Fashion Crime

“Magnifique! Fabulous! My darlings, my stars, my beautiful shining stars! Today we have made fashion history!” The man with the microphone was Gerardo, creative and stylistic director of the biggest, most glamorous fashion show on Earth. Right now he was addressing his troupe of brave super models at the after show party in a Parisian chateau high in the mountains. Maybe it was the pumping adrenaline, the thrill of a successful show or the copious amounts of cocaine in his system, but Gerardo looked as though he was about to explode with joy, showering blood and cheap champagne over the crowd, which would have been terrible; red was so last year. “Now I want all of you to relax and enjoy the party, this is my treat to you, and thank you all for making this show the huge success it was!”

Music began to play, drinks were distributed and the models dispersed to find their own little cliques. This is what being a model means, this is the lifestyle people dream of, beauty is for no other reason than to wear the latest fashions and to associate with other beautiful people. But one of the models didn’t see it that way, and right now he was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying his best to look moody and sophisticated.
He was known as Devin, because according to his agent, his real name of Richard was far to awful to remember. This was his first major show, up until now he had been doing small photo shoots for unknown magazines in and around the New York area, but he had the kind of cheek bones and intense stare that would eventually take him far. They would take him to Europe to be exact, he had been whisked away for a small part in Gerardo’s latest ‘big thing‘. And now he stood, alone at the after show party.

No one paid him any heed as he looked around. The dance floor was empty; models don’t dance. The buffet tables were untouched; models don’t eat. But the champagne was flowing freely; because alcohol never goes out of style.
At the far wall were several people leaning against it, not one of them were talking , whether through choice or because no one liked them was anyone’s guess, they seemed to be the equivalent of the kids who stand against the wall at high school dances. At the balcony, blonde women with thick accents were surrounded by dark haired men with even thicker accents; for them it was all about who they got to go home with.
Most other were talking loudly in the middle of the room, every other word seemed to be fabulous or darling. Devin lamented his position. He had had the life style thrust upon him, and oh how he hated it.

“Maybe if I make an effort it won’t be so bad.” He thought, so off he went to the nearest crowd to try and join in with their conversation.

A tall and apparently popular woman stood at the centre of a crowd telling a no doubt hilarious anecdote “And so I told him to go fuck himself. Such vulgar language was my last resort, he made it impossible for me to deal with him in any other way. Next time, he’ll regret wearing green clothes.”
“That is so true.” Chimed in the rest of the crowd.
“St.Patricks day all over again!” Shrieked another bystander.
Devin quickly walked on.

The next group he found openly invited him to join in the conversation, which he tried to do.
“Ah a newcomer.” Said one of the men in the group.
“Hi..” Said Devin, somewhat uneasily.
“An American newcomer.” Chorused the women.
“So tell us, have you been cut yet?” Said the man again.
“I cut my finger on some glass a little earlier.” Said a somewhat confused Devin.
“No, I meant plastic surgery. I don’t even know whether you were being ironic or not, be gone.” With that he waved his hand and they resumed their conversation.

One of the female models had been watching Devin with curiosity, so before he could embarrass himself further she hurried over to him, making a lot of noise in the process.

“You there, the hopeless American!” She called “Allow me to be your guide to this party.”