Fashion's Princess

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I was incredibly late to the Temperley London show. Alice Temperley, the designer, hurriedly shooed me over to a makeup artist once I finished putting on my evening gown.

"Gosh, Skyler. I wasn't even going to cast you because you're too famous. And now you dare show up late?" She asked, fussing all over my bracelets and ruffles.

"Too famous?" I almost turned around to give her an are-you-serious look but the makeup artist forced my head forward again.

"Yes, yes. You're too famous. You should know by now why Betsey Johnson doesn't let you walk anymore." She clucked, her British accent working up a frenzy of almost incomprehensible words.

"Go on. That girl's the last one and she's just about to go on." She said, pushing me to the opening.

"No hands, right?" I shouted over the music and she nodded fiercely, turning around to line the newbie models up.

"No way, Skyler Chase! I've always wanted to be like her!" Two models whispered and I flashed them a grin.

They waved back and the girl Alice mentioned earlier set out to walk the runway. I counted to 6 since most girls only took that long and I entered.

The light was blinding and as usual, I narrowed my eyes to an almost squint. My runway look composed of slightly narrowed eyes, a tilted head, and a sway.

Little did the industry know that the narrowed eyes was that I wouldn't become blind and my tilted head was to minimalize the amount of light I was taking in.

Journalists hurriedly wrote about my form. What was wrong with it, how it was fabulous, and how my attitude was the best part of my walk. I don't even know. I only read tabloids about me once ever since my own father would deliver them to my doorstop. He still does and will probably never stop, but I instructed the mailman to just toss the rubbish.

Rubbish? I've spent too much time in London already.

Now the cameras were picking up my slightly perplexed look. I quickly rearranged it into an expression of I'm better than you but come talk to me.

I paused for a second then walked back. Now that I was free of the cameras, I let my mind wander. What would Jay think of my way of making a living? Or rather, my way of making millions? Would be feel incompetent? My fancy, fancy paycheck of 8 million a year since I hit fame when I was 16, would it scare him?

I shook my head lightly. Partly to rid my thoughts and another to get rid of all the glitter they had put in my hair.

I took my place last in line. I didn't take any offense in that. The most important models were at the beginning and end. It was an honor, actually. And plus, I was paid over 300 euros to take each step on the runway.

I followed the girls, walking in a straight line. Each one of us paused half a second at the end to let the journalists and camera people see one last bit of our outfits.

The girl ahead of me took especially long. Thankfully, I was the last model so no pileup would occur behind me. It was the same girl who had talked about how she wanted to be like me.

Well, it's certainly not going to happen if you hold up a line. I thought haughtily then remembered she was probably still trying to create her own look.

Then, with my new good nature, I added, especially when it's me. I dared to let a small smile grace my lips. Only a quick flick of the corners, but nonetheless. It was still a smile and the audience ate it up.