Wait a minute.
What if she's been manipulating me the whole time? Skillfully getting me to talk about myself. Has she been refilling my glass?I don't know. But she definitely showed excessive interest in my story.
Did she only pretend to sympathize with me to achieve her actual goal? What she was after all along: keeping her own secret safe and sound.
The only thing she revealed about herself was that she likes to eat pasta. And that's entirely irrelevant.
Dammit.
I reach into my jacket pocket, where the grissini from the restaurant is still tucked away. My question, which I had worked so hard to formulate yesterday and had completely abandoned throughout the evening. I wrap my fingers around the package, then squeeze. I can hardly hear the cracking sound amid the backstage hustle and bustle, but at least I can feel the breadstick breaking under the pressure of my fist.
Did she use me? And did I let myself be used by her?
The thought hurts in a place it shouldn't even reach.
This is too confusing. If I don't do something about it, my head will explode from all the questions.
With clenched jaws, I reach for my camera and march on. Wherever I find details to photograph, I stop.
At the tailoring table, I catch a conversation.
"Unbelievable that she's back," says the lady with gray-streaked short hair, her glasses nestled within it. She holds a delicate dress, likely made of silk, in her hands.
Her much younger colleague folds up the hem of a shirt and slides miniature scissors under the seam to undo it. "Where was she, actually?"
"No one really knows," the older one replies. She reaches for the iron. "She just disappeared after the show." She turns her attention to the silk dress and gently steams it.
Aha. Another puzzle piece, and the picture is slowly coming together.
Sky sabotaged a show—for whatever reason—and her parents disowned her. Now she's back to take her dying father's place, something he would never allow if he were conscious.
This is heavy stuff.
Could this be the truth I'm searching for?
Lost in thought, I pull out my camera and photograph the two seamstresses at work. Then I pan farther, observing the chaos through the lens. Many of the models sit bored in front of a dressing screen on their chairs. Their hairstyles are adorned with butterflies and flowers, and the dresses cling tightly to their bony bodies.
I press the shutter. Suddenly, Sky emerges from behind the dressing screen. For a fraction of a second, she appears pained, then she lifts her chin and strides through the room on her high heels, as if she considers herself the most important person here.
"Model number ten is missing. Where is she?" she asks the muscle-bound man with the headset, who I noticed earlier with his busy demeanor. He is the backstage coordinator and, from what I've gathered, has the most stressful job here.
He looks up from his clipboard. "She's not here?"
Sky shrugs. "She's definitely not backstage."
"Dammit." He frantically presses the button on his headset. "Uwe. Get me number ten. Right away." He squints. "What do you mean, you've already tried? Shit." Concern fills his voice as he taps his clipboard against his thigh. "And you're telling me now, for heaven's sake?" He yells into the microphone, then immediately folds it up abruptly.
Sky's face has turned the color of bleached newspaper. "What?"
"The model didn't show up for the fitting," he says, touching his forehead and massaging his temples. "Shit," he mutters to himself. "Shit, shit, shit."
"We need a replacement," Sky appears frozen.
"Oh, really? You're a real genius," the muscle guy snaps at her, then signals the designer to come over. "Kahlo, can you step in?"
A troubled expression crosses her face. With everything I now know about her, I must not be deceived by her again.
Yet I can't help but feel sorry for her.