As the host introduces every designer, I sit there very blank faced, holding my program card, waiting for our models to walk down the aisle. Miss Patel is a very attractive Indian woman, whom people mistake for a model all the time. She couldn't find me in the lobby because security thought she was a model who lost their way. I had to go and save her; despite the misunderstanding, Miss Patel just laughed it off.
"Make sure to take note of each model we're representing, okay?" Miss Patel whispers to me. I nod and proceed to take out my tablet and stylus. Our job is to make sure the models don't trip or fall, make mistakes, or look like they are under the influence, as we've had some in the past. If they do, we have to give them the boot, and call for replacements. Grant and my family are seated behind us since we're VIP and have an important role.
"This Spring Collection will be available in March, and portrayed in BabyDoll Magazine in New York," the host goes on to explain. I remember Jacque used to call me Baby doll all the time, because my features are so close to that of the model's baby doll look. I can't believe someone named their magazine BabyDoll. I glance down at my feet, not paying attention to the rest of what the host is saying, and remember Jacque. I feel a tear forming in my eye and jolt myself out of trance.
Many of the clothes are quite flattering, my taste and style even, and after each model walks down the catwalk, I take notes of some of the clothes, and even consider purchasing them later. One of the many models I see is Pamela Hart, and my heart drops. I haven't seen her in person since I was still with Jacque. I'm aware of her success and rise to fame, but even more surprised to see her wearing an outfit similar to the one I wore the first time I kissed Jacque in his studio. It wasn't exactly the same color or design, but it was so similar. I'd kept that dress in my closet after we married because it reminded me so much of him, but since I left New York, I haven't seen it.
"Is that Pamela Hart?" I ask Miss Patel who then looks at her program card, which prompts me to look at mine. I look over the card and see that it is indeed Pamela Hart. She's not one of our models, not all of them are, but it strikes me how beautiful she's become, she was so small before, but now she is fully grown and so gorgeous. Her hair is tied slickly back as her curls fall gently on her back, her catwalk is immaculate and professional. Her eyes are so blue they look like crystals, and her lips are still so large and pouty.
I wonder if she remembers me at all?
As the show reaches a close, I breathe a sigh of relief. Each time I saw Pamela model a garment from the Spring Collection, I felt like it looked similar to my old wardrobe from New York. I tried to not overthink it each time, but it was so hard. I barely paid any attention to the clothes the other models wore because it threw me off. But I dismissed the idea, especially since they weren't that identical.
After the show, mother and Phillipe insist to stay for the after-party, and I just wanted to go home and get some sleep. But I was defeated 5 to 1, since my brothers want to meet all the celebrities and Grant has to stay and speak with designers. I casually stroll around the bar and make small talk with some people from work, not really showing much interest as it is in my nature to be a bit antisocial. I take an empty seat at the bar, and suddenly have an urge to look up across the room.
To my surprise, I see a man who has a striking resemblance to Jacque. I rub my eyes a bit to make sure I'm not just imagining things, since I've been thinking about Jacque a lot because of the Spring Collection. I take a much closer look and my heart is pounding uncontrollably. He looks exactly like him, and he's got Pamela Hart at his side.
This can't be real.
I get up from my seat and try to push my way through the crowd to get a better look at this man. But there's too many people preventing me from getting through. I decide to go back up and around the lobby to get closer. I catch glimpses of him, talking with a group of designers and I see Pamela loop an arm through his and kiss him. It can't be Jacque; I saw his grave myself. Maybe Pamela liked my husband so much she found a copy. Either way, I have to discover it for myself, otherwise I'll go mad. As I nearly make it to their little huddled group, I feel someone pull my arm and back out from the crowd.
"Hey, I've been trying to catch up with you, didn't you hear me calling you?" Grant says almost out of breath.
"I-I," I look back over to see if Jacque's doppelganger is still there and I lose sight of him.
"Natalie, what's wrong? You look so pale," Grant says with a very convincing tone of concern, "Maybe we shouldn't have stayed for the party, let's get you home."
"No!" I exclaim, "I need to find them, I have to know!" I jerk Grant's grip off of my arm and push through the crowd again, but can't find Jacque's doppelganger or Pamela anywhere. Everyone stares at me as if I'm possessed, and I frantically push through more people to find them. I start asking people in the crowd if they've seen where Pamela Hart went, and no one knows. Until finally an old man tells me she left a few moments ago to catch her flight back to New York. I asked the old man if he knew who she was with, and he quizzically strokes his chin, and says he doesn't know the man's name but he knows that he is the proprietor of BabyDoll magazine.
I bend down and hold my knees to catch my breath, unable to calm myself down. I step outside to get some fresh air, and hear my phone ringing. It's Grant, and I'm not entirely calm so I choose to ignore the call.
Wait! My phone!
Immediately, I search the web to find out about BabyDoll magazine and who owns it. I keep scrolling through to find at least his picture on the About page, and feel almost helpless, because I can't seem to calm down. I don't want to have a seizure because of all this unnecessary stress. I haven't had one since the accident.
As I continue to scroll for the third time, I realize I've only been looking for a picture of his face, but many of the images don't have a photo, so I slowly go back up and start looking for the names. There are so many people on the list I didn't even pay attention. I read each one carefully and calmly, and see it. To my disbelief I read: Jacque Ramos. Falling to the ground and cupping my mouth with my hand, I can't stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks uncontrollably. I click on his name and read his profile:
Jacque Ramos is the main proprietor and inventor of BabyDoll magazine. His extensive and impressive experience in the industry has allowed him to utilize his skills and create a magazine that emphasizes both fashion and design into a primary source for all companies to come together and share ideas. His idea for the unique name, he claims: is named after his deceased wife's nickname, who died in a car accident in early 2020. His inspirations stem from her tastes while they were married. BabyDoll est. 2022
I sit crying outside in complete disbelief. How can I not have noticed he was still alive all this time? I can't believe he was alive this whole time and he never tried to find me. But the description mentions that I'm deceased? I get up from the floor, and start to contemplate: How could this have happened?
I text my mother and Grant that I'm taking a taxi home and will see them later. On the taxi ride, I start putting pieces together in my mind from all the memories I have of that night. The black SUV that seemed to be following us, the LED lights I saw just before we crashed. There was no way to tell if it was the same SUV. Then there was the mix up at the scene, where I was taken to a more readily equipped hospital because I had a seizure. Jacque was declared dead at the scene, at least that's what the hospital he went to told me. But, what if my mother-
No, I can't think these things, my mother has changed so much, there's no way. I'm sure it was all a big misunderstanding. But, why would his brother, Lawrence, tell me he's dead, too?
None of this is making any sense. I'm starting to feel like a conspiracy nut.
The only way to find out is to fly to New York and meet him myself. It must just be a really big coincidence. There's over 8 billion people on the planet.
Chances are, it's probably a man who just looks like him.
And has his name.
And has the same profession.
With the same nickname for his deceased wife.
Right.
Crazier things have happened but all I know is I can't rest until I find out. I book a flight to New York the next morning, and pack my things for a weeks' stay. When my mother asks why I'm leaving so suddenly, I give her a taste of her own medicine and lie, telling her that Miss Patel really liked the Spring Collection, and asked me to personally go to New York as a representative to have our Agency represent they're clothing line with our models in the future. My mother bought it, and wished me luck. I told Grant the same thing, so their stories are straight if they talk to each other.
The entire time since the night of the after-party, all I can think is how this could have happened. Unless my mother and Lawrence were in on it, which I don't doubt, my mother is capable of doing something as heinous as paying someone to lie to me and create fake gravestones. I begin to cry on the plane, because I really thought my mother had changed. I refused to tell her the truth because I don't want to make any assumptions or draw up conclusions based on what I think or believe to be true. I want to confirm that this is or isn't the man I married four and a half years ago.
I soon have a realization hit me like a brick. If he is still alive, why was he so familiar with Pamela Hart? Could it be that he's dating her now? But I suppose I'm no better; dating Grant Fairbanks was at the very bottom of my shit list for my life.