The Movie Read Online Free
Author: Louise Bagshawe
Tags: Literary, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Contemporary Fiction
ins.ult-to
i6
demote-eighteen of the most famous models in the world, in front of the entire fashion media,just so Her Majesty will walk down that catwalk for thirty seconds?’
A fresh burst of perspiration beaded Alton’s neck. Winter was quite correct, of course. These backstage shenanigans would leak down to the hawks sitting out front at the speed of light. She was demanding that Alessandro snub every supermodel alive, in public, in her favour.
‘That’s what I’m telling you,’ he said firmly.
Eight minutes and thirty seconds.
Michael Winter glanced at his watch. Either way they would only just make it. The pressure of the decisitn beat down on the back of his shoulders like a lead weight.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Tell Her Highness she’s got a deal.’
lapt, the audience, the cream of the glitterati, stared hopefully at the empty stage. Notebooks were covered in scrawls thick with underlining and multiple exclamation marks. The T-shirt dresses, sculptured bodices and flowing coats in waterproof silk had all been sensations. The swimwear line added a whole new dimension to thigh lines, and he’d come up with some amazing bias-cutting in the evening gowns that turned the demurest walk into a lilting dance, the tiniest movement setting off a tide of motion in the skirts. But that was hardly the point…
It was the reams of fdm their photographers had shot that sent moist twitches between the fashion editors’ legs. That was what would sell magazines; the show as event, Alessandro as king of babe city. Kate in a strawberry satin dress that was really a T-shirt with pretensions. Goddess like Cindy in a simple black swimsuit that would make every woman who saw it join a gym the next day. Jerry’s blonde cascade tumbling around a severe tailored pantsuit. Yasmin, regal and aloof in a full evening gown with a crinoline skirt. Awesome! No other word for it.
I7
And now the finale…
The room was thick with the sound of held breath, the photographers nervously jockeying for position. Every supermodel in the world had graced .this show - with one exception. As each song shiiied pace, as each new set of outfits debuted on the catwalk, they had expected to see her. But nothing.
Surely now would be the moment. With mounting excitement, the eagle eyes ofthejoumos were trained on the black-curtained entrance to the runway, their talom scenting blood. She had triumphed yet again. God knew how, but somehow Unique had swung it. Their mega client would appear only in the grand finale, setting herself, by definition, in a class of her own, outranking every ‘supermodel in the world. Perhaps she would lead all the models out, or was that expecting too much? When all that female loveliness poured out together onto Alessandro Eco’s catwalk, would she slip in with the others? Or would she try some new trick, some little fillip, that would
‘sppntaneously’ catch the eye of every camera in the place? The Leeward Hall shivered in anticipation.
There was a slight rustle of velvet at the side of the stage
and Alessandro Eco, his aristocratic face reflecting nothing but the profoundest calm, stepped forward to a microphone, holding up one imperious hand in silence before the room could explode into applause.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it has been great honour for the House of Alessandro Eco to present our collection for you tonight. For your attendance and patience, I thank you.’ He gave a courtly bow. ‘As you may know, I have, since I was a boy, cherished the dream of one day being like the great masters - Balenciaga, Dior, Chanel - who in our modem age paid the beauty of woman the homage it deserves, a homage I attempt, all my life, to pay. The moment of greatest loveliness for woman is surely the day
8
of her wedding, and traditionally the couturiers present last the wedding dress, a tradition I am proud to continue.’
The spotlight on the designer faded gently away, and one by one the
i6
demote-eighteen of the most famous models in the world, in front of the entire fashion media,just so Her Majesty will walk down that catwalk for thirty seconds?’
A fresh burst of perspiration beaded Alton’s neck. Winter was quite correct, of course. These backstage shenanigans would leak down to the hawks sitting out front at the speed of light. She was demanding that Alessandro snub every supermodel alive, in public, in her favour.
‘That’s what I’m telling you,’ he said firmly.
Eight minutes and thirty seconds.
Michael Winter glanced at his watch. Either way they would only just make it. The pressure of the decisitn beat down on the back of his shoulders like a lead weight.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Tell Her Highness she’s got a deal.’
lapt, the audience, the cream of the glitterati, stared hopefully at the empty stage. Notebooks were covered in scrawls thick with underlining and multiple exclamation marks. The T-shirt dresses, sculptured bodices and flowing coats in waterproof silk had all been sensations. The swimwear line added a whole new dimension to thigh lines, and he’d come up with some amazing bias-cutting in the evening gowns that turned the demurest walk into a lilting dance, the tiniest movement setting off a tide of motion in the skirts. But that was hardly the point…
It was the reams of fdm their photographers had shot that sent moist twitches between the fashion editors’ legs. That was what would sell magazines; the show as event, Alessandro as king of babe city. Kate in a strawberry satin dress that was really a T-shirt with pretensions. Goddess like Cindy in a simple black swimsuit that would make every woman who saw it join a gym the next day. Jerry’s blonde cascade tumbling around a severe tailored pantsuit. Yasmin, regal and aloof in a full evening gown with a crinoline skirt. Awesome! No other word for it.
I7
And now the finale…
The room was thick with the sound of held breath, the photographers nervously jockeying for position. Every supermodel in the world had graced .this show - with one exception. As each song shiiied pace, as each new set of outfits debuted on the catwalk, they had expected to see her. But nothing.
Surely now would be the moment. With mounting excitement, the eagle eyes ofthejoumos were trained on the black-curtained entrance to the runway, their talom scenting blood. She had triumphed yet again. God knew how, but somehow Unique had swung it. Their mega client would appear only in the grand finale, setting herself, by definition, in a class of her own, outranking every ‘supermodel in the world. Perhaps she would lead all the models out, or was that expecting too much? When all that female loveliness poured out together onto Alessandro Eco’s catwalk, would she slip in with the others? Or would she try some new trick, some little fillip, that would
‘sppntaneously’ catch the eye of every camera in the place? The Leeward Hall shivered in anticipation.
There was a slight rustle of velvet at the side of the stage
and Alessandro Eco, his aristocratic face reflecting nothing but the profoundest calm, stepped forward to a microphone, holding up one imperious hand in silence before the room could explode into applause.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it has been great honour for the House of Alessandro Eco to present our collection for you tonight. For your attendance and patience, I thank you.’ He gave a courtly bow. ‘As you may know, I have, since I was a boy, cherished the dream of one day being like the great masters - Balenciaga, Dior, Chanel - who in our modem age paid the beauty of woman the homage it deserves, a homage I attempt, all my life, to pay. The moment of greatest loveliness for woman is surely the day
8
of her wedding, and traditionally the couturiers present last the wedding dress, a tradition I am proud to continue.’
The spotlight on the designer faded gently away, and one by one the
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