Margot had long grown accustomed to

Margot had long grown accustomed to the high drama of the fashion world. She’d worked at shows where the audience was kept sitting and waiting for hours because behind the curtain the designer was in the midst of a total meltdown, suddenly doubting the worth of his or her collection. Were the clothes truly sublime, or would every stitch and painstakingly chosen fabric get trashed in the next edition of W? The crisis of confidence could spread like a contagion until even the lowliest of assistants was running around, frantically adjusting hemlines and switching scarves and belts in a last-ditch effort to save the show.
Working on set or on location wasn’t any easier. A shoot might drag on insanely because the photographer was dissatisfied; anything could be blamed for spoiling the shoot—the location, the models, the quality of the light. Then there were the stylists, the fashion editors, and other ordinarily sane people who walked onto the set and suddenly started acting like drama queens pumped full of amphetamines. Catastrophes and temper tantrums were the norm. It was no wonder why. Sequestering too many artistic, driven, and egotistical personalities together for a five-or six-hour period provided ample time for boredom, jealousy, and petty rivalry to ferment. Add some puffed-up VP or ad executive constantly shouting “Come on, people, time is money!” and things got ugly fast.
That was why Margot loved working with Charlie. Even behind the camera lens, Charlie was Charlie. Strangely enough, his relaxed, California surfer-dude charm could work magic on the most uptight of ad execs and fashion editors.
Thanks to Anika and the orange bullet, Margot arrived at his Chelsea studio a full fifteen minutes early. Even so, the enormous light-filled loft was already abuzz with activity.
Palin, Charlie’s favorite stylist, spotted her first. Trotting over, he enfolded her in a hug. “Hello, doll. It’s so good to see you.”
“Hi, Palin. What’s playing today?” An iTunes fiend, Palin loved compiling playlists and sharing them with friends. Margot’s iPod held many of his “sound tracks to life.”
“You’re going to love it. It’s got a little Diana, some Roxy Music, Bowie, Costello, The Cure, Seal.”
“Can’t wait to hear it. Is Kristin working on the shoot, too?”
“No. Charlie asked for her, but Dior’s using their own makeup artist. His name’s Deckert.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But all of us are calling him dickhead. He’s already started bitching from a to z.”
“Already? That’s rich.”
“He’s quite the prima donna. Want to meet the big D?” Palin asked, wagging his brows over his rectangular-framed glasses. “He’s over there, boring Evan and Keisha to death.”
Margot glanced toward the other end of the studio. Evan and Keisha, Charlie’s assistants, were doing a color check for the set they’d constructed, an opulent bedroom scene. A middle-aged guy, copycatting Karl Lagerfeld in a white T-shirt, leather pants, straggly ponytail, and dark glasses, was talking to them.
“Tempting, but no. I need to say hi to Charlie.” She looked around the studio but didn’t spot his shaggy blond head. “Where is he?”
“He’s in the dressing room, going over the wardrobe picks with the ad director and the wardrobe consultant. Oh, and did I mention that you’ve got competition? Our pal Deckert’s got a big hunk of burning love for Charlie.” His grin was pure wickedness.
“Oh, great,” Margot said with a roll of her eyes. “This is going to be really fun.”