When you're a man, and the toothless fairy allows you three wishes, it's easy: you want to play darts against Phil Taylor (16 times champion of the world, most successful sportsman ever, and in the top 10 of friendliest people I've met), you want to have the best night out in the universe: invite Whoopi Goldberg for an Australian seven-course dinner (a six-pack of beer and a frozen pizza; every man loves pizza and beer, and everybody loves Whoopi), and male's most wanted wish is to score the winning goal in the Champions League final. Men have simple desires. I've already completed two out of three.
Women have a similar list: they want to go shopping with Beyoncé, they want dinner and dance with Antonio Banderas, and their number one desire is to wear the most expensive dress at the closing ceremony of the Spanish Fashion Week. Shopping with Beyoncé was beyond budget; Antonio Banderas is our next stop; that leaves Chelsea on the catwalk during the Champions League Final of super-modelling.
"Morituri te salutant. Those about to rock salute you. Are you prepared for this, Chelsea? This is not going to be a walk in the park, you know."
"Oh, Arse, don't be so dramatic. I take twenty steps forward, turn around, and walk back again. The audience is all High Society ladies; they won't eat me."
"I wasn't thinking about the audience. The most dangerous predator in the world is not the lion. The lion sleeps tonight and most of the day. The lethal hunting is work for His Manesty's wives, the lionesses. They are swift, ruthless, lethal, and mean like no other. A male lion strikes to kill: quick and clean. The lioness isn't so merciful; she prefers to play with her prey. She lets the poor rabbit suffer to see how much it can handle. A pride, which is the name for a family of lions, is even nicer to watch: the lionesses fight each other constantly to be the number one. Why do you think they call it a «catwalk»? The top models who walk it are the Lion Queens of the Jungle of human society. Don't make the mistake of thinking they'll welcome a young kitten like you without a fight. They've worked too hard to get there: each one of them started living on a water-and-lettuce diet from the day she was born, she has Botoxed herself since her first day at High School, and she has invested more millions in operations than the LSD, the CIA and the KGB together. How will she feel when you enter to take the place of honour and the most expensive dress? The moment you open the door of that dressing room, you're dead meat."
Chelsea isn't afraid. She shows me her biceps: "Do you see this? It's all muscle, baby. When I eat seven skinny models like them for breakfast, I'll be hungry again before lunchtime."
"You're not fighting Hulk Hogan. We're talking about women here. They fight mean, with words. They hit you under the chastity belt with ladyshave-sharp remarks, as often and as hard as they can. How are you going to handle that? This time, you can't get away with calling your daddy. This time, you're on your own. You're one against a crowd. There ain't no time for doubt. It won't help if you shout. You have to work it out."
Chelsea understands the problem. She's smart: "I guess you're right. I mean… You're my friend now, aren't you? I'm not completely on my own. You're around to cover my back, don't you? I trust you to have a plan for this. What do you suggest?"
Wow. I'm impressed. Is this the same girl I met this morning? She used to shout orders to me, her slave, and now she's asking me for advice? I always thought people don't change; I like it I was wrong.
"The best defence against words is: don't respond. Don't say a word. Just smile. It's just air. Let it blow. Wind can't hurt you. You are Chelsea. You are high above those top models. Your emerald green eyes are your major quality in beauty, but your precious smile is also a powerful weapon. Under every circumstance: maintain your unbreakable curved line of defence. Smile with style. Don't attack. When you attack, they will join forces and outnumber you. Defend yourself with your natural superiority. Take the blows, one by one. When their hate doesn't have any effect on you, they'll give up soon enough."
I should do better than this. I've only known Chelsea since this morning, but I know her well enough to visualise her when seven women start picking on her: perhaps she can swallow one insult, she might do her best and bite herself through a second one, but she'll turn red on the third, purple on the fourth, her body language will amuse those felines, her clenched fists will inspire them to go on, all the way until Chelsea explodes and starts to throw mud. She's not here to enter the arena for some good old mud wrestling. We don't have time to kill. We're here to have a good time.
Model…
Role model…
Chelsea wants to be an actress too.
That's a good idea.
I ask: "Have you seen the film «Spy» (2015)?"
Chelsea doesn't understand: "With Melissa McCarthy, Jude Law, and Jason Statham? Of course. That's the most hilarious movie ever. Melissa deserved an Oscar for her performance."
I knew it. People like stories in which they identify with the main character. I can't hide a little smile. What a brilliant idea. This will work. I can feel it. It's like predicting the end of a cheap work of fiction after reading the foreshadowing prose in the first chapter. Knowing exactly what will happen, being under control, living without doubts and fears, is a wonderful feeling for everyone, but even better when you're a spy who was about to blow his world-saving mission.
"I know you want to be an actress. Imagine this is your final casting. You know I'm a spy. From now on, you're a spy too. We're a team. Do you remember that scene where Melissa McCarthy dresses up as Penny Morgan to go to the casino? That's you. Dressed to kill. Confident. Radiant. Superior."
Chelsea remembers the scene I referred to: "Yeah. That's me. Penny Morgan. Amber Valentine. Melissa is fantastic in that scene, isn't she?"
"And you're going to be even better. It's acting. I know you. You can do this. All you have to do is be the character. You don't care about what others say. You're a spy. It's an act. They aren't insulting you. They are insulting the character you play. It's nothing personal. It's just business. You can handle that. Can you?"
Chelsea takes her time to think it over. Finally, she decides: "At least, I can try it at the start. If it doesn't work, I can still hammer their teeth out with my right fist."
* * *
"Look at that!" - "It's Melissa McCarthy." - "Hi, Melissa." - "Are you shooting your new film here?" - "Why did you take that midget with you?" - "Where are Jason Statham and Jude Law?" - "This film will even be better than «Spy»." - "What's the title?" - "America's Next Top Model?" - "Are we in it too?"
Chelsea plays her part perfectly. She's so into her role that all the hardly-in-others-interested top models mistake her entrance for a meet-and-greet with a famous film star.
"Hello, girls. I'm not Melissa. I'm Chelsea, and I'm here to show the white dress today."
Spontaneous laughter follows Chelsea on her route to the other side of the dressing room, where she disappears behind a screen to change into the dress she'll have to show on the catwalk.
From my place next to the door, I scan the environment. The actual dressing room is at the back, where a screen hides half-naked female bodies from curious male eyes. This front part is for painting faces and combing manes, with chairs facing lightbulb mirrors on both walls. There are eleven women on the battlefield: two make-up artists, one hair-dresser, one manager, plus the seven models, already in combat dress, working on their make-up and finishing the latest hairy details.
Lowest in rank is the Indian Bengal tiger from England, in an orange dress, covered with a thousand little bronze teardrops.
Next to her, we see the jaguar from Turkey, whose ancestors lived in the Far East, dressed in purple, and covered with a thousand little silver leaves.
One step above her, we see a Russian snow puma with big Slavic eyes. Her dress is yellow, and it's covered with a thousand little gold stars.
Next in line is the Arab leopard with the Spanish nationality, wearing a spectacular green dress that's covered with a thousand little jade stones.
She's outranked by the Italian wild mountain cat, with her black hair and olive skin, who's wearing a red dress that's covered with a thousand little rubies.
The black panther from France stands out in the blue dress, covered with a thousand little pearls.
And the leading lady of the pack is the platinum blond Caucasian German lioness who's wearing the black dress, covered with a thousand little platinum credit cards.
Seven wild cats watch me with suspicion. I'm not armed. I can't run away. All I can do is stay calm, look away, and attract as little attention as possible. It takes Chelsea five minutes to change, but it feels like five hours. I'm relieved when she comes back, dressed in a white dress, covered with roughly 5.000 diamonds: "How do I look?"
Nancy, the floor manager, puts her hands before her mouth to hide her joy: "You look amazing, dear. Are you sure you can do this?"
The seven other models suddenly realise that this is no film, and no joke either: "You can't be serious, Nancy." - "Look at her. She's a rubber little monster." - "She's slicker than a weasel." - "She's grimy as an alley." - "The white dress, the most exclusive dress of the century, will be shown by a troll from Mordor?"
Nancy bites back: "She's not a troll. She's a model, just like you, and she happens to have the right size for the dress. Do you think it fits you better?"
Ruby gets nasty. She snaps at Chelsea: "Do you know how many former presidents of European countries I had to sleep with to get here? Who did you rape? Because I don't believe any man wants to have sex with you voluntarily."
Miss Bronze adds a little firewood to the stake on which they want to burn the witch: "Don't underestimate men, Ruby. I can tell you stories… It's probably a money issue. How much did she pay you, Nancy?"
Miss Pearl snarls: "Was it worth more than all the bad publicity? This show will be live on TV in 123 countries. Over a billion people will see this. What will the press say?"
Miss Platinum goes on strike: "If she's in the show, I'm out."
Nancy is not impressed. She has her orders, and they come straight from the office of the Luxembourg Prime Minister: "If you're out of this show, you're out of this business too, dear. You have a contract."
The temperature in the room suddenly drops to the perfect habitat of deep-frozen pizza. Two powerful women watch each other, look each other in the eye, circle around each other, looking for a weak spot and a deadly attack. Nancy keeps the upper hand, in which she holds a signed piece of paper. Miss Platinum backs off. For the moment. Retreat is no defeat.
Meanwhile, the two make-up artists and the hairdresser concentrate on the Chelsea project: "You can't sit down with that dress, dear. The diamonds will fall off. Close your eyes, please. I have to work on your eyelashes." - "What a pleasure that we're the same height; this way I don't have to use the steps, I can just walk around you." - "I'm afraid we can't bake 'n' cake you like we did with the other models, dear. We don't have enough putty to hide all your freckles and acne, so we leave it like it is. Natural beauty." - "This barbed wire isn't strong enough to hold your hair in a bun. If you don't mind, we let it all stand out like Mother Nature gave it to you, like the golden manes of the Lion Queen of the Jungle." - "I don't have time to pluck and pull all those hairs to separate your eyebrows, so we go 'unibrow', the bridge that brings your emerald eyes together, like two lovers, impossible to separate."
After the failing attack on the floor manager, the feline family circles an easier prey: Chelsea. They feel horrible. Beauty is a backstage pass to the world, especially for women. When I was five, my mother used to show me pictures of those well-dressed skeletons, with their tanned skins stretched to snapping point over their skulls, and she warned me: "That's what happens to you if you don't eat everything on your plate." But if you're a model yourself, you don't think like that. You run with the herd. You suffer and sacrifice to become like the models that form your role models. They teach you that women are each other's competition, fighting each other like males to reach the top. Modelling is veeeery haaaard wooork, you know. All their lives, these seven women have made every possible sidestep on the road to perfection, on a rat race to become the fairest of them all. And now, suddenly, this young and natural Snow White shows up. She breaks Stepmother's mirror with her new definition of «beauty is what we're born with» and shatters the firm belief in all the lies about artificial body art, invented by a trillion-dollar industry. Chelsea's dress, decorated with shiny pieces of broken glass, is all that's left of the broken dream of these seven women. They hate her. They won't give up without a fight.
Miss Gold growls: "I don't believe this. A model has to be slim and tall."
Chelsea stays calm, relaxed, even amused, and defends herself with style: "Duh. Maybe they want to sell this dress. Not one lady in the audience has your size, but three out of four of the other women in this room are as beautiful as I am."
The hairdresser and the two make-up girls give Chelsea a warm smile for this unexpected compliment.
That was the signal to open fire: "Beautiful? You?" - "You are hideous." - "You don't even have a tan, like you never have time to go to the beach." - "Yeah, you're pale as a nerd. All the light you see comes from the monitor of your game computer." - "You are the ugliest girl I've ever seen in my life." - "The only model you'd be asked for is «Zombie Killer VI, the antagonist»." - "Look at yourself, no, better don't look at yourself; the mirror might crack." - "Where did you find a hairdresser who painted your hair orange? He must be Dutch and a fan of their national football team." - "What are all those ugly spots on your face and arms? Is that a disease? Is it contagious?"
"She has steel nerves. Those spots are the rusty ends." I bite my tongue. Too late. I've lost my own nerves, with those awful women saying all these horrible things about Chelsea. She doesn't deserve such unfair treatment. But I forgot my own lessons. I fell into the trap. Too late.
"Oh, look. Prince Charming has risen from the dead." - "Miss Round Zero brought a knight to defend her." - "Are you the prince whose kiss brought Snow White back from the grave?" - "I told you: she's a zombie."
I try to stay calm. I try to defend Chelsea, repelling the blunt attacks with a sharp answer: "If she's Snow White, then you must be the seven dwarves. Let's see. Strange. No Happy. No Doc. And certainly no Bashful. It's all Grumpies and Dopeys here."
Chelsea notices I'm ruining it all. She puts her hand on my arm, looks me into the eyes and says in a low voice: "Arse. Please… Don't."
The feline family is now unchained: "Arse?" - "She's the kinda girl that only looks at a man's butt." - "I also look at his behind. That's where he keeps his wallet." - "Oh, shut up, Ruby." - "He's not her knight. He's her lover." - "He must be the one who got her into this show." - "Sex for glory." - "Some men will do anything for sex." - "Not a surprise he's with her. He can't get anything better." - "If all the men in the world were like him, I'd stay a virgin forever." - "They say a good man is hard to find." - "Love makes blind, dear." - "Cheap girls take everything that's on offer."
This starts running out of hand. Chelsea so far ignored all the insults at her address, but now these bitches attack me, her friend. She drops out of her role and snaps back: "You don't know him or you wouldn't speak like that. He's art. You're artificial. Genuine beauty shows on the inside."
"Well, peel him, dear, because his outside scares us all."
Nancy, the floor manager, has heard enough: "And NOW you all SHUT UP! We go on stage in less than two minutes! Remember: you all get PAID for this. That means you're PROFESSIONALS! And I want professional behaviour from now on. I want smiles and positive attitudes. We're here to show the most expensive and exclusive dresses of the year. I order you all: ache-a pee-pee why."
Chelsea isn't a professional: "Pee first? I hope not. I can't do that without taking this dress off. How much time do I have to win this pissing contest?"
"Sixty seconds", says a head from behind the door.
I leave the kittens in the motherly hands of Nancy and hurry to my place between the spectators, at the head of the catwalk. I take my spiPhone out of my breast pocket (I don't want the camera to grab the back of the head of the people in front of me) and hold it up to get the best shot.
This is the moment.
Chelsea will make her first steps on the catwalk.
Everything will work out fine.
What can go wrong?
It's a walk in the park.
* * *
"Ladyyyyyyys and Gentleman…"
I look around. The speaker's right: I'm the only man between five hundred distinguished High Society ladies.
"It's been a long time, it's been a long season, it's been a long year, but the finest moment is finally here, the moment we've all been waiting for, the closing ceremony of the Spanish Fashion Week, where Europe's most famous models will show us the winning creations for next year. I know you're all anxious, you can't wait, all that money is doing nothing in your purses, your fingers itch to spend it, but don't worry, here's your chance, and you know: money has to rock 'n' roll."
All the distinguished ladies around me wave their credit cards and speak, together, like some mystical ritual prayer, the holy words: "No stress and no less, I dress for success. I have the skills to pay the bills. I join the show and spend the dough. Rock 'n' roll, baby!"
The speaker announces the first model: "Our first model, in the amber dress, comes from the city of Manchester. Her sizes are Double 18 - Single 18 - Double 18, which give her a total of 90 points and a 40 million outfit: Bronze Beauty."
The English model enters through the curtain, walks the catwalk with a haughty look, and takes her place in the line-up, a few metres from the end, in the middle of the audience. The distinguished lady next to me whispers: "How beautiful. I want that dress…"
"Our next model is vulnerable as priceless China, light as a lotus leave, and dressed in pure purple from Istanbul. Her Triple 11 - Double 11 - Double 18 numbers give her a total of 91 points in a 57,5 million euro skirt: Silver Signal."
The Near East purple puppet with the Far East roots paces the strip with a stern face and stops just before her amber colleague. The lady next to me, purblind with envy, heaves: "Oh, how much do I want that dress."
"All the way from Saint Petersburg comes this stunning star in the gold dress. Triple 12 - Single 20 - Double 18 are her credits, which gives her a total of 92 points in an 84,5 million euro uniform: Golden Grace."
The feline Steppenwolf marches her twenty metres with an annoyed look and places herself just before the other two medalists. The lady at my side stares with stars in her eyes, while she sighs: "I want that dress. I want it so much."
"And now, the pride of our nation, wearing the green of Andalucía, born and raised here in Sevilla, but transferred to Madrid for a dress of nothing less than 100 million euros, sizes Double 15 - Double 12 - Triple 13, which give her the fine total of 93 points: Jackpot Jade!"
The green girl enters the spotlights, paces towards her place right before the other three with an arrogant look that takes professional models decades to learn. The jabberer at my side growls: "Oh, look at that, look at that! I want that dress. I want it!"
"A special welcome for this old lady in red from Turin, presenting the Italian fashion. Six times in a row national champion, thanks to her Double 16 - Triple 8 - Double 19, that make an incredible total of 94 points in a 105 million euros costing creation: Ruthless Ruby!"
The stunning Italian stamps her twenty metres with an unmistakable angry look at her pretty face, not even glancing at her four cute colleagues when she takes her place as their temporary leader. The lady next to me is getting rude: "I must have that dress. If she doesn't sell it to me, I'll tear it off her frame!"
"Black is beautiful. In this amazing navy-blue dress, covered with one thousand pearls from the island of Martinique, representing France, all the way from Paris, with her sizes of Double 15 - Single Bull - Tops, making the unbelievable total of 95 points in a 180 million worth of robe… Please welcome: The Black Pearl of the Caribbean!"
Hate lies in her dark eyes when she smoothly slides her seventeen steps towards the end of the line, where she takes her position, hands on her hips and blood on her lips. The lady next to me is outside herself: "Look at her. I want to be like that. I want that dress. I want it, I want it, I want it!"
The speaker continues: "All the way from FC Hollywood, München, in the black dress with the sizes Double 18 - Double 12 - Double 18, with the amazing total of 96 points, covered with one thousand platinum credit cards, worth TWO! HUNDRED! AND! TWENTY! TWO! MILLION! EUROS! Please welcome her with stormy applause: Platinum Priceless!"
Models always have an attitude. They walk around like they're the most beautiful women on the planet, not with a satisfied smile but with an arrogant feeling of superiority that makes me wonder. Not this German girl. Her smile has transformed into an outrageous growl of rabies. Accompanied by five hundred stamping feet in the audience, she marches to the end of the catwalk where she takes a stand, arms crossed under her breast, one leg slightly before the other, hipbone in attack-mode, prepared for what comes next. The lady next to me can't hold herself together anymore. I have to hold her back to stop her from jumping on stage while she shouts: "I want that dress. My precious. MY PRECIOUS!"
And then: silence.
You can hear an earring fall.
The lights dim, except for one laser beam spotlight that fires everything to the curtain.
The speaker takes a deep breath and announces the moment we've all been waiting for: "And last, but certainly not least, sizes: Triple 20 - Triple 20 - Triple 20… One hundred and EIGHTTTTYYYY… in the snow-white dress, covered with five thousand genuine diamonds, the record-breaking, history-making, breath-taking, SIXTEEN times CHAMPION OF THE WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORLD…. With a price tag of ONE. BILLION. DOLLAR. From!
There she comes. She dazzles. She's a champion. Dressed to kill for. The world lies at her feet. She's confident. She's strong. She shines like no other star, thanks to the spotlights and the diamonds on her dress. She has no arrogant look, no cross indifference, no anger or hate in her eyes. It's triumph. There can only be one. THE most unique. She walks the catwalk like Snow White on her wedding day, towards the honorary hedgerow, formed by the seven dwarves in their (like it seems) low priced outfits, fit to work the mines but not good enough to stand in the shadows of this radiant new role model that conquers the world and means to stay…
It's good to be the queen.
There's only one tiny little problem.
When you walk with your nose in the air, you can't see what's under your feet.
Chelsea isn't interested in what's under her feet.
She walks on clouds.
But then she steps on the pearl earring that Miss Black Pearl dropped during that brief moment of silence.
The results are predictable: you climb high, you fall low.
This isn't some foreshadowing from a cheap fiction writer. This is pure science. Everybody who's studied physics and math can foresee what will happen here: Chelsea's confident stride gives her sufficient forward speed; her weight-mass X that speed = one outrageous amount of white energy; the step on the pearl leads to a leg going up and the rest of the balance going down, fast, with the momentum of a lever; rolling on 5.000 diamond rocks, her resistance is close to nothing; her 180 round figure works as a bowling ball on a catwalk alley, and the seven models in line don't stand any chance at all: it's a strike, worth one billion dollars plus far too many millions of euros.
Chelsea's fall sweeps the catwalk clean. A whirl of skinny arms and too long legs disappears into the audience. I almost close my eyes (I know, I'm grabbing this complete mess from a one-metre distance with my spiPhone, so I can always look back at it later), but I can't, I'm working, I have to pay attention, I have to try to save Chelsea from the brawl of fighting, biting cats in front of me. Miss Bronze hits Miss Jade on her head with the high heel of her shoe. Miss Gold claws her long nails into the pretty blue eyes of Miss Platinum. Miss Ruby hammers Miss Pearl on the head with her fist, while Miss Pearl hits Miss Silver on the nose with her elbow. Chelsea is somewhere under them. I hear her scream: "If I'm too rough, tell me. I'm so scared your little head will come off in my hand. When I eat seven models like you for breakfast, I'm too hungry to wait for lunch." Now I see her head, biting a none-identified white bone in the calf: "The first one to reach seven sets wins. This leg is mine…" - "AAGH!" It's the leg of Miss Silver. She kicks Chelsea on the nose with her other foot and manages to escape her Kentucky Fried Chicken-leg fast food fate. But when eight models are fighting for a skinny bone, the audience can only follow the role models' examples of behaviour: all the distinguished ladies throw themselves into the scrimmage, hoping for a souvenir or perhaps even a prize to take home. The bronze teardrops, the silver leaves, the gold stars, the jade, the rubies, the pearls and the precious platinum credit cards all lose contact with their original design and disappear mysteriously. The five thousand tiny diamonds from Chelsea's dress once again show that they are a girl's best friend; their bond of friendship with the greedy customers is much stronger than the little threads that connected them with the white fabric of the dress. The blood-thirsty crowd isn't satisfied after stoning the victims: they don't stop until each of the expensive dresses has been torn into rags and pieces. This is what happens when the masses look at all those million-dollar babies without having the possibility of finding themselves a decent job against minimum wage: they skin the top models alive now they have the chance, they want to be like them, follow the example, get everything they can, grabbing, robbing and stealing, while nobody cares about the consequences.
This is high-quality entertainment. This child's play is exactly what growing-up teenagers like Chelsea need. Like her, I'm also from the one-child generation, growing up without brothers and sisters to fight with and make up later, when we find out that we need each other more than we hate each other. Cute family quarrels in the pride of lionesses will leave their marks on each other's face, as scarry tools of education. I like to watch how those little pussies grow up by playing and learning together. Learning is important when you're young. And above all, learning is fun. I can't remember the last time I had so much fun as I'm having now, watching this female mud-fight from the centre of the arena.
When a ninety-year-old lady bites me in the bum, I wake up from my daydream nightmare: I'm not here to entertain myself; I'm here with a mission. My mission is down there, suffering, hurt, badly injured, perhaps dead already, and I'm responsible for her safety. I have to act. But I can't just go in like Jason Statham in a Chinese white-wash money laundry, hitting butts and kicking nuts, because each of these women will sue me immediately for indecent behaviour. I can't behave like an American President here, grabbing pussies and pinching bottoms. But I have to do something, and I have to do it fast, or Chelsea will not survive.
"Pardon, ma'am. Sorry, Miss. Please, can you be so kind and let me pass? Excuse me. Thank you very much. It was a pleasure to meet you."
One by one, I grab the women on the ground by the collar of their exclusive dress, lift them up, then throw them behind me, like Cinderella, looking for that one special pair of shoes in the two-metre-high pile in front of her. Digging like a dwarf minor, I work my way down the mountain of Doom to where I expect to find the precious treasure I'm after: "Chelsea! Where are you?"
"I'm here."
I look behind me, just in time to see twelve hysterical women attack me at the same time, the harem of Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded, twelve veiled ghosts that are after my heart, one hundred and twenty razor-sharp blood-red nails aiming at the light in my eyes. I know a good man is hard to find, but now I understand why: if you treat a man like this… I'm paralysed. I'm lost. I'm dead. But right at that moment, a short, stout figure in a stunning white dress climbs on the backs of the women I carefully selected from the pile of brawling brats. With one blow of her furious fist, she sends the twelve crazy Cleopatras back to ancient history: "Don't worry, Arse. I've got your back."
"Chelsea! I'm so glad to see you. You look gorgeous in that dress, dear. Calling you «a complete knock-out» would be the understatement of the century."
"I didn't attack anyone, you know. I just defended myself. But when those Mona Lisas try to hurt my friend…"
"I was looking for you, Chelsea, fearing you were on the bottom of that heap, fighting for your life. I was worried about you."
"I'm not like those cheap women over there, Arse, fighting for the latest offers on fashion summer sale. Don't you know me? I'm Chelsea. I'm unique."
"THE most unique, dear. I'm proud of you. DUH! You look awesome in that dress."
Chelsea looks at her outfit: "Nah, forget it. It's worthless rag 'n' drag. I can get a better one in every dime store. Do you remember that story about the princess who couldn't sleep, thanks to a sweet pea under a pile of mattresses? That's just to scare little children. Try five thousand diamonds under your bum. I'm glad I lost them. Do you think those bloodstains disappear if we wash this dress in boiling water?"
"BrandiX washing powder removes even invisible stains, but it will make your dress five sizes smaller if you wash it in hot water."
"Cheap brands; they're all the same. They can keep this dress. It's full of holes and torn apart, exactly like the latest fashion by Dulce&Gamberra. I'm much more comfortable in my black dress with the flower, the one you gave me this morning. Let's go back to the dressing room. Will you be so kind as to escort me, please?"
"I'm honoured that you want to be my escort girl."
I offer Chelsea my arm and together we climb the catwalk, using the smashing señoritas as steps.
"You've made quite an entrance on this catwalk, but the way you leave the building will be remembered until the end of days."
Chelsea gives me a grateful smile: "They won't see me here for a second time. That's for sure."
"Why not? It was fun, wasn't it? I liked it. Do you know what I do now and then? I visualise how things will work out. Imagine what will happen next year, ten minutes before the final presentation of the Spanish Fashion Week starts. Everybody is dressed up, nervous like me at the kick-off of the Champions League Final. And then, suddenly, you show up…"
Chelsea laughs out loud: "I'm already looking forward to that. But first, you have to excuse me, Sir, as I will retreat to my private quarters and slip into something more comfortable. Do you have a minute, please?"
Fifteen minutes later, Chelsea is back, showered, dressed, and with her hair in a rebellious ponytail: "Let's go, Arse. Don't look back. I want to look forward to something else. I've messed up this show big time, don't you think?"
"Did you check our Facebook account?"
"I don't dare to even touch my phone. Everybody in the fashion world must unlike me by now. I'll be the first person in the world with a negative amount of followers…"
"Do you want me to do the honours for you?"
I take her imPhone, start the app and show her the result. She can't believe her eyes: "I can't believe my eyes. Do you think I need glasses?"
I start the 7-seconds video that The Nerd made. The first full second will get him into trouble: it shows a text that is copyrighted by all the major news networks. "CAUTION: The following clip contains graphic images that may not be appropriate for some viewers." Shameless. He knows these warnings are just clever teasers to ensure that nobody changes the channel. But it worked fine. Chelsea has gone from 500.000 followers to 5 million.
"Those 5 million people are right. You have a remarkable talent to change any boring standard situation into something extraordinary. You are awesome, Chelsea. I'm glad you're my friend. Thanks to you, I'm having my best-day-ever."
"Yeah, whatever. I like it too. Who cares what people say. They like me. That's what counts. Are we going back to the car? Or is Beyoncé waiting for us to go shopping with her?"
"No, we leave the car in the car park. A crowded city like Sevilla is better to cross on foot. The studio is over there, on the other side of the bridge."
When I close the front door behind us, we hear how the speaker announces the end of the show: "Ladies and… Where's that gentleman? Just ladies… Chelsea has left the building!"