dove gray. 

“Do you see it?” I whisper. 

Miranda’s eyes finally meet mine in the mirror. I lose my breath all over again as that smile, the one every designer in the world covets and works for, spreads slowly across her face. 

“Perfection.”

With that one word, Lark’s prediction comes true: it really is a magical night.